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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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to listener Tiales podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows Again to day we delve into four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's wild lands,
each a toll of terror from its hidden depths. No interruptions,
just the raw echoes of those who have faced the uncanny.
Brace yourself if you dare, as we listen to the dark.
(00:22):
Part one, The Bell that Tolls. I came to the
hills of Quebec after a life rung by a chime
I couldn't silence. At thirty three. I'd been a church caretaker,
tending bells in Quebec City. My rope and oil, my
duty shaped by my uncle, a bell ringer, who taught
me this song under the steeple's shadow, his tales of
ringing spirits filling my youth, we told together, his voice
(00:44):
deep over the clang of brass, until a fall from
the belfry took him at sixty, leaving me his bell
hammer and a promise to ring their peace. Julian, My
roll cracked when a bell I maintained shattered during a
service injuring worshippers the parish, calling it neglectful care, costing
me my post. My fiancee Sophie left her words bitter,
(01:04):
you broke our harmony. Julian and I took a job
as a caretaker for an old chapel near Charlevoi, Its
steeple silent, its air heavy. In the belfry, I found
a bell, its metal pitted, its clapper etched M. Dubois
seventeen sixty locals, warning it told the lost. But I
saw a voice to revive, a link to my uncle.
(01:26):
The first night I struck the bell in the chapel belfry,
the air thick with the scent of aged brass and
cold stone, the wind keening through the cracks, the wooden
beams creaking with age. The belfry was worn a beam
with a splintered end, a lantern dim the single window
framing the misty hills. The bell's presence a muted echo.
At eight fifty nine p m. The metal glowed a
(01:47):
faint gold light pulsing from the etchings, and I felt
a vibration, deep and persistent. A voice followed, rich yet mournful.
Call me, Julian, my uncle's voice from those ringing days,
pleading yet faint. The glow so spread, shadows forming on
the walls, figures in robes faceless, their hands raised. I
checked the bell, no strike, no clapper, but the light held,
whispering toll for us, Julian. I logged it in my journal.
(02:10):
Eight fifty nine pm, your chimed. Now the air grew colder,
smelling of incense and rot. My breath fogging, as if
the hills wept. I blamed the wind, the guilt of
those injured worshippers still tolling in me. But the chapel
wouldn't rest. The next night I brought a vibration meter,
determined to measure the hum. At eight fifty nine pm,
the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
(02:33):
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a congregation, their
robes tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the datas steady readings,
but the voices lingered, Sophie's tone cutting you muted me.
I researched at the Bay of Saint Paul Library, my
hands aching from the cold, finding records of Mitchell Dubwa,
a priest who vanished in seventeen sixty. His bell found
(02:54):
glowing logs describing tolling of the lost. Locals reported unease,
their prayers un answered. My flashlight caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the metal, the
air thick with the scent of wax and blood. The
whispers grew, ring us home. Sleep vanished. I muffled the bell,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
(03:16):
the figures chanting Julian toll. I spent weeks observing the metal,
sweating a dark wax. One dawn, I woke with the
bell in hand, the belfry marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Julian stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard appeals, echoed Juboar's cry, cursing me to ring.
I tried melting it. The furnace failed, the bell laughing
a hollow. Your hours shadows dragged me toward the steeple,
(03:40):
the cold seeping into my bones. Sophie's voice pleading. I
fled to a hermit's hut, But the bell's glow follows
eight fifty nine p m each night, my logs showing
her face. Listener, if you hear a golden chime, don't listen.
Some tolls never cease. We are back with another haunting
tail from listener Taley's podcast. This one glows from a
(04:02):
listener in Canada. They call it The Lantern That Burns.
Part two, The Lantern That Burns. I came to the
tundra of Northwest Territories after a life ignited by a flame.
I couldn't control a fire that consumed more than the land.
At thirty seven, I'd been a guide, leading expeditions in Yellowknife.
