Episode 15.) Listener Tales

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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 Talies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once more to day we delve into
four new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's mysteries,
each a pulse of terror from its untamed soul. No interruptions,
just the unfiltered voices of those who have met the unknown.
Brace yourself if you can, as we descend into the dark.

(00:23):
Part one, The Bell that Rings Below. I came to
the cliffs of Newfoundland after a life buried under regret.
I couldn't silence At thirty eight. I'd been a church
bell ringer, pulling ropes in Saint John's cathedrals. My hands
callous from the task, shaped by my father, a sexton,
who taught me the bell's cadence under the stained glass glow.
His hymns are steady beat. We'd ring together, his voice

(00:45):
resonant with faith, until a fall from the belfry took
him at sixty, leaving me his bell hammer and a
vow to keep the call alive. Evan. My role ended
when a cracked bell I repaired collapsed injuring a choir,
the parish calling it reckless maintenance. Stripping my duties. My
boyfriend Liam left his words cold. You broke the harmony, Evan,

(01:07):
and I took a job as a caretaker for an
old lighthouse near Cape Race. Its tower cracked, its silence.
Deep in the cellar, I found a bell, its bronze tarnished,
its clapper missing, etched pam alone, seventeen sixty locals warning
it rang from below, But I saw a relic to
restore a link to my father. The first night I

(01:28):
hung the bell in the lighthouse base. The air thick
with the scent of seaweed and damp stone, the waves
crashing like a heartbeat, the walls sweating with salt. The
room was bare, a stool with a frayed cushion, A
lantern dim, the single window framing the black sea, the
bell's weight a presence. At nine thirteen a m. The
bronze told a deep clang without a strike, and I
felt a tremor, low and insistent. A voice followed, solemn,

(01:51):
yet hollow, answer me, Evan, my father's voice from those
belfry knights, calling yet distant. The bell glowed a faint
green light pole from the cracks, shadows forming on the
walls figures in robes, faceless, their hands raised. I checked
the bell, no clapper, no wind, but the light held, whispering,
ring for us, Evan. I logged it in my journal

(02:11):
nine thirteen a m. Your summon. Now the air grew colder,
smelling of brine and earth, my breath fogging, as if
the sea mourned. I blamed the tide, the guilt of
that choir's pain still ringing in me. But the lighthouse
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a seismograph, determined
to record the sound. At nine thirteen a m. The
clang returned, joined by others, men, women, children, in toning

(02:33):
You silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a congregation, their
robes tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the data, steady ground,
but the voices lingered. Liam's tone cutting you lost the tune.
I researched at the Saint John's archives, my legs aching
from the climb, finding records of Patrick Malone, a monk
who vanished in seventeen sixty. His bell found glowing logs

(02:56):
describing calls from the deep. Locals reported an ease, their
boats lost. My flashlight caught glints in the dark dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the stone, the air
thick with the scent of wet sand and blood. The
whispers grew tall for us. Sleep vanished. I sealed the bell,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,

(03:17):
the figures chanting, Evan ring. I spent weeks observing the bronze,
sweating a dark water. One dawn, I woke with the
bell in hand, the floor marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Evan's stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a belfry crash, Malone's cry, cursing me
to toll. I tried sinking it. The rope frayed, the
bell laughing a hollow. Your hours shadows dragged me toward

(03:39):
the sea, the cold seeping into my bones, Liam's voice pleading.
I fled to a fisherman's hut. But the bell's glow
follows nine thirteen am each night, my logs showing his face. Listener,
if you hear a bell below, don't answer. Some calls
never cease. We are back with another unsettling tail from
listener Taley's podcast. This one burns from a listener. In Canada,

(04:03):
they call it the Hearth that Weeps. Part two, The
Hearth that Weeps. I came to the woodlands of Quebec
after life consumed by a warmth. I couldn't sustain a
heat that turned to ash in my hands. At forty,
i'd been a stonemason, building fireplaces in Montreal. My chisel
and trowel, my craft honed over years of tapping stone,

