Episode 17.) 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 Tialies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the Shadows once More. To day, we explore four
new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's wilderness,
each a reflection of terror from its unseen corners. No breaks,
just the unvarnished voices of those who have met the strange.
Prepare yourself if you can, as we gaze into the dark.

(00:23):
Part one, The Mirror that Reflects. I came to the
mountains of British Columbia after life fractured by an image
I couldn't face. At thirty four, i'd been a photographer,
capturing landscapes in Kamloops, my camera and tripod. My craft
shaped by my grandfather, a painter who taught me light
under the alpine dawn, his tiales of reflected souls filling
my youth. We'd sketch together, his voice calm over the

(00:45):
scratch of charcoal, until a stroke took him at seventy two,
leaving me his sketch book and a promise to capture
the truth mire My art faded when a photo exhibit
revealed a distorted face, unsettling viewers. The gallery calling it
disturbing words, costing me my show. My husband Tom left
his words harsh. You showed too much Mire And I

(01:06):
took a job as a caretaker for an old cabin
near Couteney Lake, Its walls cracked, its quiet, eerie. In
the attic, I found a mirror, its glass warped, its
frame etched l juvel eighteen forty locals, warning it reflected
the lost, but I saw a lens to reclaim a
link to my grandfather. First night, I hung the mirror

(01:28):
on the cabin wall, the air thick with the scent
of pine and musty glass, the wind moaning through the peaks,
the floorboards shifting under my weight. The room was sparse,
a cot with a frayed blanket, A lamp dim, the
single window framing the snowy range, the mirror's presence a
distorted gaze. At six zero three p m. The glass
glowed a faint silver light pulsing through the warp, and

(01:48):
I saw a face unfamiliar yet close. A voice followed,
soft yet anguished, See me Mire, my grandfather's voice from
those sketching days, pleading yet faint. The glow spread, shadows
forming on the glass, figures with hollow eyes, their hands pressed.
I checked the mirror, no light, no source, but the
glow held whispering reflect us mire. I logged it in

(02:09):
my journal six zero three p m. Your frame Now
the air grew colder, smelling of frost and decay, my
breath fogging as if the mountain's side. I blamed the dusk.
The guilt of that exhibits backlash, still haunting me, but
the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
light censer, determined to measure the glow. At six zero

(02:29):
three p m. The light returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you hid us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd,
their eyes empty, mouths open. I played back the data,
low readings, but the voices lingered. Tom's tone cutting you
exposed me. I researched at the Nelson Library, my legs
aching from the climb, finding records of Louis Juvel, a

(02:50):
prospector who vanished in eighteen forty. His mirror found glowing
logs describing reflections of the lost. Locals reported unease, their
trails fadding, flashlight caught glints in the dark, Dozens of
eyes pale and staring, dotting the glass, the air thick
with the scent of snow and blood. The whispers grew
mirror us home sleep vanished. I covered the mirror, but

(03:12):
the glow seeped through, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting mea reflect. I spent weeks observing the glass,
sweating a dark mist. One dawn, I woke with the
mirror in hand, the wall marked with my prints. The
voices layered with my own mere stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a rockslide's rumble, Juwel's cry, cursing me
to mirror. I tried smashing it. The hammer bounced, the mirror,

(03:34):
laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the glass,
the cold seeping into my bones. Tom's voice pleading. I
fled to a miner's hut. But the mirror's glow follows
six zero three pm each night, my logs showing his face. Listener,
if you see a silver reflection, don't look. Some images
never fade. We are back with another chilling tale from

(03:57):
listener Taley's podcast. This if one cuts from a listener
in Canada, they call it the axe that Bleeds, Part two,
The Axe That Bleeds. I came to the forests of
Manitoba after a life hacked apart by a blade. I
couldn't wield a tool that severed more than trees. At
thirty eight, I'd been a lumberjack, felling trees in Winnipeg