My lantern and map, my tools sharpened by years of
(04:24):
navigating ice shaped by my cousin, a trapper who taught
me the ICE's glow under the northern lights that danced
above Great Slave Lake. His tailees of fiery spirits, filling
my youth with a blend of awe and caution. We
trek together through the frozen nights, his voice steady over
the crunch of snow as he pointed out old trails,
recounting stories of travelers claimed by flames, until a fire
(04:47):
in twenty thirteen consumed him at fifty five, his tenter
pyre leaving me his lantern, a dented brass case with
a smoked lens, and a promise murmured through the smoke
light their path. Kai his last words, a torch I
couldn't carry. My journeys glowed with safe roots, a commendation
from the Northwest Territories. Tourism bored in hand until a
(05:09):
lantern I carried during a twenty nineteen expeditions sparked a wildfire,
destroying a camp, tents, ablaze, shouts piercing the air, the
rangers calling it careless flame. After an inquiry that replayed
the embers, costing me my permit and my standing, my
girlfriend Asia left after five years, her words harsh as
(05:29):
she packed her gear. You burned us out, Kai. Her
departure a second blaze, taking our camping stove and the
photo we'd framed with no trail to guide. I took
a job as a caretaker for an old outpost near
Great Bear Lake. Its walls charred from past fires, its
silence starked like a cold ash pile. The outpost a
crumbling shelter with frost cracked walls and a door that
(05:50):
groaned with every gust. In the storage room, buried under
a pile of singed pelts, I found a lantern, its
glass cracked with a web of fractures. Its wick etched
e Leclerk nineteen hundred in a hand worn by time,
its metal blackened as if kissed by flame. Locals in
the nearest settlement, a cluster of cabins eighteen miles south
(06:13):
avoided it, their mutters in the trading post hinting it
burned the forgotten. A tail passed down with a shiver.
But I saw a light to tend a link to
my cousin away, to rekindle the path I'd lost. The
first night, I lit the lantern in the outpost main room,
the air thick with the scent of soot and brittle leather,
the wind howling through the cracks like a mournful cry,
(06:35):
the floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the structure
settled into its scars. The room was barren, a crate
with a split lid sagging under ice, a candle weak
and guttering, the single window framing the frozen expanse, where
the tundras stretched into shadow. The lantern's presence, a flickering
pulse that seemed to warm the cold. At nine zero
nine p m. As the night deepened to a velvet black,
(06:58):
the flame flared a faint orange light pulsing beyond the wick,
like embers in a dying fire, and I felt a heat,
intense and close burn that seared my fingertips. As I
held the handle. A voice followed, gruff yet pleading, rising
from the glass itself, guide me Kai, my cousin's voice
from those trekking days, urging yet faint, the same tone
(07:19):
he'd used when he last adjusted the flame, his breath
smelling of fur and smoke. The glow spread across the lantern,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in furs, faceless,
their hands outstretched as if reaching for warmth, their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the lantern. No fuel added,
(07:40):
no draft strong enough, the wick cold and still despite
the flare, But the light held, whispering, burned for us Kai.
The air grew warmer, a heat that bit through my parkers,
smelling of smoke and ash, my breath fogging as if
the tundrum mourned with the lost, the ice cracking on
an unseen strain. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my gidding days. My hands trembling as I wrote
nine zero zero nine pm. You're lit now. The shadows lingered,
(08:04):
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my chest, as if the lantern drew my
energy into its flame. I blamed the wind cutting across
the tundra, the natural play of light on heated glass,
amplified by my exhaustion. The guilt of that camp's ruin
still smoldering in me, The crackle of burning tents, the
(08:25):
rangers glare, the survivor's cough at the inquiry, each a
spark in a fire I couldn't extinguish, but the outpost
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a heat sensor,
its readings, a tool from my expeditions, determined to measure
the flare, to prove it was a trick of the cold,
or my mind unraveling after months of isolation. At nine
(08:46):
zero nine p m. The light returned, the orange deepening
to a fiery pulse. The voice joined by others, a
chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You
consumed us. The shadows sharpened for a group in the room,
their furs scorched and melting eyes hollow mouths open in
silent screams, their hands clutching at the air as if
(09:07):
fanning flames. I played back the sense of data, low temperature,
no rise, but the voices lingered personal, now acious tone
cutting through the hum. You scorched me, followed by a
campers faint and accusing, why didn't you doubse it? I
researched at the Norman Wells Library the next day, a
long trek that left my hands aching from the frost.