(04:24):
shaped by my aunt, a woodcutter who taught me the
fire's heart. In our cabin near Lac Saint Jean, her
stories of embers, guarding spirits, filling my youth with a
reverence for the flame, we tend the hearth together, her
voice soft over the crackle of burning logs, recounting tales
of forest's spirits who danced in the smoke, until a
forest fire swept through in two thousand and eight, taking

(04:46):
her at sixty three, as the flames consumed our cabin,
leaving me her hearthstone, a smooth, blackened rock she'd carved herself,
and a promise whispered through her coughs, keep the flame alive, Elise,
her last words, a burden. I carried my trade, flourished
with custom hearths, a certificate from the Quebec Masonry Association
in hand until a chimney I constructed in twenty sixteen

(05:09):
collapsed during a winter storm, sparking a house fire that
injured a family. The mother's screams, the children's coughs, the
court calling it structural failure. After a trial that replayed
the sirens, costing me my license and leaving me with
a lawsuit's weight, my husband Paul left after eight years,
his words bitter as he packed his tools. You let

(05:30):
it burn, elise his departure a second fire, taking our
savings in the quilt we'd sown together. With no hearth
to tend, I took a job as a caretaker for
an old chalet near mont Tremblent, Its fireplace, cold and
soot streaked its solitude, a refuge that echoed my own emptiness.
The chalets a sagging structure with moss cloaked walls and
a roof that groaned under snow. In the hearth, buried

(05:53):
under a layer of cold ash, I found a stone,
its surface etched with faint spirals, its heat lingering against
my palm. Marked m Dubua seventeen ninety in a hand
worn by time, its weight a quiet promise. Locals in
the nearest village, a cluster of homes twelve miles north,
avoided it. Their mutters in the cafe hinting it. Wept

(06:15):
with the lost, a tail passed down with a wary glance.
But I saw a piece to rebuild, a link to
my aunt away, to rekindle the warmth I'd lost. The
first night, I placed the stone in the chalet fireplace,
the air thick with the scent of charred wood and
damp ash, the wind moaning through the chimney like a
grieving voice, the floor creaking with age, as if the

(06:36):
house shifted under its own weight. The room was rustic,
a chair with a worn cushioned sagging under dust, a
rug faded to threads, the single window framing the snowy woods,
where the trees stood like silent mourners. The stone's presence
a quiet pulse that seemed to warm the cold space.
At ten zero three a m. As the morning light

(06:57):
filtered through the frost, the stone glowed a faint orange
light seeping from the etchings, a hue that flickered like
dying embers, and I felt a heat sudden and deep,
a warmth that pressed against my chest like a hand.
A voice followed, gentle yet anguished, rising from the hearth itself,
tend me ellise my aunt's voice from those hearth nights,

(07:18):
pleading yet faint, the same tone she'd used when she
last stoked the fire, her breath smelling of pine and smoke.
The glow spread across the stone, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands cupped as
if holding flames, their forms swaying with an unseen draft.
I froze, my heart, thudding against my ribs, checking the stone,

(07:41):
No fire lit, no source, The surface cooled to the
touch despite the glow, but the light held whispering warmers elize.
The air grew warmer, a heat that bit through my sweater,
smelling of smoke and sap, my breath misting as if
the fire wept with the lost, the ash stirring on
the hearth. I stumbled to my jer a ledger from
my masonry days, my hands trembling as I wrote ten

(08:04):
zero three, a m your ash. Now the shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my gut, as if the stone drew my
memories into its glow. I blamed the draft whistling down
the chimney, the natural play of heat on old stone,
amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of that family's burn
still smoldering in me. The mother's bandages, the children's whimpers,

(08:26):
the father's glare at the hospital, each a coal in
my chest. But the chalet wouldn't rest. The next night,
I brought a thermometer, its glass, a familiar tool from
my craft, determined to measure the heat, to prove it
was a trick of the flu or my mind unraveling
after months alone. At ten zero three a m. The
glow returned, the orange deepening to molten red. The voice

(08:49):
joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring
in overlapping waves. You let us fade. The shadows sharpened,
forming a circle around the hearth. Their cloaks singed and tattered,
eyes hollow mouths open in silent pleas, their hands reaching
toward the stone as if to draw warmth. I played
back the thermometer data, stable room temperature, no rise, but