(04:19):
my axe and saw my livelihood honed by years of sweat,
shaped by my father, a woodsman who taught me the
forest's rhythm under the morning mist that clung to the spruce,
his tailees of timber spirits, filling my youth with a
respect for the woods life. We chopped together in the
early light near Riding Mountain, his voice gruff over the
thud of steel as he showed me the grain's direction,

(04:40):
recounting stories of loggers claimed by the trees, until a
tree fall in twenty ten crushed him at sixty one.
His axe buried beside him, leaving me his axe, a
heavy steel head with a worn handle, and a promise
growled through his pane, cut with care, theo his last
words a lesson. I couldn't live up to my trades
with record harvests. A badge from the Manitoba Lumber Association

(05:04):
in hand until a tree I felled in twenty sixteen,
toppled the wrong way during a storm, injuring a crewmate,
His leg pinned, his shouts, piercing the air. The union
calling it reckless swing after a review that echoed the crack,
costing me my job and leaving me with a settlement
I couldn't afford. My wife Lana left after nine years,

(05:25):
her words sharp as she packed her bag, usevered us
theo her departure a second fall, taking our savings and
the carving we'd made together with no timber to fell.
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
logging camp near Lake Winnipeg, its trails overgrown with brambles,
its silence heavy like a felled grove. The camp a
weathered outpost with sagging roofs and a floor that echoed

(05:46):
with every step. In the shed, buried under pile of
rotted canvas, I found an axe, its blade rusted with
a deep crimson stain, its handle etched p Rouso eighteen
eighty in a hand carved with effort, its edge chipped
as if used in haste. Locals in the nearest settlement
a cluster of homes fifteen miles north avoided it, their
mutters in the bunk house hinting it bled the fallen

(06:08):
a tail passed down with a grim nod. But I
saw a tool to sharpen, a link to my father,
away to reclaim the swing I'd lost. The first night,
I placed the axe on the camp work bench, the
air thick with the scent of sap and corroded iron,
the wind groaning through the pines like a wounded beast,
the floorboards groaning under my steps, as if the shed
bore old weight. The shed was rough, a stool with

(06:30):
a cracked seat, tilting under dust, A lantern faint and
casting jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark woods,
where the trees stood like silent sentinels. The ax's presence,
a dull weight that seemed to press against the air.
At seven zero three p m. As the evening light
bled into a murky dusk, the blade glowed a faint

(06:51):
red light pulsing from the rust, like blood seeping from
a wound, and I felt a sting, sharp and sudden,
a pane that lanced through my palm. As I touched
the handle. A voice followed, rough yet pleading, rising from
the steel itself swing me THEO. My father's voice from
those chopping days, urging yet faint, the same tone he'd
used when he last handed me the axe, his breath

(07:12):
smelling of tobacco and resin. The glow spread across the blade,
casting reflections on the walls, Shadows forming figures with axes faceless,
their hands raised as if midswing, their forms swaying with
the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding
against my ribs, checking the axe. No strike delivered, no source.
The rust cold and still despite the glow, but the

(07:34):
light held whispering chop for us THEO. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my flannel, smelling of wood
and blood, my breath fogging as if the forest wept
with the fallen, the sap dripping from a nearby log.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my lumberjack days,
my hands trembling as I wrote seven zero three p M.
You're hewn now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,

(07:56):
and I felt a pull, a tug in my arms,
as if the acte drew my strength into its edge.
I blamed the dusk, settling over the forest, the natural
play of light on rusted metal, amplified by my exhaustion,
the guilt of that crewmate's injury still cutting me, his
groan as the tree pinned him, the blood on the snow,

(08:16):
the foreman's shout at the hearing, each a chip in
my resolve, but the camp wouldn't rest. The next night,
I brought a metal detector, its beeps a familiar sound
from my trade, determined to analyze the glow to prove
it was a trick of the iron or my mind
unraveling after months of solitude. At seven zero three p m.
The light returned, the red deepening to a crimson pulse,

(08:39):
the voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. You feld us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a line across the shed, their axes dripping with
a dark liquid, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent cries,
their hands gripping handles that weren't there. I played back
the detector data, standard iron, no anomaly, but the voices

