Episode 16.) Listener Tales

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.

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

© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
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 Yet again. To day we uncover four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's wilds,
each a flicker of fear from its hidden depths. No pauses,
just the raw voices of those who have faced the eerie.
Steady yourself if you dare, as we step into the gloom.

(00:22):
Part one, The Lantern that Guides I came to the
marshes of British Columbia after a life dimmed by a
light I couldn't follow. At thirty six, i'd been a
park ranger, getting hikers through the Fraser Valley, my lantern
and map, my constance shaped by my uncle, a logger
who taught me the trails under the moon's glow, his
stories of lost lights filling my youth. We trekked together,

(00:43):
his voice firm over the rustle of leaves, until a
flood swept him away at fifty eight, leaving me his
lantern and a vow to lead the way Owen. My
role ended when a group I led got lost, two
missing in a storm, the park calling it leadership failure,
costing me my badge. My wife Sarah left her words sharp,
you couldn't guide us, Owen, and I took a job

(01:04):
as a caretaker for an old cabin near pitt Lake,
its paths overgrown, its night's dark. In the shed, I
found a lantern, its glass cracked, its flame unlit, etched H.
Grayson eighteen seventy five, locals warning it guided to the gone.
But I saw a beacon to honor my uncle, away,
to find my path. The first night I lit the

(01:26):
lantern on the cabin porch. The air thick with the
scent of wet moss and rusted metal. The marshes hummer, steady, drone,
the wood creaking with the breeze. The porch was weathered,
a bench splintered, the marsh stretching into shadows. The lanterns
glow a frail light. At five twenty seven p m.
The flame flared, a pale yellow light, pulsing without fuel,
and I felt a pull, gentle yet insistent. A voice followed,

(01:48):
gruff yet distant, follow me, Owen, my uncle's voice from
those trail nights, Urging yet faint. The glow spread, shadows
forming on the marsh, figures in coats, faceless, their hands pointing.
I checked the lantern, no oil, no wick, but the
light held, whispering lead us owen. I logged it in
my journal. Five twenty seven p m. Your lit. Now

(02:09):
the air grew colder, smelling of mud and decay. My
breath fogging as if the marsh breathed. I blamed the mist,
the guilt of those lost hikers, still shadowing me, but
the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
light meter, determined to measure the glow. At five twenty
seven p m. The flare returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you abandoned us. The shadows sharpened, forming a line,

(02:32):
their coats sodden, eyes hollow. I played back the data,
dim readings, but the voices lingered, Sarah's tone cutting you
left me. I researched at the Hope Library, my legs
aching from the trek finding records of Henry Grayson, a
guide who vanished in eighteen seventy five. His lantern found
glowing logs describing lights to the lost. Locals reported unease,

(02:54):
their paths vanishing. My flashlight caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the glass, the
air thick with the scent of swamp and blood. The
whispers grew guide us home. Sleep vanished. I doused the lantern,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Owen laid. I spent weeks observing the glass,

(03:15):
sweating a dark water. One dawn, I woke with the
lantern in hand, the porch marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own Owen's stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a flood's raw, Grayson's cry, cursing me
to guide. I tried burying it, the soil rejected it.
The lantern laughing a hollow. Your hours shadows dragged me
toward the marsh, the cold seeping into my bones, Sarah's

(03:38):
voice pleading. I fled to a fishing shack, But the
lantern's glow follows five twenty seven p m each night,
my logs showing her face. Listener, if you see a
gidding light, don't follow. Some paths never end. We are
back with another eerie tale from listener Taley's podcast. This
one stitches from a listener in Canada. They call it

(04:00):
The Quilt that Binds. Part two, The Quilt that Binds.
I came to the plains of Alberta after a life
stitched together by threads. I couldn't mend a fabric, fraying
at the edges of my existence. At forty two, I'd
been a seamstress, crafting quilts in Calgary. My needle and
fabric my trade honed with every careful stitch, shaped by

