September 30, 2025 • 27 mins
Join host Sir Winston on Listener Tales Podcast for a chilling journey into four eerie, listener-submitted tales. From haunted spaces to cursed relics, each episode delivers suspenseful, immersive stories with a haunting, conversational tone. No music, no breaks—just pure, unsettling narratives. Dare to listen.
© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: listenertales@xmail.com | Last updated: September 29, 2025.
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© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: listenertales@xmail.com | Last updated: September 29, 2025.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to Listener Tales Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once again. To day we uncover four
new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's rugged wilds,
Each a whisper of dread from its buried secrets. No pauses,
just the unfiltered voices of those who have touched the unknown.
Prepare yourself if you're brave, as we listen to the deep.
(00:23):
Part one, The Stone that Whispers. I came to the
cliffs of Newfoundland after a life shaped by a rock
I couldn't silence. At thirty four, I'd been a geologist,
studying formations in Saint John's my hammer and lens, my tools,
shaped by my father, a quarryman, who taught me Stone's
voice under the coastal mist, his tales of rocky spirits,
filling my youth. We chip together, his voice gruff over
(00:46):
the tap of steel, until a collapse took him at
fifty seven, leaving me his geode and a promise to
hear their echo, Mara. My research crumbled when a sample
I analyzed misled a mining project, causing a cave in
the company calling it for reading, costing me my grant.
My partner Liam left his words sharp. You buried us, Mara,
(01:06):
and I took a job as a caretaker for an
old lighthouse near Cape Race, its base rocky, its air
still in the cellar, I found a stone, its surface etched,
its core glowing marked J. Pellettier seventeen fifty locals warning.
It whispered the buried, but I saw a specimen to study,
a link to my father. The first night, I placed
(01:27):
the stone on the lighthouse cellar table. The air thick
with the scent of damp granite and sea salt, the
waves thudding against the cliffs, the floor cold under my feet.
The cellar was stark, a crate with a cracked side,
A lamp dim, the single vent framing the dark sea,
the stone's presence a faint hum. At eight forty nine pm,
the core glowed a faint gray light pulsing from the etchings,
(01:49):
and I felt a pressure, deep and constant. A voice followed,
rough yet pleading. Listen to me, Mara, my father's voice
from those chipping days, Urging yet faint. The glow spread,
shadows forming on the walls, figures in helmets, faceless, their
hands digging. I checked the stone, no heat, no source,
but the light held whispering speak for us, Mara. I
logged it in my journal eight forty nine p m.
(02:12):
Your stone. Now the air grew colder, smelling of moss
and decay. My breath fogging as if the cliffs mourned.
I blamed the tide, the guilt of that cave in
still weighing me, but the lighthouse wouldn't rest. The next night,
I brought a seismic censor, determined to measure the hum.
At eight forty nine pm, the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you trapped us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crew,
(02:35):
their helmets cracked, eyes hollow. I played back the data
stable ground, but the voices lingered. Liam's tone cutting you
entombed me. I researched at the Trepassey Library, my hands
aching from the cold, finding records of Jacques Pelletier, a
miner who vanished in seventeen fifty. His stone found glowing
logs describing whispers of the bared. Locals reported unease their quarries,
(02:59):
Silent flashlight caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring dotting the stone, the air thick with
the scent of shale and blood. The whispers grew unearth
us home sleep vanished. I buried the stone, but the
glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Mara speak. I spent weeks observing the stone,
(03:19):
sweating a dark grit. One dawn, I woke with the
stone in hand, the table marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own Mara stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a cave's rumble, Pelletier's cry, cursing me
to unearth. I tried shattering it. The hammer chipped the stone,
laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the cliffs,
the cold seeping into my bones, Liam's voice pleading. I
(03:43):
fled to a fisherman's shed, But the stone's glow follows
eight forty nine p m each night, my logs showing
his face. Listener, if you hear gray murmurs, don't dig
some stones never rest. We are back with another chilling
tale from listener Taley's podcast. This one points from a
listener in Canada. They call it the Compass that spins
(04:06):
Part two, The Compass that Spins. I came to the
mountains of Yukon after a life turned by a needle
I couldn't steady, a direction that spun my world into chaos.
At thirty six, I'd been a surveyor, mapping trails in
white Horse. My compass and theodolite, my trade honed by
years of charting, shaped by my grandfather, a prospector who
(04:26):
taught me the Earth's pool under the alpine sun that
gilded the Saint Elia's range, his taiales of wandering spirits,
filling my youth with a reverence for the wild. We'd
survey together on summer mornings, his voice low over the
click of gears as he adjusted the sight, recounting stories
of miners lost to false bearings, until a landslide in
twenty twelve took him at seventy, His pick buried under rubble,
(04:49):
leaving me his compass, a scratched brass case with a
trembling needle, and a promise murmured through the dust. Find
their way. Theo his last words, a guide I couldn't hold.
My maps thrived with precise roots, a certificate from the
Yukon surveyor's association in hand until a route I charted
in twenty eighteen led a team astray during a fog,
(05:11):
causing a fall, rope snapping shouts echoing the agency calling
it misguided direction. After a review that replayed the descent,
costing me my license and my reputation, my wife Clara
left after ten years, her words firm as she packed
her boots. You lost our path. Theo her departure a
second slide, taking our topographic maps and the ring we'd
(05:33):
engraved with no trail to mark. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near Cluing Lake,
its walls weathered by wind and time, its silence heavy
like a held breath. The cabin a tilting structure with
ice cracked logs and a door that rattled with every gust.
In the attic, buried under a pile of moth eaten furs,
I found a compass, its face scratched with age, its
(05:55):
needle etched ar Bouchard eighteen ninety, in a hand worn
by years, its caseing dented as if dropped in haste.