(09:02):
lingered personal, now Lana's tone cutting through the hum You
split us apart, followed by the crewmates, faint and accusing
why didn't you call it? I researched at the Winnipeg
Library the next day, a long drive that left my
hands aching from the wheel. The librarians glanced cautious as
I asked about old loggers. I found records of Pier Rauso,

(09:22):
a mates lumberman who worked the northern woods in eighteen eighty,
vanishing during a blizzard. His axe found glowing red logs
describing bleeding of the fallen that drew men to their doom,
his family claiming he'd cursed the steel. Locals reported disappearances
over decades, their camps found with axes left behind, their
last sightings marked by a red glow at dusk. My flashlight,

(09:46):
held high that night, caught glints in the dark, dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the blade like grains
in wood. The air thickening with the scent of resin
and blood, a stench that clung to my clothes and skin.
The whispers grew into a chant cut with us. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent by the work bench. The axes glow
a beacon I couldn't escape. I buried it in the

(10:08):
soil behind the camp, the earth cold under my shovel,
but the red light seeping through the dirt, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting THEO chop. I
filled the journal with observations, the blades sweating, a dark
sap that pooled on the bench, its texture thick like syrup,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the

(10:29):
isolation deepening, the forest thickening with each storm. And one dawn,
I woke with the axe in my hand, the work
bench marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own, theo stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a trees crash, Rouso's
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to cut with
the fallen. I tried grinding it on a wheel from
the shed, the sparks flying the wheel jammed the axe, laughing,

(10:52):
A hollow your hours that echoed through the pines. Shadows
dragged me toward the door, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the fall's thud
and cries. Lana's voice pleading come back to me. I
fought my legs, trembling, the weight of the forest, a chain,
the glow leading me into the trees. I fled to

(11:13):
a trapper lodged twenty five miles east, but the axe's
glow follows seven zero three p m each night, my
shadow bending into Lana's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of logging. Tallies now shows
acts sketches I didn't draw. My hands stained with black streaks.
The camp calls me back. It's shed glowing from the woods. Listener,

(11:33):
if you see red on steel, don't swing some cuts
never heal. We are back with another unsettling tail from
listener Taley's podcast. This one drifts from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Fog that Hides. Part three, The
Fog That Hides. I came to the coast of Nova
Scotia after a life shrouded by a mist I couldn't

(11:55):
pierce a haze that blurred the lines of my past.
At thirty six, I'd a sailor navigating waters in Halifax.
My compass and sextant, my guides, honed by years at sea,
shaped by my aunt, a lighthouse keeper who taught me
the sea's moods near Cape Breton. Her tailies of misty spirits,
filling my youth with a mix of wonder and dread.

(12:16):
We'd watched together from the tower's edge, her voice steady
over the foghorn's deep wail as she pointed out phantom ships,
recounting stories of sailors lost to the fog, until a
storm in twenty fourteen claimed her at sixty five, her
light extinguished by a wave, leaving me her foghorn a
brass relic with a tarnished bell and a promise whispered
through the gale. Clear the way, Eli, her last words,

(12:39):
a beacon I couldn't uphold. My voyages prospered with safe passages,
a certificate from the Maritime Safety Authority in hand, until
a navigation era in twenty eighteen stranded a crew off
Sable Island, radio static, their calls fadding, the coast Guard
calling it careless course. After a hearing that replayed the fog,

(13:00):
costing me my license and my reputation, my partner Rachel
left after four years, her words cold as she packed
her sea chest. You lost our direction, Eli, her departure,
a second fog, taking our charts and the locket we'd shared,
with no horizon to guide. I took a job as
a caretaker for an old lighthouse near Sable Island. Its
beam dim with neglect, It's air thick with the salt

(13:22):
of abandonment. The lighthouse a crumbling tower with seaweed clung
walls and a stair that creaked with every step. In
the tower, buried under pile of tattered log books, I
found a foghorn, its horn etched with faint swirls, its
sound hollow despite its weight, marked tea lefever seventeen ninety
in a hand eroded by time. Its surface pitted as
if weathered by countless storms. Locals in the nearest village,