(09:27):
The librarians glance wary as I asked about old trappers.
I found records of a meal Leclerk, a French Canadian
trapper who roamed the tundra in nineteen hundred, vanishing during
a firestorm. His lantern found glowing orange logs describing burning
of the forgotten that drew men to ash. His sled
dogs found charred. Locals reported disappearances over decades, their camps
(09:51):
reduced to cinders, with lanterns left behind, their last sightings
marked by an orange glow at night. My flashlight held
high that night, caught glints in the door, Dozens of
eyes pale and staring, dotting the glass like sparks in coal.
The air thickening with the scent of charcoal and blood,
a stench that clung to my skin and hair. The
whispers grew into a chant ignite us home. Sleep vanished,
(10:14):
my nights spent in the main room. The lanterns glow
a beacon I couldn't escape. I doused it with snow,
the water hissing against the heat, but the orange light
seeping through the melt, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting kai burn. I filled the journal with observations,
the glass sweating, a dark soot that pooled on the crate,
its texture thick like ash, staining the wood black as
(10:37):
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the tundra hardening
with each frieze, and one dawn, I woke with the
lantern in my hand, the floor marked with my boot
prints circling the crate, the voices layered with my own
chais stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a blaze's roar, Lecklerk's cry rising over the wind,
(10:58):
cursing me to ignite with the forgotten. I tried burying
it in the ice behind the outpost, the shovel bending
under the effort. The ice rejected it. The lantern laughing
a hollow, your hours that echoed across the plane. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the heat seeping into my bones.
The air thick with the memory of the wildfire's crackle
and cries Asia's voice, pleading save me Kai. I fought,
(11:21):
my arms, trembling, the weight of the flame a chain,
the glow leading me into the fire. I fled to
a trapper cabin thirty miles west, but the lantern's glow
follows nine zero nine p m each night, my shadow
bending into Asha's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of expedition. Roots now shows
lantern sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks.
(11:43):
The outpost calls me back, its walls glowing from the tundra. Listener,
if you see an orange flicker, don't light. Some fires
never die. We are back with another eerie tale from
listener Taley's podcast. This one whistles from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Wind that Whispers. Part three, The
Wind that Whispers. I came to the plains of Alberta
(12:06):
after a life carried away by a breeze. I couldn't
catch a current that swept my stability into the void.
At thirty five, i'd been a meteorologist, tracking winds in Edmonton,
my anemometer and charts, my trade honed by years of forecasting,
shaped by my brother, a farmer, who taught me the
prairie's breath under the wide sky that stretched over the
Peace River Valley, his tailies of airy spirits, filling my
(12:29):
youth with a sense of the unseen. We'd measure together
on windy afternoons, his voice firm over the rustle of
grass as he adjusted the vein, recounting stories of travelers
lost to sudden gusts, until a tornado in twenty fifteen
took him at forty eight. His barn lifted into the sky,
leaving me his wind vane, a weathered copper piece with
(12:49):
a crooked arrow and a promise whispered through the debris.
Read their voice, Leela his last words a compass. I
couldn't follow my forecast soward with accurate predictions, a degree
from the University of Alberta in hand, until a storm
I predicted in twenty eighteen veered off course, devastating a
town roofs torn cries rising, the Weather Service calling it
(13:13):
misread winds. After an analysis that replayed the radar, costing
me my roll and my credibility. My husband Paul left
after seven years, his words cold as he packed his bag.
You blew us apart Leela his departure a second gale,
taking our weather station and the quilt we'd stitched with
no horizon to read. I took a job as a
(13:33):
caretaker for an old windmill near Medicine hat its blades
still and rusted, its air restless like a held breath.
The windmill a creaking relic with sun bleached wood and
a ladder that swayed with every step. In the base.