(04:20):
my mother, a weaver who taught me patterns under the
lantern's warm glow in our home near Drumhuller, her tailies
of woven spirits, filling my youth with a sense of
magic in the mundane we'd sew together on winter nights,
her voice gentle over the hum of the loom as
she spun stories of ancestors trapped in cloth, until a
loom accident in two thousand seven snagged her scarf, taking

(04:42):
her at fifty nine as the machine crushed her, leaving
me her quilt frame, a sturdy oak structure with her
initials carved and a promise whispered through her gasps. Weave
the past Mara her last words, a thread I clung
to my work, flourished with custom quilts a certificate from
the albert A Craft Council in hand until a quilt
I made for the twenty fifteen Calgary Stampede fare caught

(05:05):
fire from a stray spark, burning a vendor. His screams,
the smoke choking the air, the council calling it negligent craftsmanship.
After an inquiry that replayed the flames, costing me my
shop and leaving me with a fine I couldn't pay.
My partner James left after seven years, his words harsh
as he packed his saddle bag. You tore us apart, Mara.

(05:27):
His departure a second unraveling, taking our shared tools and
the blanket we'd made with no pattern left. I took
a job as a caretaker for an old homestead near
Red Deer. Its rooms dusty with the silt of neglect.
It's quiet, heavy like a shroud. The homestead a creaking
relic with wind scoured walls and a floor that buckled underfoot.
In the attic, buried under a pile of brittle newspapers,

(05:50):
I found a quilt, its fabric faded to a pale gray,
its stitches glowing with a faint red hue that pulsed
like a heartbeat, etched a Leclerc eight seen sixty in
a hand worn by time, Its edges frayed, as if
torn from a larger story. Locals in the nearest hamlet,
a scattering of homes fifteen miles east, avoided it, their

(06:12):
mutters in the general store hinting it bound the lost,
a tail passed down with a weary nod. But I
saw a piece to restore a link to my mother, away,
to stitch back the life i'd lost. The first night,
I spread the quilt on the homestead bed, the air
thick with the scent of mothballs and dry cotton, the
wind whistling through the cracks like a mournful tune, the

(06:33):
floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the house settled
into its age. The room was worn, a chair with
a sagging seat, creaking under dust, A mirror dulled by
time and grime, the single window framing the prairie dusk,
where the horizon bled into shadow. The quilt's presence, a
soft weight that seemed to anchor the space. At six
seventeen p m. As the evening light faded to a

(06:55):
golden haze, the stitches glowed a faint red light pulsing
through the thread like veins in living flesh, and I
felt a tug, gentle yet firm, a pull that drew
me toward the fabric. A voice followed, warm yet sorrowful,
rising from the quilt itself. Men me Mara, my mother's
voice from those sowing nights, pleading yet distant, the same

(07:16):
tone she'd used when she last threaded the needle, her
breath smelling of lavender and wool. The glow spread across
the quilt, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures
in aprons, faceless, their hands sowing as if mending an
invisible tear, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the quilt,

(07:37):
no light source, no power, the fabric cool and still
despite the glow. But the light held, whispering stitch for us, Mara.
The air grew warmer, a heat that bit through my shirt,
smelling of woolen ash, my breath misting as if the
prairie sighed through the room, the dust stirring on the floor.
I stumbled to my journal, a ledger from my seamstress days,
my hands trembling. As I wrote six seventeen pm. You're

(07:59):
woven now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my chest, as
if the quilt drew my memories into its threads. I
blamed the dusk settling over the plains, the natural play
of light on aged fabric, amplified by my fatigue, The
guilt of that vendor's scars still pricking me, his bandaged arms,

(08:20):
the ash on his face. The judges gavel at the hearing,
each a stitch in a gilt. I couldn't unravel, but
the homestead wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
fabric analyzer, its readings, a tool from my craft, determined
to study the glow, to prove it was a trick
of the weave, or my mind unraveling after months alone.
At six seventeen p m. The light returned, the red

(08:42):
deepening to a crimson pulse. The voice joined by others,
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
You unraveled us. The shadows sharpened, forming a circle around
the bed, their aprons tattered and stained, eyes, hollow mouths
open in silent pleas their hands threat heading needles into
the air. I played back the analyzer data, normal cotton,

(09:04):
no luminescence, but the voices lingered personal, now James's tone
cutting through the hum you cut me loose, followed by
the vendors faint and accusing, why didn't you check it?
I researched at the Red Deer Library the next day,
a long walk that left my hands aching from the cold,
the librarian's glance cautious as I asked about old weavers.