(13:45):
a cluster of homes twenty miles west, avoided it. Their
mutters in the tavern, hinting it hid the vanished A
tail passed down with a fearful glance. But I saw
a signal to restore a link to my aunt away,
to sound the path I'd lost. The first night I
sounded the foghorn on the lighthouse balcony. The air thick
with the scent of salt and damp brass. The seas

(14:07):
wore a constant pulse that thrummed against the iron. The
railing cold under my grip. As the structure swayed. The
balcony was weathered, a bench rusted and flacking, the ocean
stretching into a gray expanse where the horizon vanished. The
foghorn's presence a muted hum that seemed to resonate with
the waves. At six twenty three p m. As the

(14:28):
evening light faded to a silvery mist, the horn glowed
a faint gray light pulsing from the etchings, like smoke
curling from a fire, and I felt a weight, heavy
and unseen, pressing down on my shoulders. A voice followed,
firm yet mournful, rising from the brass itself. Find me Eli,
my aunt's voice from those watching nights, pleading yet distant,
the same tone she had used when she last sounded

(14:49):
the horn, her breath smelling of oil and sea weed.
The glow spread across the foghorn, casting reflections into the mist,
shadows forming figures in coats, faceless, their hands outstretched as
if reaching for a life line, their forms swaying with
the rhythm of the tide. I froze, my heart thudding
against my ribs, checking the foghorn. No air blown, no sound,

(15:10):
made the horn cold, and still despite the glow. But
the light held, whispering cover us eli. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my coat, smelling of brine
and mold, my breath fogging as if the sea morned
through the fog, the mist thickening around me. I stumbled
to my journal, a log from my sailing days, my
hands trembling as I wrote six twenty three p M.

(15:32):
You're veiled now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my chest,
as if the foghorn drew my memories into its call.
I blamed the tide rolling in from the Atlantic, the
natural play of light on wet metal, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that stranded crew still clouding me, their
so o s fadding the lifeboat's tilt, the inquiry's silence,

(15:55):
each a wisp in a fog I couldn't dispel, but
the lighthouse wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
sound analyzer its readings, a tool from my navigation days,
determined to record the hum, to prove it was a
trick of the wind or my mind unraveling. After months
alone at six twenty three p m. The glow returned,
the gray deepening to a smoky haze, the voice joined

(16:17):
by others, a chorus of men, women, children, whispering in
overlapping waves You left us. The shadows sharpened, forming a
crew in the mist, their coats wet and clinging, eyes, hollow,
mouths open in silent pleas, their hands grasping at the
air as if sinking. I played back the analyzer data,
silent waves, no frequency, but the voices lingered personal now

(16:39):
Rachel's tone cutting through the hum. You abandoned me, followed
by a crewman's faint and accusing, why didn't you turn back?
I researched at the Sydney Library the next day, a
long trek through rain that left my hands aching the
librarian's glance weary as I asked about old lighthouses. I
found records of Tierri Lefov, a French sailor who manned

(17:00):
a coastal light in seventeen ninety, vanishing during a fog.
His foghorn found glowing gray logs describing hiding of the
lost that drew ships to wreck, his log book ending
mid sentence. Locals reported disappearances over centuries, their vessels found adrift,
with foghorns left behind, their last sightings marked by a
gray glow. At dusk, my flashlight, held high that night,

(17:24):
caught glints in the dark, dozens of eyes pale and staring,
dotting the mist like stars through clouds, 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, obscure us home sleep vanished, my nights spent
on the balcony, The foghorns glow a beacon I couldn't escape.