Buried under a pile of brittle straw, I found a
wind vane, its metal etched with faint lines, its spin
faint despite its weight, marked h. Jurrard eighteen seventy in
(13:57):
a hand faded by time, its edge which is worn
as if spun by countless storms. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes fourteen miles north, avoided it, their
mutters in the grain silo hinting it whispered the lost
A tail passed down with a cautious breath. But I
saw a guide to tune, a link to my brother away,
(14:18):
to hear the voice I'd failed to read. First night,
I mounted the wind vane on the windmill roof, the
air thick with the scent of dry straw and rusted steel,
the wind sighing through the blades like a mournful tune,
the platform creaking under my feet as if the structure
leaned into the gusts. The roof was weathered, a beam
with a frayed rope dangling under dust, a lantern dim
(14:39):
and casting long shadows, the single window framing the endless
fields where the horizon faded into dusk. The vanes presence
a subtle turn that seemed to stir the air. Nine
nineteen PM. As the night deepened to starlit black, the
metal glowed a faint silver light pulsing from the etchings
like moonlight on water, and I felt a draft, cool
and insist distant, a breeze that brushed my cheek. As
(15:02):
I steadied the vein. A voice followed, strong yet mournful,
rising from the copper itself. Hear me Leela, my brother's
voice from those measuring days pleading yet distant, the same
tone he'd used when he last pointed to a dust devil,
his breath smelling of hay and sweat. The glow spread
across the vein, casting reflections into the air, shadows forming
(15:22):
figures in hats, faceless, their hands waving as if signaling
through a storm, their forms swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the vein. No wind strong enough, no spin, the
metal still under my fingers despite the glow, but the
light held, whispering blow for us Liela. The air grew colder,
(15:42):
a chill that bit through my jacket, smelling of dust
and decay, my breath fogging as if the planes wept
with the lost, the straw rustling without a breeze. I
stumbled to my journal, a log from my meteorology days,
my hands trembling as I wrote nine nineteen p m.
You're carried now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my lungs,
(16:04):
as if the vein drew my breath into its spin.
I blamed the gusts sweeping across the plains the natural
play of light on polished metal, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that town's ruin still swirling in me.
The wail of sirens, the collapsed barn, the mare's reprimand
at the hearing, each a gust in a storm I
couldn't calm, but the windmill wouldn't rest. The next night,
(16:24):
I brought a wind gage, its readings, a tool from
my trade, determined to record the draft, to prove it
was a trick of the air or my mind unraveling
after months alone. At nine nineteen p m. The glow returned,
the silver deepening to a shimmering pulse, the voice joined
by others, a chorus of men, women, children, whispering in
overlapping waves. You left us. The shadows sharpened, forming a
(16:48):
crowd around the vein, their hats tattered and flapping, eyes,
hollow mouths open in silent pleas, their hands gesturing as
if caught in a gale. I played back the gauge data,
still air, no movement, but the voices lingered. Personal now,
Paul's tone cutting through the hum You drifted from me,
followed by a residence, faint and accusing, why didn't you
(17:09):
warn us. I researched at the Medicine Hat library the
next day, a long walk that left my legs aching
from the cold, the librarian's glance weary. As I asked
about old settlers. I found records of Henry Jurrard, a
French homesteader who farmed the planes in eighteen seventy, vanishing
during a dust storm. His wind vane found glowing silver
(17:30):
logs describing whispers of the lost that drew people into
the wind. His family never found. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their homes abandoned, with veins left spinning, their last sightings
marked by a silver glow. At dusk. My flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
(17:51):
pale and staring, dotting the air like dust moats in sunlight.
The wind thickening with the scent of chaff and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and cloth booths.