(09:25):
I found records of a DeLine Leclerk, a French settler
who homesteaded near the plains in eighteen sixty, vanishing during
a drought. Her quilt found glowing red logs describing bindings
of the lost that drew families to fade, her children,
claiming she'd woven a curse. Locals reported unease in old homes,
their quilts unraveling with red threads, their last sightings marked

(09:48):
by a glow at dusk. My flashlight, held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, dozens of eyes, pale and staring,
dotting the fabric like knots, the air thickening with the
sete of linen and blood, a stench that clung to
my fingers and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant,
weave with us. Sleep vanished, my nights spent by the bed,

(10:10):
the quilt's glower beacon I couldn't escape. I folded it
into a trunk, the wood creaking under the weight, but
the red light seeping through the cracks, the voices seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting Mara stitch. I filled
the journal with observations, the fabric sweating, a dark thread
that pooled on the sheets, its texture thick like yarn,
staining the mattress black as it spread. Weeks passed, the

(10:33):
isolation deepening, the prairie grass yellowing with drought, and one
dawn I woke with the quilt in my hand, the
bed marked with my boot prints circling the frame, the
voices layered with my own mars stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a loom's clack, letlerk's
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to weave with
the lost. I tried burning it in the homestead's fireplace,

(10:54):
the flames leaping high. They died to embers. The quilt
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls.
Shadows dragged me toward the bed, the warmth seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the
fire's smoke, and cries James's voice, pleading come back to me.
I fought, my legs trembling, the weight of the fabrica chain,

(11:16):
the glow leading me into the threads. I fled to
a ranch house twenty miles north, but the quilt's glow
follows six seventeen PM each night, my shadow bending into
James's face, his eyes accusing from the dusk. My journal
wants a record of sewing patterns. Now shows quilt sketches
I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks. The
homestead calls me back, its windows glowing from the plains. Listener,

(11:40):
if you see red stitches, don't sew. Some threads never break.
We are back with another ominous tale from listener Taley's podcast.
This one sows from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Raven that Calls. Part three, The Raven that Calls.
I came to the forests of Ontario after life, shadowed
by a cry, I couldn't answer a sound that lingered

(12:02):
like a ghost in the trees. At thirty seven, I'd
been an ornithologist, studying birds in thunder Bay, my binoculars
and recorder, my tools sharpened by years of observation, shaped
by my father, a hunter who taught me the woods
under the raven's deep core, his tailies of winged spirits,
filling my youth with a blend of awe and unease.

(12:23):
We tracked together through the dense pines near Nippigan, his
voice steady over the rustle of leaves as he pointed
out nests, recounting stories of ravens getting souls to the afterlife,
until a fall from a dead oak in twenty eleven
took him at fifty four, his rifle found tangled in branches,
leaving me his raven feather, a glossy black plume with
a notched tip, and a promise murmured through his pain

(12:45):
heed their voice clayar, his last words a riddle I
couldn't decode. My career soared with published papers, a degree
from the University of Gwelph in hand, until a research
era in twenty seventeen misidentified a rare warbler just rupting
its habitat, nests, destroyed, birds scattered, the university calling it

(13:05):
reckless study. After a review that echoed the species decline,
costing me my grant and my standing. My boyfriend Ethan
left after three years, his words cold as he shouldered
his pack. You ignored the signs Clayer, his departure a
second silence, taking our field notes in the ring we'd planned,
with no song left. I took a job as a