(17:45):
I silenced it with a cloth, the fabric damp with mist,
but the gray light seeping through the weave, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting eli cover. I
filled the journal with observations, the horn sweating a dark
vapor that pooled on the floor, its texture thick like fog,
staining the board's black as it spread weeks past, the

(18:05):
isolation deepening, the sea rising with each tide, and one dawn,
I woke with the foghorn in my hand, the balcony
marked with my boot prints circling the rail, the voices
layered with my own Eli stay. The log showed silence
on playback, but I heard a storm's howl, Leffevr's cry
rising over the waves, cursing me to obscure With the vanished,
I tried sinking it in the sea below, the rope,

(18:26):
snapping under the weight. The foghorn laughed, a hollow your
hours that carried on the wind. Shadows dragged me toward
the edge, the cold seeping into my bones, the air
thick with the memory of the crew's shouts and waves,
Rachel's voice pleading guide me Eli. I fought my legs, trembling,
the weight of the mist a chain, the glow leading

(18:46):
me into the fog. I fled to a fisherman's cottage
fifteen miles south, but the foghorn's glow follows six twenty
three p m each night, my shadow bending into Rachel's face,
her eyes accusing from the mist. My journal once a
record of sea logs now shows foghorn sketches. I didn't draw,
My hands stained with black streaks. The lighthouse calls me back.

(19:07):
It's beam glowing from the shore. Listener, if you hear
gray mist, don't seek some veils, never lift. We're back.
For the final tale from listener Taiali's podcast. This one
sits from a listener in Canada. They call it The
Chair that Holds. Part four, The Chair that Holds. I
came to the prairies of Saskatchewan after life anchored by

(19:29):
a seat I couldn't leave, a weight that kept me
rooted to my regrets. At forty, i'd been a furniture maker,
crafting chairs in Regina. My plane and chisel, my heart
honed by years of shaping wood, shaped by my grandmother,
a carpenter who taught me woods strength. Under the sunset's
warm glow in our shed near Quappelle Valley, her tailies
of seated spirits, filling my youth with a quiet reverence.

(19:52):
We craft together on summer evenings, her voice warm over
the rasp of sandpaper as she carved tailies of souls
bound to their chairs until our thrit has stilled her hands.
In twenty thirteen, at seventy eight, her final stroke weak,
leaving me her rocking chair, a sturdy oak piece with
her initials etched and a promise murmured through her stiffness.
Build their rest, Norah. Her last words, a craft I

(20:14):
couldn't perfect. My craft flourished with custom designs, a certificate
from the Saskatchewan Woodworkers Guild in hand, until a chair
I made for the twenty seventeen Regina Folk Festival collapsed
under a buyer. His legs snapped, his cry, cutting the crowd,
the guild calling it faulty joinery. After an inspection that
replayed the crack, costing me my workshop and leaving me

(20:37):
with a debt I couldn't repay. My boyfriend Mark left
after six years, his words stern as he packed his tools.
You trapped us Norah. His departure a second collapse, taking
our joint projects and the ring we'd chosen. With no
grain to work, I took a job as a caretaker
for an old farmhouse near moose Jaw. Its rooms empty,

(21:00):
the echo of abandonment, its stillness thick like a held breath.
The farmhouse a sagging structure with peeling walls and a
floor that dipped under foot. In the parlor, buried under
a pile of moth eaten curtains, I found a chair,
its wood warped with age, its seat etched g Tremblay
eighteen fifty in a hand worn by time, Its back
crest curved, as if shaped for an unseen figure. Locals

(21:23):
in the nearest hamlet, a scattering of homes twelve miles east,
avoided it, their mutters in the general store hinting it
held the departed, a tail passed down with a wary step.
But I saw a piece to mend a link to
my grandmother, away, to restore the rest I'd failed to build.
The first night, I sat in the chair in the
farmhouse parlor, the air thick with the scent of aged

(21:46):
oak and dry dust, the wind whistling through the eaves
like a distant lament, the floorboards creaking with each shift,
as if the house adjusted to my presence. The parlor
was faded, a table with a chipped edge tilting under grime,
A lamp weak and cast uneven light, the single window
framing the endless plane where the horizon blurred into dusk.
The chairs presents a heavy stillness that seemed to anchor