The whispers grew into a chant sweep us home. Sleep vanished,
My nights spent on the roof. The veins glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I stowed it in a crate,
the wood creaking under the weight but the silver light
(18:13):
seeping through the cracks, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Leela Blow. I filled the journal with observations,
the metal sweating, a dark dust that pooled on the platform,
its texture thick like silt, staining the boards black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the planes drying
with each wind, and one dawn, I woke with the
(18:34):
vein in my hand, the roof marked with my boot
prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my own,
Leela Stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a gale's howl, Jurrard's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to sweep with the lost. I tried grounding
it with a stake from the base, the metal bending
under the force. The vein laughed, a hollow your hours
(18:54):
that carried across the fields. Shadows dragged me toward the edge,
the cold seeping into my bones. The air, thick with
the memory of the tornadoes, roar and cries Paul's voice,
pleading find me, Leela. I fought my legs, trembling, the
weight of the air a chain, the glow leading me
into the wind. I fled to a farmer's shack eighteen
(19:15):
miles east, but the veins glow follows nine nineteen p
m each night, my shadow bending into Paul's face, his
eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a record
of weather patterns. Now shows vain sketches I didn't draw,
my hands stained with black streaks. The windmill calls me back,
its blades glowing from the plane. Listener, if you hear
(19:35):
silver whispers, don't listen. Some winds never fade. We are
back for the final tale from listener Taley's podcast. This
one weaves from a listener in Canada. They call it
The Loom that Binds. Part four, The Loom that Binds.
I came to the forests of Ontario after a life
tangled in threads. I couldn't unravel a fabric that ensnared
(19:57):
my past with every stitch. At the thirty nine, I'd
been a weaver, crafting fabrics in Ottawa. My shuttle and loom,
my craft honed by years of threading, shaped by my mother,
a textile artist, who taught me patterns. Under the candle's
warm flicker in our attic near Rihydeou River, her tailies
of woven souls, filling my youth with a quiet mystery.
(20:18):
We'd weave together on winter nights, her voice soft over
the clack of wood as she spun stories of spirits
trapped in cloth, until a loom jam in twenty fourteen
crushed her at sixty three, her fingers caught in the gears,
leaving me her loom, a sturdy maple frame with her
name carved and a promise breathed through her pain. Weave
their story, Elise her last words, A pattern I couldn't follow.
(20:41):
My work flourished with intricate tapestries, a ribbon from the
Ottawa Arts Festival in hand, until a tapestry I made
for the twenty nineteen National Gallery Show tore under its weight,
threads snapping gasps, filling the room, the Art's Council calling
it shoddy work after an inspection that replayed the rip,
costing me my studio and leaving me with a fine
(21:01):
I couldn't pay. My fiancee, Daniel left after eight years,
his words curt as he packed his loom weights You
unraveled us. Elise his departure a second tier, taking our
shared designs and the scarf we'd woven with no warp
to set. I took a job as a caretaker for
an old cabin near Algonquin Park, Its rooms dusty with
(21:22):
the silt of neglect, its quiet deep like a held thread.
The cabin a sagging structure with moss covered walls and
a roof that leaked during rains. In the loft, buried
under a pile of mildewed blankets, I found a loom,
its frame weathered with age, its shuttle etched see Mora
eighteen hundred in a hand blurred by time, its beams
(21:43):
warped as if strained by unseen hands. Locals in the
nearest hamlet, a scattering of homes sixteen miles west, avoided it,
their mutters in the trading post hinting it bound. The
woven a tail passed down with a nervous weave. But
I saw a frame to restore a link to my mother, away,
to stitch back the story i'd lost. The first night
(22:05):
I worked the loom in the cabin loft, the air
thick with the scent of old wool and splintered cedar,
the wind creaking through the rafters like a distant loom.