(13:26):
caretaker for an old lodge near Lake Superior. Its trees
dense with the weight of history, its silence deep like
a held breath. The lodge a sagging structure with moss
covered walls and a roof that leaked during rains. In
the loft, buried under pile of mildewed blankets, I found
a raven feather, its quill glowing with a faint black
light that pulsed like a heart beat. Its vein etched

(13:47):
are black eighteen thirty in a script weathered by time.
Its edges frayed as if plucked in haste. Locals in
the nearest hamlet, a cluster of cabins twelve miles south,
avoided it. Their mutters in the tavern hinting it called
the flock. A tail passed down with a nervous laugh,
but I saw a relic to honor my father, away
to listen to the voice I'd failed to heed the

(14:09):
first night, I placed the feather on the lodge table,
the air thick with the scent of pine and damp feathers,
the wind sighing through the branches like a mournful tune,
the floor creaking with age, as if the lodge settled
into its past. The room was rustic, a chair with
a split back sagging under dust, A lantern dim and
casting long shadows, the single window framing the dark woods,

(14:30):
where the trees loomed like silent watchers. The feather's presence
a quiet pulse that seemed to vibrate with intent. At
seven zero seven p m. As the evening light faded
to twilight gray, the quill glowed a faint black light,
pulsing through the vein like ink spreading on water, and
I heard a coarse sharpen near, cutting through the stillness
like a blade. A voice followed, gruff yet pleading, rising

(14:52):
from the feather itself. Hear me clear, my father's voice
from those tracking days, calling yet faint, the same tone
he'd used when he last pointed to a raven's nest,
his breath smelling of tobacco and pine. The glow spread
across the feather, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures with wings faceless, their heads tilted as if listening,

(15:14):
their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze,
my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the feather, no source,
no wind strong enough, the veins still under my fingers
despite the glow, but the light held, whispering call for
us clayer. The air grew colder, a chill that bit
through my jacket, smelling of bark and ash, my breath
fogging as if the forest mourned with the lost, the

(15:36):
leaves rustling without a breeze. I stumbled to my journal,
a field notebook from my ornithology days, my hands trembling
as I wrote seven zero seven p M. Your flock now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my mind, as if the
feather drew my memories into its flight. I blamed the
breeze filtering through the pines, the natural echo of the

(15:59):
woods amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of that habitat
lost still echoing in me. The warbler's chirp silenced the
cleared trees. The ecologists reprimand at the review, each a
note in a chorus. I couldn't quiet, but the lodge
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a sound recorder,
its levels, a familiar tool from my research, determined to

(16:21):
capture the call, to prove it was a trick of
the wind or my mind unraveling after months of solitude.
At seven zero seven p m. The corps returned a
harsh cry that shook the table, joined by others, men, women, children,
cawing in a chorus that filled the air. You deserted us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a murder on the walls, their

(16:42):
wings tattered and slick eyes, hollow mouths open in silent cause,
their hands clutching unseen perches. I played back the recorded data,
silent air, no frequency, but the voices lingered. Personal now
Ethan's tone cutting through the hum. You turned away, followed
by a colleague's faint and accusing, why didn't you check?

(17:02):
I researched at the thunder Bay Library. The next day.
A long hike that left my hands aching from the cold.
The librarian's glance wary. As I asked about old trappers,
I found records of Robert Black, and Ojibwe trapper who
roamed the northern woods in eighteen thirty, vanishing during a
winter hunt. His raven feather found glowing black logs describing

(17:23):
calls of the lost that drew men into the forest.
His family never recovered. Locals reported disappearances over centuries, their
camps found empty, with feathers left behind, their last sightings
marked by a black glow at dusk. My flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, dozens of
eyes pale and staring, dotting the air like stars through branches,

(17:45):
The wind thickening with the scent of sap and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and clothes. The
caws grew into a chant, summon us home. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent by the table, The feathers glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I buried it in the so
oil behind the lodge. The earth cold under my knees,
but the black light seeping through the dirt, the voices