Locals in the nearest outpost, a cluster of huts twelve
miles east avoided it, their mutters in the trading post,
hinting it spun the lost, a tail passed down with
a wary glance. But I saw a guide to calibrate,
a link to my grandfather, a way to find the
way I'd lost. The first night, I set the compass
(06:18):
on the cabin attic table, the air thick with the
scent of pine and tarnished brass, the wind moaning through
the peaks like a lost cry, the floorboards groaning under
my step, as if the cabin leaned into the slope.
The attic was cluttered, a trunk with a rusted hinge
sagging under weight, A candle weak and casting flickering shadows,
the single window framing the snowy range where the peaks
(06:39):
pierced the sky. The compass's presence a faint tick that
seemed to stir the stillness. At eight fifty nine PM,
as the night deepened to a frosty black, the face
glowed a faint blue light pulsing from the etchings like
ice reflecting moonlight, and I felt a spin, disorienting and relentless,
a dizziness that tilted me my stance. As I touched
(07:01):
the case, A voice followed, gravelly yet pleading, rising from
the brass itself, lead me THEO, my grandfather's voice from
those surveying days, urging yet faint, the same tone he'd
used when he last pointed to a vein of quartz,
his breath smelling of tobacco and snow. The glow spread
across the compass, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
(07:22):
figures with packs faceless, their hands pointing as if seeking
a trail, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the compass,
no movement detected, no magnetic field strong enough, the needle
still under my gaze despite the glow. But the light held,
whispering turned for us THEO. The air grew colder, a
(07:44):
chill that bit through my coat, smelling of frost and mold,
my breath fogging as if the mountain side with the lost,
the wood creaking under an unseen strain. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my surveying days, my hands
trembling as I wrote, eight fifty twenty nine PM. Your
turn now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
(08:05):
I felt a pull, a tug in my head, as
if the compass drew my sense into its spin. I
blamed the wind cutting through the peaks, the natural play
of light on polished metal, amplified by my exhaustion, the
guilt of that team's fall, still turning in me. The
snap of rope, the leader's yell, the inquiry's silence, each
a turn in a path I couldn't correct, but the
(08:26):
cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a magnetic sensor,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the spin, to prove it was a trick of the
cold or my mind unraveling after months of solitude. At
eight fifty nine pm, the light returned, the blue deepening
to an icy pulse. The voice joined by others, a
(08:46):
chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You
stranded us. The shadows sharpened, forming a line across the attic,
their packs worn and torn, eyes, hollow, mouths open in
silent please, their hands clut maps that weren't there. I
played back the censor data, stable field, no deviation, but
the voices lingered. Personal now Clara's tone cutting through the
(09:09):
hum you veered from me, followed by a team members
faint and accusing, why didn't you check? I researched at
the Haines Junction Library the next day, a long trek
that left my hands aching from the frost. The librarian's
glance cautious as I asked about old prospectors. I found
records of Rail Bouchard, a French Canadian prospector who roamed
(09:30):
the Yukon in eighteen ninety, vanishing during a blizzard. His
compass found glowing blue logs describing spinning of the lost
that drew men into the wild. His mule found frozen.
Locals reported disappearances over decades, their camps abandoned, with compasses
left spinning, their last sightings marked by a blue glow
at dusk. My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints
(09:54):
in the dark, Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting
the face like stars in ice, The air thickening with
the scent of snow 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 in
the attic, the compasses glow, A beacon I couldn't escape.
I boxed it in a metal case, the lid heavy
(10:16):
in my hands, but the blue light seeping through the seams,
the voices seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting, THEO turn.
I filled the journal with observations, the metal sweating, a
dark frost that pooled on the table, its texture thick
like rhyme, staining the wood black as it spread weeks past,
the isolation deepening, the mountains, icing with each storm, and
(10:38):
one dawn. I woke with the compass in my hand,
the attic floor marked with my boot prints circling the table,
the voices layered with my own, THEO stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a slide's rumble,
Bouchard's cry rising over the wind, cursing me to guide
with the lost I tried dismantling it with tools from
the cabin, the screwdriver slipping against the brass. The compass laughed,
(11:00):
a hollow your hours that echoed off the rafters. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the fall's thud
and cries. Clara's voice pleading come back to me. I
fought my arms, trembling the weight of the spin a chain,
the glow leading me into the peaks. I fled to
(11:20):
a miner's shack twenty eight miles south, but the compass's
glow follows eight fifty nine pm each night, my shadow
bending into Clara's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of survey notes, now shows
compass sketches. I didn't draw, my hand stained with black streaks.
The cabin calls me back. It's attic glowing from the range. Listener,
(11:41):
if you see a blue spin, don't follow. Some paths
never end. We are back with another frozen tail from
listener Taley's podcast. This one chills from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Ice that Freezes. Part three, The
Ice that Freezes. I came to the Arctic of nowt
after a life chilled by a frost. I couldn't melt,
(12:03):
a cold that preserved my regrets in crystal clarity. At
thirty eight, i'd been an ice sculptor, carving figures in
icoluit my chisel and saw my art honed by years
of shaping, shaped by my sister an Inuit carver who
taught me ICE's soul under the polar knight that bathed
Frobisher Bay in silver, Her tails of frozen spirits, filling
my youth with a hushed door. We'd sculpt together on
(12:26):
winter evenings, her voice gentle over the scrape of steel
as she traced legends of souls locked in ice, until
a blizzard in twenty sixteen buried her at forty five,
Her tools lost under snow, leaving me her ice pick,
a curved blade with her mark and a promise breathed
through the storm shaped their cold Nuna, her last words,
a chisel. I couldn't wield. My creations shone with delicate forms,
(12:50):
a prize from the Nunavut Arts Council in hand, until
a sculpture I made for the twenty twenty Arctic Festival
shattered under its weight, ice, splintering eyes, rising, the council
calling it brittle craft. After an inquiry that replayed the crash,
costing me my gallery and leaving me with a debt
I couldn't clear. My boyfriend Eric left after four years,
(13:13):
his words icy as he packed his parker. You froze
us out, Nuna, his departure a second frost, taking our
carving tools and the pendant we'd shaped with no ice
to mold. I took a job as a caretaker for
an old igloo near pond Inlet. Its walls icy with
the weight of time, its silence deep like a frozen breath.