The floorboards trembling under my tread, as if the cabin
shifted with my presence. The loft was dim, a stool
with a wobbly leg, tilting under dust, A lamp faint
and casting jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark trees,
(22:29):
where the forest loomed like silent spinners. The loom's presence
a steady rhythm that seemed to pulse with intent. At
nine twenty nine p m. As the night deepened to
a shadowy black, the wood glowed a faint purple light
pulsing from the etchings, like dye bleeding into cloth, and
I felt a tug, gentle yet firm, a pull that
drew me toward the frame. A voice followed, warm yet anguished,
(22:51):
rising from the maple itself. Men me elise my mother's
voice from those weaving nights, pleading yet distant, the same
tone she'd used when she last threaded the shut, her
breath smelling of lavender and wool. The glow spread across
the loom, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures
in shawls, faceless, their hands threading as if mending an
invisible tapestry, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
(23:15):
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the loom,
no thread set, no motion, the wood cool and still
despite the glow, but the light held whispering weave for
us elise. The air grew warmer, a heat that bit
through my sweater, smelling of dye and rot, my breath
fogging as if the forests sighed through the room, the
dust stirring on the floor. I stumbled to my journal,
a ledger from my weaver days, my hands trembling as
(23:37):
I wrote nine twenty nine p M. You're threaded now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my fingers, as if the
loom drew my hands into its weave. I blamed the
dusk settling over the forest, the natural play of light
on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue. The guilt of
(23:58):
that exhibits ruins still notting me. The tears sound, the
curators frown, the buyer's complaint at the hearing, each a
strand in a weave. I couldn't mend, but the cabin
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
grain or my mind unraveling after months alone, at nine
(24:20):
twenty nine p m. The light returned, the purple deepening
to a rich violet pulse, the voice joined by others,
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
You cut us off. The shadows sharpened, forming a circle
around the loom, their shawls frayed and stained, eyes, hollow
mouths open in silent pleas, their hands working shuttles that
(24:41):
weren't there. I played back the analyzer date of plain wood,
no fiber, but the voices lingered personal now Daniel's tone
cutting through the hum You severed me, followed by a
gallery patron's faint and accusing, why didn't you check? I
researched at the Pembroke Library the next day, a long
hike that left my hands aching from the cold, the
(25:01):
librarian's glance weary as I asked about old weavers. I
found records of Claude Mora, a French Canadian weaver who
settled near the forest in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard.
His loom found glowing purple logs describing binding of the
woven that drew people to sit and fade, his apprentice
claiming he'd cursed the frame. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
(25:25):
their cabins found with looms left threaded, their last sightings
marked by a purple glow. At dusk. My flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark. Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the frame like knots in fabric,
The air thickening with the scent of flax and blood,
a stench that clung to my fingers and clothes. The
(25:45):
whispers grew into a chant stitch us home sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the loft. The looms glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I dismantled it, the pieces heavy
in my arms, but the purple light seeping through the gaps,
the voices see into my dreams, the figures chanting elise weave.
I filled the journal with observations. The wood sweating, a
(26:07):
dark thread that pooled on the floor, its texture thick
like yarn, staining the boards black as it spread. Weeks passed,
the isolation deepening the forest, thickening with each rain, and
one dawn, I woke with the loom in my hand,
the loft floor marked with my boot prints circling the frame,
the voices layered with my own elise stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a shuttle's clack,
(26:29):
Moreo's cry rising over the wind, cursing me to bind
with the woven. I tried burning it in the cabin's fireplace,
the flames leaping high. They died to embers, the loom,
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls.
Shadows dragged me toward the frame, the warmth seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the
tapestry's tear and cries Daniel's voice, pleading come back to me.
(26:54):
I fought my legs, trembling, the weight of the threads
a chain, the glow leading me into the weave. I
fled to a logger's hut twenty two miles south, but
the loom's glow follows nine twenty nine p m each night,
my shadow bending into Daniel's face, his eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of weaving patterns
now shows loom sketches. I didn't draw. My hands stained
(27:16):
with black streaks. The cabin calls me back. It's loft,
glowing from the forest. Listener, if you see purple threads,
don't weave. Some fabrics never tear. Thank you for joining me,
Sir Winston, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the weave.
Welcome to listener Tiales podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows Again to day we delve into four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's wild lands,
each a toll of terror from its hidden depths. No interruptions,
just the raw echoes of those who have faced the uncanny.
Brace yourself if you dare, as we listen to the dark.