(22:08):
the room. At seven thirteen PM, as the evening light
softened her golden haze, the wood glowed a faint brown
light pulsing from the etchings like sap rising in spring,
and I felt a press firm and unyielding, A weight
that pinned me to the seat. A voice followed, gentle
yet sorrowful, rising from the oak itself. Keep me, Norah,
my grandmother's voice from those crafting days, pleading yet faint,

(22:31):
the same tone she'd used when she last sanded the
arm rest, her breath smelling of linseed, oil and earth.
The glow spread across the chair, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in aprons, faceless, their hands resting on
invisible seats, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the chair,

(22:53):
no heat, no source, the wood cool and solid despite
the glow, but the light held whispering, Sit with us, Norah.
The air grew warmer, a heat that bit through my sweater,
smelling of varnish and earth. My breath fogging as if
the prairie sighed through the room, the dust stirring on
the floor. I stumbled to my journal, a ledger from
my furniture making days, my hands trembling as I wrote

(23:15):
seven thirteen p M. You're seated now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my hips, as if the chair drew my
body into its frame. I blamed the evening settling over
the plains, the natural play of light on aged wood,
amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of that buyer's fall
still weighing me. His gasp as the chair gave the

(23:36):
plaster cast. The judges ruling at the hearing each are
not in a grain. I couldn't smooth, but the farm
house wouldn't rest. The next night I brought a wood scanner,
its readings, a tool from my craft, determined to probe
the glow, to prove it was a trick of the varnish,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At seven thirteen
p m. The light returned, the brown deepening to a

(23:58):
rich amber pulse, the v joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves You left us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a circle around the chair, their
aprons worn and frayed, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent pleas,
their hands tracing the air as if crafting. I played
back the scanner data, solid oak, no anomaly, but the

(24:20):
voices lingered. Personal now Mark's tone cutting through the hum
you held me back, followed by the buyers, faint and accusing,
why didn't you test it? I researched at the Moosejaw
Library the next day, a long walk that left my
legs aching from the cold. The librarians glance cautious as
I asked about old settlers. I found records of Gustave Tremblay,

(24:42):
a French farmer who homesteaded the planes in eighteen fifty,
vanishing during a drought. His chair found glowing brown logs
describing holding of the departed that drew families to sit
and fade, his wife claiming he'd bound their spirits. Locals
reported unease in old homes, their chairs creaking with unseen weight,
their last sightings marked by a brown glow at dusk.

(25:05):
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the seat like
knots in grain, The air thickening with the scent of
cedar and blood, a stench that clung to my fingers
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant stay with us.
Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the parlor, the chairs

(25:26):
glow A beacon I couldn't escape. I moved it to
the barn, the woods scraping the floor, but the brown
lights seeping through the walls, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting, Norah sit. I filled the journal with observations,
the wood sweating, a dark resin that pooled on the seat,
its texture thick like pitch, staining the cushioned black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the prairie drying

(25:50):
with each wind, and one dawn, I woke with the
chair beneath me, the parlor floor marked with my boot
prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my own
nor stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a creak's groan, tremblay's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to hold with the departed. I tried breaking
it with a hammer from the shed, the head splintering
against the oak. The chair laughed, a hollow your hours

(26:14):
that echoed off the walls. Shadows dragged me toward the seat,
the warmth seeping into my bones, the air thick with
the memory of the collapse's thud and cries, Mark's voice
pleading come back. To me. I fought my legs, trembling,
the weight of the wood a chain, the glow leading
me into the frame. I fled to a settler's cabin
twenty miles north, But the chair's glow follows seven thirteen

(26:38):
pm each night, my shadow bending into Mark's face, his
eyes accusing from the dusk. My journal wants a record
of furniture plans now shows chair sketches. I didn't draw,
my hands stained with black streaks. The farmhouse calls me back,
its parlor glowing from the plane. Listener, if you feel
a wooden pool, don't sit. Some rests never end. Thank

(26:59):
you for joining me, sir Winstone, on this journey through
four dark talies. Until next time, stay out of the stillness.