The igloo a domed relic with snow crusted walls and
(13:34):
a floor that shifted under foot. In the inner chamber,
buried under a pile of hardened pelts, I found an
ice block, its surface etched with faint lines, its heart
glowing with an inner light marked K. Kamanik sixteen hundred
in a hand eroded by frost, its edges smooth as
if carved by wind. Locals in the nearest settlement, a
(13:56):
cluster of tents fifteen miles north, avoided it, then mutters
in the communal hall, hinting it froze. The lost a
tail passed down with a shiver. But I saw a
piece to carve a link to my sister away to
shape the cold i'd failed to master. The first night,
I chipped at the ice block in the igloo chamber,
the air thick with the scent of frozen water, and
(14:18):
ancient snow, the wind howling through the vents like a
distant whale, the ice floor slick under my boots, as
if the ground resisted my step. The chamber was bare,
a mat with a frayed edge, curling under frost. A
lamp dim and casting pale shadows, the single opening framing
the endless white where the horizon vanished. The block's presence,
a faint shimmer that seemed to pulse with life. Date
(14:40):
forty nine p m. As the night deepened her crystalline black,
the heart glowed a faint white light, pulsing from the etchings,
like snow caught in moonlight. And I felt a chill,
sharp and penetrating, a cold that sank into my bones.
As I held the chisel. A voice followed, soft yet sorrowful,
rising from the ice itself, carve me Nuna, my sister's
voice from those sculpting days, pleading yet distant, the same
(15:02):
tone she'd used when she last shaped a seal, her
breath smelling of seal oil and frost. The glow spread
across the block, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in parkers, faceless, their hands raised as if reaching
from a drift, their forms, swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the block. No tool struck, no melt forming, the
(15:26):
ice solid under my fingers despite the glow. But the
light held whispering freeze for us Nuna. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my layers, smelling of frost
and decay, my breath fogging, as if the Arctic wept
with the lost, the ice cracking under an unseen shift.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my sculpting days,
my hands trembling as I wrote, eight forty nine p m.
(15:49):
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 warmth into its core.
I blamed the wind sweeping across the Arctic, the natural
play of light on frozen surfaces, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of those injured festivalgoers still icing me. The
shatters echo the medic's rush, the council's censure at the hearing,
(16:11):
Each a shard and a sculpture I couldn't finish, But
the igloo wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
thermal probe, its readings, a tool from my craft, determined
to measure the chill, to prove it was a trick
of the cold or my mind unraveling after months alone.
At eight forty nine p m. The glow returned, the
white deepening to a glacial pulse. The voice joined by others,
(16:33):
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
You encased us. The shadows sharpened, forming a group in
the chamber, their parkers torn and iced, eyes, hollow mouths
open in silent pleas, their hands clutching tools that weren't there.
I played back the probe data stable, cold, no drop,
but the voices lingered personal now Eric's tone cutting through
the hum. You locked me out, followed by a festival
(16:55):
goers faint and accusing, why didn't you reinforce it. I
researched at the Pond and Inlet Library the next day,
a long trek that left my hands aching from the frost.
The elders glance wary as I asked about old hunters.
I found records of kablu Kamanik, an Inuit hunter who
roamed the ice in sixteen hundred, vanishing during a storm.
His ice block found glowing white logs describing freezing of
(17:18):
the lost that drew people to freeze. His sled found
abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries, their igloos found with
ice blocks left glowing, their last sightings marked by a
white glow at dusk. My flashlight, held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes pale and staring,
dotting the ice like cracks in a pane, The air
(17:39):
thickening with the scent of snow and blood, a stench
that clung to my hair and clothes. The whispers grew
into a chant, preserve us home. Sleep vanished, my nights
spent in the chamber. The blocks glow a beacon I
couldn't escape. I covered it with pelts, the hides stiff
with cold, but the white light seeping through the weave,
the voices seeping into my dreams, the fiers chanting Nuna freeze.
(18:02):
I filled the journal with observations, the ice sweating, a
dark frost that pooled on the mat, its texture thick
like slush, staining the surface black as it spread weeks past,
the isolation deepening the Arctic, hardening with each blizzard, and
one dawn, I woke with the block in my hand,
the chamber floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot,
the voices layered with my own, Nuna stay. The log
(18:25):
showed silence on playback, but I heard a blizzard's wail.
Kamanicks cry rising over the wind, cursing me to preserve.
With the lost, I tried melting it with a fire
from the outer room, the flames leaping high, they flickered out,
the block, laughing a hollow your hours that carried on
the gusts. Shadows dragged me toward the opening, the cold
seeping into my bones. The air, thick with the memory
(18:47):
of the sculptures, crash and cries Eric's voice, pleading warm me. Nuna.
I fought my legs, trembling, the weight of the ice
a chain, the glow leading me into the freeze. I
fled to a hunter's tent, moles west, but the block's
glow follows eight forty nine pm each night, my shadow
bending into Eric's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
(19:08):
My journal wants a record of sculpting sketches now shows
ice block drawings. I didn't draw my hands stained with
black streaks. The igloo calls me back. It's chamber glowing
from the ice. Listener, if you see white frost, don't touch.
Some ice never thaws. But we're back for the final
tale from listener Tale's podcast. This one plays from a
(19:29):
listener in Canada. They call it the Flute that Calls.
Part four, The Flute that calls. I came to the
valleys of British Columbia after a life sung by a tune.
I couldn't silence a melody that haunted my every breath.
At thirty seven, I'd been a musician, playing flutes in Vancouver.
My breath and read my craft, honed by years of performance,
(19:50):
shaped by my aunt, a flortist who taught me music.
Spirit under the cedar shade that fringed Stanley Park, her
tiales of melodic ghosts, filling my youth with a rhythmic wonder.