(00:22):
Part one, The Bell that Tolls. I came to the
hills of Quebec after a life rung by a chime
I couldn't silence. At thirty three. I'd been a church caretaker,
tending bells in Quebec City. My rope and oil, my
duty shaped by my uncle, a bell ringer, who taught
me this song under the steeple's shadow, his tales of
ringing spirits filling my youth, we told together, his voice
(00:44):
deep over the clang of brass, until a fall from
the belfry took him at sixty, leaving me his bell
hammer and a promise to ring their peace. Julian, My
roll cracked when a bell I maintained shattered during a
service injuring worshippers the parish, calling it neglectful care, costing
me my post. My fiancee Sophie left her words bitter,
(01:04):
you broke our harmony. Julian and I took a job
as a caretaker for an old chapel near Charlevoi, Its
steeple silent, its air heavy. In the belfry, I found
a bell, its metal pitted, its clapper etched M. Dubois
seventeen sixty locals, warning it told the lost. But I
saw a voice to revive, a link to my uncle.
(01:26):
The first night I struck the bell in the chapel belfry,
the air thick with the scent of aged brass and
cold stone, the wind keening through the cracks, the wooden
beams creaking with age. The belfry was worn a beam
with a splintered end, a lantern dim the single window
framing the misty hills. The bell's presence a muted echo.
At eight fifty nine p m. The metal glowed a
(01:47):
faint gold light pulsing from the etchings, and I felt
a vibration, deep and persistent. A voice followed, rich yet mournful.
Call me, Julian, my uncle's voice from those ringing days,
pleading yet faint. The glow so spread, shadows forming on
the walls, figures in robes faceless, their hands raised. I
checked the bell, no strike, no clapper, but the light held,
whispering toll for us, Julian. I logged it in my journal.
(02:10):
Eight fifty nine pm, your chimed. Now the air grew colder,
smelling of incense and rot. My breath fogging, as if
the hills wept. I blamed the wind, the guilt of
those injured worshippers still tolling in me. But the chapel
wouldn't rest. The next night I brought a vibration meter,
determined to measure the hum. At eight fifty nine pm,
the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
(02:33):
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a congregation, their
robes tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the datas steady readings,
but the voices lingered, Sophie's tone cutting you muted me.
I researched at the Bay of Saint Paul Library, my
hands aching from the cold, finding records of Mitchell Dubwa,
a priest who vanished in seventeen sixty. His bell found
(02:54):
glowing logs describing tolling of the lost. Locals reported unease,
their prayers un answered. My flashlight caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the metal, the
air thick with the scent of wax and blood. The
whispers grew, ring us home. Sleep vanished. I muffled the bell,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
(03:16):
the figures chanting Julian toll. I spent weeks observing the metal,
sweating a dark wax. One dawn, I woke with the
bell in hand, the belfry marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Julian stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard appeals, echoed Juboar's cry, cursing me to ring.
I tried melting it. The furnace failed, the bell laughing
a hollow. Your hours shadows dragged me toward the steeple,
(03:40):
the cold seeping into my bones. Sophie's voice pleading. I
fled to a hermit's hut, But the bell's glow follows
eight fifty nine p m each night, my logs showing
her face. Listener, if you hear a golden chime, don't listen.
Some tolls never cease. We are back with another haunting
tail from listener Taley's podcast. This one glows from a
(04:02):
listener in Canada. They call it The Lantern That Burns.
Part two, The Lantern That Burns. I came to the
tundra of Northwest Territories after a life ignited by a flame.
I couldn't control a fire that consumed more than the land.
At thirty seven, I'd been a guide, leading expeditions in Yellowknife.