(18:05):
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting clayer call I
filled the journal with observations, the quill sweating a dark
oil that pooled on the table, its texture thick like tar,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the forest encroaching with each storm, and one dawn,
I woke with the feather in my hand, the table

(18:26):
marked with my fingerprints circling the spot, the voices layered
with my own claar stay. The log showed silence on playback,
but I heard a tree's crack, blacks cry rising over
the wind, cursing me to summon the lost. With the flock,
I tried burning it in the lodge's fireplace, the flames
leaping high, they folted to embers, the feather laughing a
hollow your hours that echoed through the rafters. Shadows dragged

(18:49):
me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the hunt's silence,
and cries Ethan's voice, pleading find me, Claire. I fought
my arms, trembling the weight of the woods a chain,
the glow leading me into the trees. I fled to
a hunter's cabin eighteen miles east. But the feathers glow
follows seven zero seven p m each night, my shadow

(19:13):
bending into Ethan's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of bird calls. Now shows
feather sketches I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks.
The lodge calls me back, its windows glowing from the forest. Listener,
if you hear a raven's call, don't answer. Some flocks
never fly. We are back for the final tale from

(19:33):
listener Taley's podcast. This one flows from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Spring that Drowns. Part four, The
Spring that Drowns. I came to the valleys of New
Brunswick after a life washed away by a current. I
couldn't stem a tide that pulled me under my own mistakes.
At thirty five, i'd been a hydrologist, mapping rivers in

(19:55):
fredericton my gauge and boots, my trade honed by years
of wadding, sh aped by my sister, a fisher, who
taught me the water's floe near the Saint John River,
Her stories of submerged spirits filling my youth with a
reverence for the deep we'd weighed together through the shallows,
her voice light over the ripple of streams as she
spun taillies of drowned sailors getting lost boats, until a

(20:18):
flash flood in twenty fifteen swept her away at forty
her net caught on a log, leaving me her fishing
rod a bamboo pole, with her initials burned and a
promise breathed through her tears guard the floe iris, her
last words, a duty I couldn't fulfill. My work flowed
with river surveys, a degree from the University of New
Brunswick in hand, until a dam project I oversaw in

(20:41):
twenty nineteen failed during a spring thaw, flooding a village.
Houses submerged, cries rising the government calling it poor planning.
After an investigation that replayed the sirens, costing me my
position and leaving me with a reprimand I couldn't shake
my fiance, Lucas left after two years, his words bitter

(21:02):
as he packed his tackle box. You drowned our future, iris,
his departure a second deluge, taking our savings and the
canoe we'd shared with no shorter hold. I took a
job as a caretaker for an old mill near the
Marramichi River, its wheels still and rusted, its waters restless
like a living thing. The mill a decaying structure with

(21:23):
mosslick walls and a floor that sloped toward the water.
In the cellar, buried under a pile of sodden sacks,
I found a spring, its surface etched with faint ripples,
its depths glowing with a green light that pulsed like
a heartbeat. Marked j Morrow, seventeen seventy in a hand
blurred by time, its edges worn as if touched by

(21:44):
countless hands. Locals in the nearest settlement, a cluster of
homes ten miles west, avoided it, their mutters in the
mill house, hinting it drowned the unwary. A tail passed
down with a shake of the head. But I saw
a source to protect, a link to my sister, away,
to redeem the flow I'd failed to guard. The first night,

(22:05):
I sat by the spring in the mill cellar, the
air thick with the scent of wet stone and river mud,
the water lapping like a heart beat against the walls,
the dampness seeping into my clothes. As the structure groaned.
The cellar was stark, a crate with a rotted lid,
sagging under mold, a candle flickering with a weak flame,
the single vent framing the dark flow, where the river
whispered beyond the spring's presence, a steady pulse that seemed