We play together on autumn afternoons, her voice light over
the flute's trill as she wove stories of spirits drawn
by notes, until a fall from a stage in twenty
eleven took her at fifty nine, her flute slipping from
(20:13):
her hands, leaving me her flute, a polished cedar piece
with her initials carved and a promise whispered through her
pain play their song erin her last words, a score
I couldn't read. My performances soared with haunting solos, A
medal from the Vancouver Symphony in hand, until a note
I hit during a twenty nineteen concert, cracked reeds, splintering,
(20:35):
screams rising, the orchestra calling it reckless tone. After a
review that replayed the discord, costing me my chair and
leaving me with a settlement, I couldn't afford. My partner,
Sam left after six years, his words bitter as he
packed his sheet music You silenced us urin his departure
a second break, taking our duet recordings and the bracelet
(20:58):
weed engraved with no stage to grace. I took a
job as a caretaker for an old lodge near Okanagan Valley.
Its holes empty with the echo of abandonment, its air
hushed like a paused note. The lodge a sprawling structure
with creaking floors and windows fogged by time. In the
storage room, buried under a pile of cracked violin cases,
(21:18):
I found a flute, its wood worn with age, its
holes etched p lecklerk. Seventeen eighty in a hand faded
by years, its surface scarred as if played to ruin.
Locals in the nearest village, a cluster of homes nineteen
miles south, avoided it. Their mutters in the tavern hinting
it called the plade A tail passed down with a
(21:39):
cautious hum. But I saw an instrument to tune a
link to my aunt away, to play the song I'd lost.
The first night, I played the flute in the lodge
storage room, the air thick with the scent of aged
cedar and dusty strings, the wind whispering through the eaves
like a distant refrain, the floorboards creaking with my step,
(21:59):
as as if the lodge swayed to a beat. The
room was cluttered, a chair with a broken rung tilting
under debris, A lamp dim and casting uneven light, the
single window framing the shadowed valley, where the trees stood
like silent listeners. The flute's presence, a soft note that
seemed to resonate with the air. At eight fifty nine
(22:20):
p m. As the night deepened, her velvety black, the
wood glowed a faint green light pulsing from the etchings,
like moss glowing in shade, and I felt a pull,
gentle yet insistent, a drawer that tugged at my lungs.
As I raised the flute. A voice followed, clear yet mournful,
rising from the cedar itself, sing me or in my
aunt's voice from those playing days, pleading yet faint, the
(22:42):
same tone she'd used when she last tuned the reed,
her breath smelling of mint and wood. The glow spread
across the flute, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures with instruments faceless, their hands raised as if conducting
an unseen orchestra, their forms swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
(23:02):
checking the flute. No breath blown, no sound made the
wood cool and still despite the glow, but the light held,
whispering call for us. Erin the air grew warmer, a
heat that bit through my shirt, smelling of resin and rot,
my breath fogging as if the valley sided with the plade,
the dust stirring on the floor. I stumbled to my journal,
a log from my music days my hands trembling as
(23:25):
I wrote, eight fifty nine p m. Your tune. Now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my throat, as if the
flute drew my voice into its call. I blamed the
evening settling over the valley, the natural play of light
on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of
that concert's crack still resonating in me, the snap of reed,
(23:47):
the conductor's glare. The audiences gasped at the hearing, each
a note in a tune I couldn't harmonize, but the
lodge wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a sound meter,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to capture
the pull, to prove it was a trick of the wind,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At eight fifty
nine p m. The light returned, the green deepening to
(24:09):
a lush pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You stopped us.
The shadows sharpened, forming an ensemble around the flute, their
instruments silent and cracked eyes, hollow mouths, open in silent melodies,
their hands playing strings that weren't there. I played back
the meter data, quiet room, no frequency, but the voices
(24:32):
lingered personal. Now Sam's tone cutting through the hum you
muted me, followed by a concert goers faint and accusing,
why didn't you stop? I researched at the Vernon Library
the next day, a long walk that left my hands
aching from the cold, the librarian's glance wary as I
asked about old musicians. I found records of peer Leclerc,
(24:53):
a French Canadian flortist who performed in the valley in
seventeen eighty, vanishing during a storm. His flute found glowing
green logs describing calling of the plade. The drew listeners
to fade his band Abandoned. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their lodges found with flutes left tuned, their last sightings
(25:13):
marked by a green glow. At dusk. My flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the wood like notes on a staff,
the air thickening with the scent of sap and blood,
a stench that clung to my fingers and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant play us home, sleep vanished,
(25:34):
my nights spent in the storage room. The flutes glow
a beacon I couldn't escape. I cased it in a
velvet pouch, the fabric soft under my hands, but the
green lights seeping through the weave, the voices seeping into
my dreams, the figures chanting er in call. I filled
the journal with observations, the woods sweating, a dark resin
that pooled on the chair, its texture thick like pitch,
(25:56):
staining the seat black as it spread. Weeks pass, the
isolation deepening, the valley greening with each rain, And one dawn,
I woke with the flute in my hand, the room
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own urin stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a melody's echo, Leclerc's cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to play with the plade.
(26:19):
I tried breaking it with a hammer from the lodge,
the head dulling against the cedar. The flute laughed, a
hollow your hours that resonated off the walls. Shadows dragged
me toward the door, the warmth seeping into my bones.
The air thick with the memory of the notes, crack
and cries. Sam's voice, pleading come back to me. I
fought my legs trembling, the weight of the tune a chain,
(26:42):
the glow leading me into the valley. I fled to
a ranger's cabin twenty five miles east, but the flute's
glow follows eight fifty nine p m each night, my
shadow bending into Sam's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of music scores now shows
flute sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks.
The lodge calls me back, its storage room, glowing from
(27:04):
the valley. Listener, if you hear green notes, don't play.
Some songs never end. Thank you for joining me, Sir Winston,
on this journey through four dark talies. Until next time,
stay out of the tune.
Welcome to Listener Tales Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once again. To day we uncover four
new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's rugged wilds,
Each a whisper of dread from its buried secrets. No pauses,
just the unfiltered voices of those who have touched the unknown.