(09:11):
the voices lingered. Personal now Paul's tone cutting through the
hum You couldn't save us, followed by the mothers, faint
and desperate. Why didn't you build it right? I researched
at the Tremblent Library the next day, a long trek
through snow that left my hands aching the librarian's glance weary.
As I asked about Old Chalaise, I found records of

(09:31):
Marie Dubois, a settler who lived near the mountain in
seventeen ninety, vanishing during a harsh winter. Her hearthstone found
glowing logs describing weeping flames that lured families to their doom,
her neighbors claiming she'd cursed the land with her grief.
Locals reported unease near old hearths, their homes growing cold
despite fires, their last sightings marked by a red glow

(09:55):
in the ashes. My flashlight, held high that night, caught
glints in the dark, dozens of eyes, pale and staring,
embedded in the stone like knots in wood. The air
thickening with the scent of burnt pine and blood, a
stench that clung to my clothes and hair. The whispers
grew into a chant burn with us. Sleep vanished, My

(10:15):
nights spent by the fireplace, the stones glow a beacon
I couldn't escape. I buried it in the snow behind
the chalet, the cold biting my fingers, but the orange
light seeping through the drift, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting iliz warm. I filled the journal with observations,
the stone sweating a dark soot that pooled on the hearth,

(10:35):
its texture thick like tar, staining the bricks black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the woods closing
in with each storm, and one dawn, I woke with
the stone in my hand, the hearth marked with my
boot prints circling the fire box, the voices layered with
my own elise stay. The log showed silence on playback,
but I heard the fires roar, duberries cry, rising over

(10:57):
the crackle, cursing me to burn with the lost. I
tried shattering it with a hammer from the shed, the
metal ringing against the stone. The head cracked, the stone laughing,
a hollow your hours that echoed through the chimney. Shadows
dragged me toward the hearth, the heat seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the collapse's smoke
and screams. Paul's voice pleading come back to me. I

(11:20):
fought my legs trembling, the weight of the fire a chain,
the glow leading me into the flames. I fled to
a logging camp twenty miles east, but the stone's glow
follows ten zero three a m each night, my shadow
bending into Paul's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of masonry plans now shows
half sketches. I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks.

(11:43):
The chalet calls me back. It's fireplace glowing from the woods. Listener,
if you see orange embers, don't stoke. Some fires never die.
We are back with another haunting tail from listener Taley's podcast.
This one hums from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Violin That Wails, Part three, The Violin That Wails.

(12:05):
I came to the hills of Nova, Scotia after a
life silenced by a melody I couldn't master a tune
that slipped through my fingers like sand. At forty three,
I'd been a music teacher, tuning strings in Halifax schools.
My bow and rosen, my tools shaped by years of practice,
influenced by my grandmother, a fiddler who filled our home
near Peggy's Cove with reels that danced on the sea breeze,

(12:28):
Her songs of sea spirits, weaving my youth with a
rhythm I couldn't resist. We'd play together in the evenings,
her voice lilting over the notes of the fisher's hornpipe,
recounting talies of sailors lost to the waves until our
thrt has stilled her hands. In twenty sixteen, at seventy one,
her final bow stroke weak, leaving me her violin, a
weathered spruce instrument with a rich tone and a promise

(12:50):
breathed through her pain, carry the tune Norah her last words.
A legacy I struggled to uphold. My career thrived with
young musicians and diploma from the Maritime Conservatory of Performing
Arts in hand until a student's injury in twenty nineteen,
cut by a broken e string during a lesson, her
finger bleeding on the floor, led to a lawsuit from

(13:12):
her parents, the school, calling it unsafe practice after a
review that echoed her cries, ending my tenure and leaving
me with a tarnished reputation. My fiancee, Daniel left after
five years, his words curt as he packed his violin
case you lost the rhythm, Norah. His departure a discordant note,
taking our shared recordings and the ring we'd chosen. With

(13:34):
no symphony left, I took a job as a caretaker
for an old manner near the Atlantic, its halls quiet
with the hush of abandonment, its echoes hollow like an
empty stage. The manner a crumbling estate with salt stained
walls and a roof that leaked during storms. In the attic,
buried under pile of moth eaten curtains, I found a violin,
its wood warped by humidity, its strings slack and frayed.