(22:29):
to draw the room inward. At eight thirty seven p m.
As the night deepened to a velvet black, the surface
glowed a faint green light, rising from the etchings, like
mist from a pond, and I felt a pull, soft
yet relentless, a current that tugged at my core. A
voice followed, bright yet mournful, rising from the water itself.
Save me, I, my sister's voice from those wadding days,

(22:51):
pleading yet distant, the same tone she'd used when she
last cast her line, her breath smelling of fish and rain.
The glow spread across the spring, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in wet clothes, faceless, their hands reaching
as if grasping for the surface, their forms swaying with
the ripple of the water. I froze, my heart thudding

(23:12):
against my ribs, checking the spring, no current strong enough,
no source, the surface still despite the glow, but the
light held whispering flow with us iris. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my jacket, smelling of algae
and rot, my breath fogging, as if the river wept
through the vent, the mud shifting under foot. I stumbled
to my journal, a log from my hydrology days, my

(23:35):
hands trembling as I wrote, eight thirty seven p m.
You're submerged now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my lungs,
as if the spring drew my memories into its depths.
I blamed the tide pushing up the river, the natural
play of light on moving water, amplified by my exhaustion,
the guilt of that village's loss still flooding me, the

(23:57):
water logged homes, the child's cry, the men anger at
the hearing, each a wave in a tide. I couldn't escape,
but the mill wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a water meter, its readings, a tool from my trade,
determined to measure the flow, to prove it was a
trick of the current or my mind unraveling after months
of solitude. At eight thirty seven p m, the glow returned,

(24:19):
the green deepening to an emerald pulse, the voice joined
by others, a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in
overlapping waves. You let us sink. The shadows sharpened, forming
a crowd around the spring, their clothes sodden and clinging,
eyes hollow mouths open in silent please, their hands trailing
through the water as if swimming. I played back the

(24:40):
meter data, still water, no movement, but the voices lingered personal,
now Lucas's tone cutting through the hum You couldn't hold us,
followed by a villager's faint and accusing, why didn't you
stop it? I researched at the Moncton Archives the next day,
a grueling hike through rain that left my legs aching
the archivist's glance weary. As I am at old mills,

(25:02):
I found records of Jacques Mora, a French miller who
settled near the river in seventeen seventy, vanishing during a flood.
His spring found glowing green logs describing drownings from within
that lured people to the water, his wife claiming he'd
angered the river's spirits. Locals reported disappearances over centuries, their
tracks ending at springs, their families, finding only silence and

(25:25):
a green glow. At dusk, my flashlight held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes pale and staring,
dotting the surface like reflections, The air thickening with the
scent of silt and blood, a stench that clung to
my skin and hair. The whispers grew into a chant,
dive with us. Sleep vanished, my nights spent by the spring.

(25:47):
The glower beacon I couldn't escape. I capped it with
a stone slab, the weight heavy in my arms, but
the green light seeping through the cracks, the voices seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting, iris flow. I filled
the journal with observations, the water sweating, a dark silk
that pooled on the floor, its texture thick like clay,
staining the stone black as it spread weeks past, the

(26:10):
isolation deepening, the river rising with each rain, and one dawn,
I woke with the spring's water in my hand, the
cellar floor marked with my boot prints circling the pool,
the voices layered with my own iris stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a flood's rush
Moreau's cry rising over the water, cursing me to dive
with the drowned. I tried draining it with a pump
from the mill, the motor humming. It sees the spring

(26:33):
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls.
Shadows dragged me toward the edge, the cold seeping into
my bones. The air thick with the memory of the
dam's collapse, and cries Lucas'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

(26:54):
fled to a riverside shack twelve miles south, But the
spring's glow follows eight thirty seven peter each night, my
shadow bending into Lucas's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of river data, now shows
spring sketches. I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks.
The mill calls me back. It's cellar glowing from the river. Listener,

(27:15):
if you see green depths, don't drink. Some waters never rise.
Thank you for joining me, Sir Winston, on this journey
through four dark tailies. Until next time, stay out of
the stream.