Prepare yourself if you're brave, as we listen to the deep.
(00:23):
Part one, The Stone that Whispers. I came to the
cliffs of Newfoundland after a life shaped by a rock
I couldn't silence. At thirty four, I'd been a geologist,
studying formations in Saint John's my hammer and lens, my tools,
shaped by my father, a quarryman, who taught me Stone's
voice under the coastal mist, his tales of rocky spirits,
filling my youth. We chip together, his voice gruff over
(00:46):
the tap of steel, until a collapse took him at
fifty seven, leaving me his geode and a promise to
hear their echo, Mara. My research crumbled when a sample
I analyzed misled a mining project, causing a cave in
the company calling it for reading, costing me my grant.
My partner Liam left his words sharp. You buried us, Mara,
(01:06):
and I took a job as a caretaker for an
old lighthouse near Cape Race, its base rocky, its air
still in the cellar, I found a stone, its surface etched,
its core glowing marked J. Pellettier seventeen fifty locals warning.
It whispered the buried, but I saw a specimen to study,
a link to my father. The first night, I placed
(01:27):
the stone on the lighthouse cellar table. The air thick
with the scent of damp granite and sea salt, the
waves thudding against the cliffs, the floor cold under my feet.
The cellar was stark, a crate with a cracked side,
A lamp dim, the single vent framing the dark sea,
the stone's presence a faint hum. At eight forty nine pm,
the core glowed a faint gray light pulsing from the etchings,
(01:49):
and I felt a pressure, deep and constant. A voice followed,
rough yet pleading. Listen to me, Mara, my father's voice
from those chipping days, Urging yet faint. The glow spread,
shadows forming on the walls, figures in helmets, faceless, their
hands digging. I checked the stone, no heat, no source,
but the light held whispering speak for us, Mara. I
logged it in my journal eight forty nine p m.
(02:12):
Your stone. Now the air grew colder, smelling of moss
and decay. My breath fogging as if the cliffs mourned.
I blamed the tide, the guilt of that cave in
still weighing me, but the lighthouse wouldn't rest. The next night,
I brought a seismic censor, determined to measure the hum.
At eight forty nine pm, the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you trapped us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crew,
(02:35):
their helmets cracked, eyes hollow. I played back the data
stable ground, but the voices lingered. Liam's tone cutting you
entombed me. I researched at the Trepassey Library, my hands
aching from the cold, finding records of Jacques Pelletier, a
miner who vanished in seventeen fifty. His stone found glowing
logs describing whispers of the bared. Locals reported unease their quarries,
(02:59):
Silent flashlight caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring dotting the stone, the air thick with
the scent of shale and blood. The whispers grew unearth
us home sleep vanished. I buried the stone, but the
glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Mara speak. I spent weeks observing the stone,
(03:19):
sweating a dark grit. One dawn, I woke with the
stone in hand, the table marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own Mara stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a cave's rumble, Pelletier's cry, cursing me
to unearth. I tried shattering it. The hammer chipped the stone,
laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the cliffs,
the cold seeping into my bones, Liam's voice pleading. I
(03:43):
fled to a fisherman's shed, But the stone's glow follows
eight forty nine p m each night, my logs showing
his face. Listener, if you hear gray murmurs, don't dig
some stones never rest. We are back with another chilling
tale from listener Taley's podcast. This one points from a
listener in Canada. They call it the Compass that spins
(04:06):
Part two, The Compass that Spins. I came to the
mountains of Yukon after a life turned by a needle
I couldn't steady, a direction that spun my world into chaos.
At thirty six, I'd been a surveyor, mapping trails in
white Horse. My compass and theodolite, my trade honed by
years of charting, shaped by my grandfather, a prospector who
(04:26):
taught me the Earth's pool under the alpine sun that
gilded the Saint Elia's range, his taiales of wandering spirits,
filling my youth with a reverence for the wild. We'd
survey together on summer mornings, his voice low over the
click of gears as he adjusted the sight, recounting stories
of miners lost to false bearings, until a landslide in
twenty twelve took him at seventy, His pick buried under rubble,
(04:49):
leaving me his compass, a scratched brass case with a
trembling needle, and a promise murmured through the dust. Find
their way. Theo his last words, a guide I couldn't hold.
My maps thrived with precise roots, a certificate from the
Yukon surveyor's association in hand until a route I charted
in twenty eighteen led a team astray during a fog,
(05:11):
causing a fall, rope snapping shouts echoing the agency calling
it misguided direction. After a review that replayed the descent,
costing me my license and my reputation, my wife Clara
left after ten years, her words firm as she packed
her boots. You lost our path. Theo her departure a
second slide, taking our topographic maps and the ring we'd
(05:33):
engraved with no trail to mark. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near Cluing Lake,
its walls weathered by wind and time, its silence heavy
like a held breath. The cabin a tilting structure with
ice cracked logs and a door that rattled with every gust.
In the attic, buried under a pile of moth eaten furs,
I found a compass, its face scratched with age, its
(05:55):
needle etched ar Bouchard eighteen ninety, in a hand worn
by years, its caseing dented as if dropped in haste.
Locals in the nearest outpost, a cluster of huts twelve
miles east avoided it, their mutters in the trading post,
hinting it spun the lost, a tail passed down with
a wary glance. But I saw a guide to calibrate,
a link to my grandfather, a way to find the
way I'd lost. The first night, I set the compass
(06:18):
on the cabin attic table, the air thick with the
scent of pine and tarnished brass, the wind moaning through
the peaks like a lost cry, the floorboards groaning under
my step, as if the cabin leaned into the slope.