(13:57):
Etched E Tremblay eighteen o five. I've in a hand
faded by time, its body scarred with what looked like
water marks. Locals in the nearest village, a cluster of
homes ten miles south, avoided it. Their mutters in the
pub hinting it wailed for the drowned, a tail passed
down with a shudder. But I saw an instrument to

(14:18):
revive a link to my grandmother, a way to reclaim
the music I'd lost. The first night I tuned the
violin in the manor parlor, the air thick with the
scent of salt and aged timber, the seas rare, a
distant pulse that seemed to beat with my heart, the
floorboards groaning under my steps, as if the house sighed
with every movement. The room was faded, a sofa with

(14:38):
torn upholstery sagging under dust, A mirror cracked and reflecting shadows,
the single window framing the misty coast, where the fog
clung to the cliffs. The violin's presence, a muted cry
that seemed to fill the silence. At eleven thirteen a m.
As the morning light pierced the mist, the strings vibrated
a mournful wail, rising without a bow, a sound that

(14:59):
cut through the stillness like a ship's horn. And I
felt a shiver, sharp and lingering, a cold that sank
into my spine. A voice followed, tender yet sorrowful, rising
from the wood itself. Play me Norah, my grandmother's voice
from those real nights, pleading yet faint, the same tone
she used when she last tuned the strings, her breath

(15:20):
smelling of rosin and sea salt. The wood glowed a
faint blue light pulsing from the grain, a hue that
shimmered like ocean depths. Shadows forming on the walls, figures
in wet coats, faceless, their hands raised as if conducting
an unseen orchestra, their forms swaying with the rhythm of
the waves. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,

(15:41):
checking the violin, no bow drawn, no touch, the strings
still under my fingers despite the wail. But the light held, whispering,
sing for us Norah. The air grew colder, a chill
that bit through my sweater, smelling of brine and rot,
my breath fogging as if the sea side through the room,
the mist seeping under the door. I stumbled to my journal,
a notebook from my teaching day, my hands trembling as

(16:01):
I wrote eleven thirteen, A m your tune. Now. The
shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull,
a tug in my mind, as if the violin drew
my memories into its strings. I blamed the damp air
rolling off the coast, the natural resonance of old wood,
amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of that student's wound,

(16:24):
still strumming in me her gasp as the string snapped,
the blood on the music stand, the parents anger at
the hearing, each a note in a dirge. I couldn't silence,
but the manner wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a tuna, its needle of familiar sight from my lessons,
determined to analyze the sound to prove it was a
trick of humidity or my mind unraveling after months of solitude.

(16:47):
At eleven thirteen a m. The whale returned, a keening
that shook the floorboards, joined by others, men, women, children,
keening in a chorus that filled the air. You left us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a crew on the walls, their
coats dripping with sea water, eyes hollow, mouths open in
silent cries, their hands clutching, unseen rigging. I played back

(17:09):
the tuna data, silent frequencies, no vibration, but the voices
lingered personal now Daniel's tone cutting through the hum You
broke the harmony, followed by the students faint and accusing,
why didn't you fix it? I researched at the Halifax library.
The next day, A long walk that left my hands
aching from the cold. The librarians glanced cautious as I

(17:30):
asked about old instruments. I found records of a Meal Tremblay,
a sailor and fiddler who sailed from Nova Scotia in
eighteen o five, vanishing during a storm off Sable Island.
His violin found glowing blue on the shore logs describing
wails from the deep that drew listeners to the sea.
His crew never recovered. Locals reported unease near the coast,

(17:52):
their boats missing, with violins left behind, their last sightings
marked by a blue glow in the fog. My flashlight,
held high that night, caught glints in the dark, dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, embedded in the wood like barnacles.
The air thickening with the scent of seaweed and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant play with us. Sleep vanished,