The attic was cluttered, a trunk with a rusted hinge
sagging under weight, A candle weak and casting flickering shadows,
the single window framing the snowy range where the peaks
(06:39):
pierced the sky. The compass's presence a faint tick that
seemed to stir the stillness. At eight fifty nine PM,
as the night deepened to a frosty black, the face
glowed a faint blue light pulsing from the etchings like
ice reflecting moonlight, and I felt a spin, disorienting and relentless,
a dizziness that tilted me my stance. As I touched
(07:01):
the case, A voice followed, gravelly yet pleading, rising from
the brass itself, lead me THEO, my grandfather's voice from
those surveying days, urging yet faint, the same tone he'd
used when he last pointed to a vein of quartz,
his breath smelling of tobacco and snow. The glow spread
across the compass, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
(07:22):
figures with packs faceless, their hands pointing as if seeking
a trail, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the compass,
no movement detected, no magnetic field strong enough, the needle
still under my gaze despite the glow. But the light held,
whispering turned for us THEO. The air grew colder, a
(07:44):
chill that bit through my coat, smelling of frost and mold,
my breath fogging as if the mountain side with the lost,
the wood creaking under an unseen strain. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my surveying days, my hands
trembling as I wrote, eight fifty twenty nine PM. Your
turn now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
(08:05):
I felt a pull, a tug in my head, as
if the compass drew my sense into its spin. I
blamed the wind cutting through the peaks, the natural play
of light on polished metal, amplified by my exhaustion, the
guilt of that team's fall, still turning in me. The
snap of rope, the leader's yell, the inquiry's silence, each
a turn in a path I couldn't correct, but the
(08:26):
cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a magnetic sensor,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the spin, to prove it was a trick of the
cold or my mind unraveling after months of solitude. At
eight fifty nine pm, the light returned, the blue deepening
to an icy pulse. The voice joined by others, a
(08:46):
chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You
stranded us. The shadows sharpened, forming a line across the attic,
their packs worn and torn, eyes, hollow, mouths open in
silent please, their hands clut maps that weren't there. I
played back the censor data, stable field, no deviation, but
the voices lingered. Personal now Clara's tone cutting through the
(09:09):
hum you veered from me, followed by a team members
faint and accusing, why didn't you check? I researched at
the Haines Junction Library the next day, a long trek
that left my hands aching from the frost. The librarian's
glance cautious as I asked about old prospectors. I found
records of Rail Bouchard, a French Canadian prospector who roamed
(09:30):
the Yukon in eighteen ninety, vanishing during a blizzard. His
compass found glowing blue logs describing spinning of the lost
that drew men into the wild. His mule found frozen.
Locals reported disappearances over decades, their camps abandoned, with compasses
left spinning, their last sightings marked by a blue glow
at dusk. My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints
(09:54):
in the dark, Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting
the face like stars in ice, The air thickening with
the scent of snow 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 in
the attic, the compasses glow, A beacon I couldn't escape.
I boxed it in a metal case, the lid heavy
(10:16):
in my hands, but the blue light seeping through the seams,
the voices seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting, THEO turn.
I filled the journal with observations, the metal sweating, a
dark frost that pooled on the table, its texture thick
like rhyme, staining the wood black as it spread weeks past,
the isolation deepening, the mountains, icing with each storm, and
(10:38):
one dawn. I woke with the compass in my hand,
the attic floor marked with my boot prints circling the table,
the voices layered with my own, THEO stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a slide's rumble,
Bouchard's cry rising over the wind, cursing me to guide
with the lost I tried dismantling it with tools from
the cabin, the screwdriver slipping against the brass. The compass laughed,
(11:00):
a hollow your hours that echoed off the rafters. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the fall's thud
and cries. Clara's voice pleading come back to me. I
fought my arms, trembling the weight of the spin a chain,
the glow leading me into the peaks. I fled to
(11:20):
a miner's shack twenty eight miles south, but the compass's
glow follows eight fifty nine pm each night, my shadow
bending into Clara's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of survey notes, now shows
compass sketches. I didn't draw, my hand stained with black streaks.
The cabin calls me back. It's attic glowing from the range. Listener,
(11:41):
if you see a blue spin, don't follow. Some paths
never end. We are back with another frozen tail from
listener Taley's podcast. This one chills from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Ice that Freezes. Part three, The
Ice that Freezes. I came to the Arctic of nowt
after a life chilled by a frost. I couldn't melt,
(12:03):
a cold that preserved my regrets in crystal clarity. At
thirty eight, i'd been an ice sculptor, carving figures in
icoluit my chisel and saw my art honed by years
of shaping, shaped by my sister an Inuit carver who
taught me ICE's soul under the polar knight that bathed
Frobisher Bay in silver, Her tails of frozen spirits, filling
my youth with a hushed door. We'd sculpt together on
(12:26):
winter evenings, her voice gentle over the scrape of steel
as she traced legends of souls locked in ice, until
a blizzard in twenty sixteen buried her at forty five,
Her tools lost under snow, leaving me her ice pick,
a curved blade with her mark and a promise breathed
through the storm shaped their cold Nuna, her last words,
a chisel. I couldn't wield. My creations shone with delicate forms,
(12:50):
a prize from the Nunavut Arts Council in hand, until
a sculpture I made for the twenty twenty Arctic Festival
shattered under its weight, ice, splintering eyes, rising, the council
calling it brittle craft. After an inquiry that replayed the crash,
costing me my gallery and leaving me with a debt
I couldn't clear. My boyfriend Eric left after four years,
(13:13):
his words icy as he packed his parker. You froze
us out, Nuna, his departure a second frost, taking our
carving tools and the pendant we'd shaped with no ice
to mold. I took a job as a caretaker for
an old igloo near pond Inlet. Its walls icy with
the weight of time, its silence deep like a frozen breath.
The igloo a domed relic with snow crusted walls and
(13:34):
a floor that shifted under foot. In the inner chamber,
buried under a pile of hardened pelts, I found an
ice block, its surface etched with faint lines, its heart
glowing with an inner light marked K. Kamanik sixteen hundred
in a hand eroded by frost, its edges smooth as
if carved by wind. Locals in the nearest settlement, a
(13:56):
cluster of tents fifteen miles north, avoided it, then mutters
in the communal hall, hinting it froze. The lost a
tail passed down with a shiver. But I saw a
piece to carve a link to my sister away to
shape the cold i'd failed to master. The first night,
I chipped at the ice block in the igloo chamber,
the air thick with the scent of frozen water, and
(14:18):
ancient snow, the wind howling through the vents like a
distant whale, the ice floor slick under my boots, as
if the ground resisted my step. The chamber was bare,
a mat with a frayed edge, curling under frost. A
lamp dim and casting pale shadows, the single opening framing
the endless white where the horizon vanished. The block's presence,
a faint shimmer that seemed to pulse with life. Date
(14:40):
forty nine p m. As the night deepened her crystalline black,
the heart glowed a faint white light, pulsing from the etchings,
like snow caught in moonlight. And I felt a chill,
sharp and penetrating, a cold that sank into my bones.
As I held the chisel. A voice followed, soft yet sorrowful,
rising from the ice itself, carve me Nuna, my sister's
voice from those sculpting days, pleading yet distant, the same
(15:02):
tone she'd used when she last shaped a seal, her
breath smelling of seal oil and frost. The glow spread
across the block, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in parkers, faceless, their hands raised as if reaching
from a drift, their forms, swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the block. No tool struck, no melt forming, the
(15:26):
ice solid under my fingers despite the glow. But the
light held whispering freeze for us Nuna. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my layers, smelling of frost
and decay, my breath fogging, as if the Arctic wept
with the lost, the ice cracking under an unseen shift.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my sculpting days,
my hands trembling as I wrote, eight forty nine p m.
(15:49):
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 warmth into its core.
I blamed the wind sweeping across the Arctic, the natural
play of light on frozen surfaces, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of those injured festivalgoers still icing me. The
shatters echo the medic's rush, the council's censure at the hearing,
(16:11):
Each a shard and a sculpture I couldn't finish, But
the igloo wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
thermal probe, its readings, a tool from my craft, determined
to measure the chill, to prove it was a trick
of the cold or my mind unraveling after months alone.
At eight forty nine p m. The glow returned, the
white deepening to a glacial pulse. The voice joined by others,
(16:33):
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
You encased us. The shadows sharpened, forming a group in
the chamber, their parkers torn and iced, eyes, hollow mouths
open in silent pleas, their hands clutching tools that weren't there.
I played back the probe data stable, cold, no drop,
but the voices lingered personal now Eric's tone cutting through
the hum. You locked me out, followed by a festival
(16:55):
goers faint and accusing, why didn't you reinforce it. I
researched at the Pond and Inlet Library the next day,
a long trek that left my hands aching from the frost.
The elders glance wary as I asked about old hunters.
I found records of kablu Kamanik, an Inuit hunter who
roamed the ice in sixteen hundred, vanishing during a storm.
His ice block found glowing white logs describing freezing of
(17:18):
the lost that drew people to freeze. His sled found
abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries, their igloos found with
ice blocks left glowing, their last sightings marked by a
white glow at dusk. My flashlight, held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes pale and staring,
dotting the ice like cracks in a pane, The air
(17:39):
thickening with the scent of snow and blood, a stench
that clung to my hair and clothes. The whispers grew
into a chant, preserve us home. Sleep vanished, my nights
spent in the chamber. The blocks glow a beacon I
couldn't escape. I covered it with pelts, the hides stiff
with cold, but the white light seeping through the weave,
the voices seeping into my dreams, the fiers chanting Nuna freeze.
(18:02):
I filled the journal with observations, the ice sweating, a
dark frost that pooled on the mat, its texture thick
like slush, staining the surface black as it spread weeks past,
the isolation deepening the Arctic, hardening with each blizzard, and
one dawn, I woke with the block in my hand,
the chamber floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot,
the voices layered with my own, Nuna stay. The log
(18:25):
showed silence on playback, but I heard a blizzard's wail.
Kamanicks cry rising over the wind, cursing me to preserve.
With the lost, I tried melting it with a fire
from the outer room, the flames leaping high, they flickered out,
the block, laughing a hollow your hours that carried on
the gusts. Shadows dragged me toward the opening, the cold
seeping into my bones. The air, thick with the memory
(18:47):
of the sculptures, crash and cries Eric's voice, pleading warm me. Nuna.
I fought my legs, trembling, the weight of the ice
a chain, the glow leading me into the freeze. I
fled to a hunter's tent, moles west, but the block's
glow follows eight forty nine pm each night, my shadow
bending into Eric's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
(19:08):
My journal wants a record of sculpting sketches now shows
ice block drawings. I didn't draw my hands stained with
black streaks. The igloo calls me back. It's chamber glowing
from the ice. Listener, if you see white frost, don't touch.
Some ice never thaws. But we're back for the final
tale from listener Tale's podcast. This one plays from a
(19:29):
listener in Canada. They call it the Flute that Calls.
Part four, The Flute that calls. I came to the
valleys of British Columbia after a life sung by a tune.
I couldn't silence a melody that haunted my every breath.
At thirty seven, I'd been a musician, playing flutes in Vancouver.
My breath and read my craft, honed by years of performance,
(19:50):
shaped by my aunt, a flortist who taught me music.
Spirit under the cedar shade that fringed Stanley Park, her
tiales of melodic ghosts, filling my youth with a rhythmic wonder.
We play together on autumn afternoons, her voice light over
the flute's trill as she wove stories of spirits drawn
by notes, until a fall from a stage in twenty
eleven took her at fifty nine, her flute slipping from
(20:13):
her hands, leaving me her flute, a polished cedar piece
with her initials carved and a promise whispered through her
pain play their song erin her last words, a score
I couldn't read. My performances soared with haunting solos, A
medal from the Vancouver Symphony in hand, until a note
I hit during a twenty nineteen concert, cracked reeds, splintering,
(20:35):
screams rising, the orchestra calling it reckless tone. After a
review that replayed the discord, costing me my chair and
leaving me with a settlement, I couldn't afford. My partner,
Sam left after six years, his words bitter as he
packed his sheet music You silenced us urin his departure
a second break, taking our duet recordings and the bracelet
(20:58):
weed engraved with no stage to grace. I took a
job as a caretaker for an old lodge near Okanagan Valley.