(18:15):
My nights spent in the parlor, the violins glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I silenced the strings with cloth,
the fabric damp with mist, but the blue light seeping
through the weave, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting nor sing. I filled the journal with observations,
the woods sweating, a dark resin that pooled on the floor,
its texture thick like pitch, staining the boards black as

(18:38):
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the coast eroding
with each tide, and one dawn, I woke with the
violin in my hand, the floor marked with my footprints
circling the room, the voices layered with my own nor
a stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a wave's crash, tremblays cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to play with the drowned. I tried burning

(18:59):
it in the manner fireplace, the flames leaping high, they
faltered to embers, the violin laughing, a hollow your hours
that echoed off the walls. Shadows dragged me toward the window,
the cold seeping into my bones, the air thick with
the memory of the storm's howl and cries Daniel's voice,
pleading see me Norah. I fought my arms, trembling, the

(19:21):
weight of the sea a chain, the glow leading me
toward the cliffs. I fled to a coastal in fifteen
miles north. But the violin's glow follows eleven thirteen am
each night, my shadow bending into Daniel's face, his eyes
accusing from the mist. My journal wants a record of
lesson plans, now shows violin sketches. I didn't draw, my
hands stained with black streaks. The manner calls me back,

(19:43):
its windows glowing from the shore. Listener, if you hear
a wail, don't play some songs never end. We are
back for the final tale from listener Tale's podcast. This
one freezes from a listener in Canada. They call it
The Ice That Whispers. Part four, The Ice That Whispers.
I came to the tundra of Yukon after life chilled

(20:05):
by a frost. I couldn't thaw a cold that settled
into my bones and refused to leave. At thirty nine,
i'd been an ice sculptor, carving figures in white Horse
for winter festivals. My chisel and torch. My art shaped
by precision and passion, influenced by my brother, a trapper,
who taught me the ICE's secrets. Under the aurora's green glow,
his tales of frozen spirits filling my youth with a

(20:27):
mix of wonder and caution. We worked together on the
frozen Teslin Lake, his voice steady over the scrape of
steel as he shaped blocks for our family's cabin, recounting
stories of lost hunters trapped in the ice, until a
blizzard swept through in twenty twelve, burying him at forty
five under drift we never found, leaving me his ice pick,
a sturdy tool with a worn handle and a promise

(20:49):
murmured through the storm shaped the cold Lana, his last
words a challenge I took to heart. My craft gained
acclaim with intricate sculptures, a certificate from the Yukon School
of Visual Arts in hand, until a sculpture I built
for the twenty eighteen festival collapsed under its own weight,
injuring spectators, shattered limbs, cries in the snow, the council

(21:12):
calling it unsafe design. After an investigation that replayed the crack,
ending my career and leaving me with a public disgrace,
my girlfriend Tara left after four years, her words icy
as she zipped her coat, you froze us out, Lana.
Her departure a fourth winter, taking our camping gear and
the photo we'd framed with no warmth left. I took
a job as a caretaker for an abandoned outpost near

(21:35):
Kluein Lake. Its ice thick and unyielding, its silence stark
like a tomb. The outpost a weathered shack with frost
crusted walls and a door that creaked with every gust.
In the ice house, tucked behind a stack of frozen pelts,
I found a block of ice, its surface etched with
faint runs, its chill biting through my gloves, marked O.
Larsen eighteen ninety in a script blurred by time, its

(21:56):
clarity a stark contrast to its age. In the nearest settlement,
a cluster of cabins twenty miles west avoided it, their
mutters in the trading post hinting it whispered from the frieze,
A tail passed down with a shiver. But I saw
a canvas to sculpt a link to my brother away,
to carve my way back to meaning. The first night

(22:18):
I placed the block in the outpost shed, the air
thick with the scent of frost and old wood, the
wind howling like a lament that rattled the loose panes.
The walls trembling with cold, as if the structure shivered.
The shed was barren, a bench with a splintered seat
sagging under ice, A lantern weak and flickering, the single
window framing the icy expanse where the lake stretched like

(22:38):
a mirror. The block's presence a frozen pulse that seemed
to hum with a life of its own. At twelve
twenty three p m, as the midday sun cast a
pale light through the frost, the ice glowed a faint
white light seeping from the etchings, a luminescence that shimmered
like fresh snow. And I felt a chill, deep and piercing,
a cold that sank into my marrow. A voice followed,

(23:01):
gentle yet mournful, rising from the ice itself, carve me Lana,
my brother's voice from those Aurora nights, pleading yet distant,
the same tone he'd used when he last handed me
the pick, his breath smelling of spruce and frost. The
glow spread across the block, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in furs, faceless, their hands raised as

(23:24):
if holding tools, their forms swaying with the wind's rhythm.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the block,
No chisel struck, no heat applied, the surface solid despite
the glow, but the light held whispering shape us laner.
The air grew colder, a chill that bit through my parker,
smelling of snow and decay, my breath fogging, as if
the tundra wept with the lost, the ice creaking under

(23:45):
an unseen weight. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my sculpting days, my hands trembling as I wrote,
twelve twenty three p m. Your ice Now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my chest, as if the block drew my
memories into its depths. I blamed the wind cutting across

(24:07):
the tundra, the natural play of light on frozen surfaces,
amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of those injuries still
freezing me. The gasps as the sculpture fell, the blood
on the snow, the crowd's murmurs at the hearing, each
a shard in my mind. But the outpost wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a thermal probe, its readings

(24:28):
a lifeline from my carving days, determined to measure the cold,
to prove it was a trick of the frost or
my mind unraveling after months of isolation. At twelve twenty
three p m. The glow returned, the white deepening to
a ghostly blue. The voice joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves, you trapped us.

(24:49):
The shadows sharpened, forming a tribe on the walls, their
furs iced and clinging eyes, hollow mouths open in silent pleas,
their hands pointing to the block as if gidding my chisel.
I played back the probe data stable temperature, no drop,
but the voices lingered personal now Tara's tone cutting through
the hum You shut me out, followed by a spectators

(25:10):
faint and accusing, why didn't you stop it? I researched
at the white Horse Library the next day, a long
trek that left my hands aching from the cold. The
librarians glance weary as I asked about old trappers. I
found records of Olaf Larsen, a Norwegian trapper who ventured
into the Yukon in eighteen ninety, vanishing during a winter storm.
His ice block found glowing white logs describing whispers from

(25:34):
the frieze that drew men into the snow. His sled,
dogs found starved. Locals reported disappearances over decades, their tracks
ending in ice, their families hearing whispers. At noon. My
flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, embedded in the ice
like cracks, the air thickening with the scent of frost

(25:55):
and blood, a stench that clung to my skin and hair.
The whispers grew into a chant chisel with us. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the shed, the block's glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I buried it in the snow
behind the outpost, the drift cold against my knees, but
the white lights seeping through the powder, the voices seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting laner shape. I filled

(26:18):
the journal with observations, the ice sweating, a dark frost
that pooled on the floor, its texture thick like slush,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the lake's edge cracking with each thaw, and
one dawn I woke with the block in my hand,
the shed floor marked with my boot print circling the bench,
the voices layered with my own Lana stay. The log

(26:40):
showed silence on playback, but I heard an avalanche's rumble,
Larsen's cry rising over the wind, cursing me to chisel
with the frozen I tried melting it with a torch
from the shed, the flame leaping high, it folted to
a flicker, the block laughing a hollow your hours that
echoed across the tundra. Shadows dragged me toward the door,
the cold seeping into my bones, the air thick with

(27:03):
the memory of the blizzard's howl and cries. Tara's voice,
pleading come back to me. I fought my legs, trembling,
the weight of the ice a chain, the glow leading
me into the white. I fled to a trapper cabin
thirty miles south, but the block's glow follows twelve twenty
three p m each night, my shadow bending into Tara's face,
her eyes accusing from the snow. My journal wants a

(27:25):
record of sculpting designs Now shows ice sketches I didn't draw,
My hands stained with black streaks. The outpost calls me back.
It's ice house glowing from the lake. Listener, if you
hear ice whisper, don't carve. Some colds never thaw. Thank
you for joining me, Sir Winston, on this journey through
four dark tailies. Until next time, stay out of the frost.