Its holes empty with the echo of abandonment, its air
hushed like a paused note. The lodge a sprawling structure
with creaking floors and windows fogged by time. In the
storage room, buried under a pile of cracked violin cases,
(21:18):
I found a flute, its wood worn with age, its
holes etched p lecklerk. Seventeen eighty in a hand faded
by years, its surface scarred as if played to ruin.
Locals in the nearest village, a cluster of homes nineteen
miles south, avoided it. Their mutters in the tavern hinting
it called the plade A tail passed down with a
(21:39):
cautious hum. But I saw an instrument to tune a
link to my aunt away, to play the song I'd lost.
The first night, I played the flute in the lodge
storage room, the air thick with the scent of aged
cedar and dusty strings, the wind whispering through the eaves
like a distant refrain, the floorboards creaking with my step,
(21:59):
as as if the lodge swayed to a beat. The
room was cluttered, a chair with a broken rung tilting
under debris, A lamp dim and casting uneven light, the
single window framing the shadowed valley, where the trees stood
like silent listeners. The flute's presence, a soft note that
seemed to resonate with the air. At eight fifty nine
(22:20):
p m. As the night deepened, her velvety black, the
wood glowed a faint green light pulsing from the etchings,
like moss glowing in shade, and I felt a pull,
gentle yet insistent, a drawer that tugged at my lungs.
As I raised the flute. A voice followed, clear yet mournful,
rising from the cedar itself, sing me or in my
aunt's voice from those playing days, pleading yet faint, the
(22:42):
same tone she'd used when she last tuned the reed,
her breath smelling of mint and wood. The glow spread
across the flute, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures with instruments faceless, their hands raised as if conducting
an unseen orchestra, their forms swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
(23:02):
checking the flute. No breath blown, no sound made the
wood cool and still despite the glow, but the light held,
whispering call for us. Erin the air grew warmer, a
heat that bit through my shirt, smelling of resin and rot,
my breath fogging as if the valley sided with the plade,
the dust stirring on the floor. I stumbled to my journal,
a log from my music days my hands trembling as
(23:25):
I wrote, eight fifty nine p m. Your tune. Now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my throat, as if the
flute drew my voice into its call. I blamed the
evening settling over the valley, the natural play of light
on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of
that concert's crack still resonating in me, the snap of reed,
(23:47):
the conductor's glare. The audiences gasped at the hearing, each
a note in a tune I couldn't harmonize, but the
lodge wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a sound meter,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to capture
the pull, to prove it was a trick of the wind,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At eight fifty
nine p m. The light returned, the green deepening to
(24:09):
a lush pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You stopped us.
The shadows sharpened, forming an ensemble around the flute, their
instruments silent and cracked eyes, hollow mouths, open in silent melodies,
their hands playing strings that weren't there. I played back
the meter data, quiet room, no frequency, but the voices
(24:32):
lingered personal. Now Sam's tone cutting through the hum you
muted me, followed by a concert goers faint and accusing,
why didn't you stop? I researched at the Vernon Library
the next day, a long walk that left my hands
aching from the cold, the librarian's glance wary as I
asked about old musicians. I found records of peer Leclerc,
(24:53):
a French Canadian flortist who performed in the valley in
seventeen eighty, vanishing during a storm. His flute found glowing
green logs describing calling of the plade. The drew listeners
to fade his band Abandoned. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their lodges found with flutes left tuned, their last sightings
(25:13):
marked by a green glow. At dusk. My flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the wood like notes on a staff,
the air thickening with the scent of sap and blood,
a stench that clung to my fingers and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant play us home, sleep vanished,
(25:34):
my nights spent in the storage room. The flutes glow
a beacon I couldn't escape. I cased it in a
velvet pouch, the fabric soft under my hands, but the
green lights seeping through the weave, the voices seeping into
my dreams, the figures chanting er in call. I filled
the journal with observations, the woods sweating, a dark resin
that pooled on the chair, its texture thick like pitch,
(25:56):
staining the seat black as it spread. Weeks pass, the
isolation deepening, the valley greening with each rain, And one dawn,
I woke with the flute in my hand, the room
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own urin stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a melody's echo, Leclerc's cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to play with the plade.
(26:19):
I tried breaking it with a hammer from the lodge,
the head dulling against the cedar. The flute laughed, a
hollow your hours that resonated off the walls. Shadows dragged
me toward the door, the warmth seeping into my bones.
The air thick with the memory of the notes, crack
and cries. Sam's voice, pleading come back to me. I
fought my legs trembling, the weight of the tune a chain,
(26:42):
the glow leading me into the valley. I fled to
a ranger's cabin twenty five miles east, but the flute's
glow follows eight fifty nine p m each night, my
shadow bending into Sam's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of music scores now shows
flute sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks.
The lodge calls me back, its storage room, glowing from
(27:04):
the valley. Listener, if you hear green notes, don't play.
Some songs never end. Thank you for joining me, Sir Winston,
on this journey through four dark talies. Until next time,
stay out of the tune.
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My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder is a true crime comedy podcast hosted by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark. Each week, Karen and Georgia share compelling true crimes and hometown stories from friends and listeners. Since MFM launched in January of 2016, Karen and Georgia have shared their lifelong interest in true crime and have covered stories of infamous serial killers like the Night Stalker, mysterious cold cases, captivating cults, incredible survivor stories and important events from history like the Tulsa race massacre of 1921. My Favorite Murder is part of the Exactly Right podcast network that provides a platform for bold, creative voices to bring to life provocative, entertaining and relatable stories for audiences everywhere. The Exactly Right roster of podcasts covers a variety of topics including historic true crime, comedic interviews and news, science, pop culture and more. Podcasts on the network include Buried Bones with Kate Winkler Dawson and Paul Holes, That's Messed Up: An SVU Podcast, This Podcast Will Kill You, Bananas and more.