My lantern and map, my tools sharpened by years of
(04:24):
navigating ice shaped by my cousin, a trapper who taught
me the ICE's glow under the northern lights that danced
above Great Slave Lake. His tailees of fiery spirits, filling
my youth with a blend of awe and caution. We
trek together through the frozen nights, his voice steady over
the crunch of snow as he pointed out old trails,
recounting stories of travelers claimed by flames, until a fire
(04:47):
in twenty thirteen consumed him at fifty five, his tenter
pyre leaving me his lantern, a dented brass case with
a smoked lens, and a promise murmured through the smoke
light their path. Kai his last words, a torch I
couldn't carry. My journeys glowed with safe roots, a commendation
from the Northwest Territories. Tourism bored in hand until a
(05:09):
lantern I carried during a twenty nineteen expeditions sparked a wildfire,
destroying a camp, tents, ablaze, shouts piercing the air, the
rangers calling it careless flame. After an inquiry that replayed
the embers, costing me my permit and my standing, my
girlfriend Asia left after five years, her words harsh as
(05:29):
she packed her gear. You burned us out, Kai. Her
departure a second blaze, taking our camping stove and the
photo we'd framed with no trail to guide. I took
a job as a caretaker for an old outpost near
Great Bear Lake. Its walls charred from past fires, its
silence starked like a cold ash pile. The outpost a
crumbling shelter with frost cracked walls and a door that
(05:50):
groaned with every gust. In the storage room, buried under
a pile of singed pelts, I found a lantern, its
glass cracked with a web of fractures. Its wick etched
e Leclerk nineteen hundred in a hand worn by time,
its metal blackened as if kissed by flame. Locals in
the nearest settlement, a cluster of cabins eighteen miles south
(06:13):
avoided it, their mutters in the trading post hinting it
burned the forgotten. A tail passed down with a shiver.
But I saw a light to tend a link to
my cousin away, to rekindle the path I'd lost. The
first night, I lit the lantern in the outpost main room,
the air thick with the scent of soot and brittle leather,
the wind howling through the cracks like a mournful cry,
(06:35):
the floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the structure
settled into its scars. The room was barren, a crate
with a split lid sagging under ice, a candle weak
and guttering, the single window framing the frozen expanse, where
the tundras stretched into shadow. The lantern's presence, a flickering
pulse that seemed to warm the cold. At nine zero
nine p m. As the night deepened to a velvet black,
(06:58):
the flame flared a faint orange light pulsing beyond the wick,
like embers in a dying fire, and I felt a heat,
intense and close burn that seared my fingertips. As I
held the handle. A voice followed, gruff yet pleading, rising
from the glass itself, guide me Kai, my cousin's voice
from those trekking days, urging yet faint, the same tone
(07:19):
he'd used when he last adjusted the flame, his breath
smelling of fur and smoke. The glow spread across the lantern,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in furs, faceless,
their hands outstretched as if reaching for warmth, their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the lantern. No fuel added,
(07:40):
no draft strong enough, the wick cold and still despite
the flare, But the light held, whispering, burned for us Kai.
The air grew warmer, a heat that bit through my parkers,
smelling of smoke and ash, my breath fogging as if
the tundrum mourned with the lost, the ice cracking on
an unseen strain. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my gidding days. My hands trembling as I wrote
nine zero zero nine pm. You're lit now. The shadows lingered,
(08:04):
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my chest, as if the lantern drew my
energy into its flame. I blamed the wind cutting across
the tundra, the natural play of light on heated glass,
amplified by my exhaustion. The guilt of that camp's ruin
still smoldering in me, The crackle of burning tents, the
(08:25):
rangers glare, the survivor's cough at the inquiry, each a
spark in a fire I couldn't extinguish, but the outpost
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a heat sensor,
its readings, a tool from my expeditions, determined to measure
the flare, to prove it was a trick of the cold,
or my mind unraveling after months of isolation. At nine
(08:46):
zero nine p m. The light returned, the orange deepening
to a fiery pulse. The voice joined by others, a
chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You
consumed us. The shadows sharpened for a group in the room,
their furs scorched and melting eyes hollow mouths open in
silent screams, their hands clutching at the air as if
(09:07):
fanning flames. I played back the sense of data, low temperature,
no rise, but the voices lingered personal, now acious tone
cutting through the hum. You scorched me, followed by a
campers faint and accusing, why didn't you doubse it? I
researched at the Norman Wells Library the next day, a
long trek that left my hands aching from the frost.
(09:27):
The librarians glance wary as I asked about old trappers.
I found records of a meal Leclerk, a French Canadian
trapper who roamed the tundra in nineteen hundred, vanishing during
a firestorm. His lantern found glowing orange logs describing burning
of the forgotten that drew men to ash. His sled
dogs found charred. Locals reported disappearances over decades, their camps
(09:51):
reduced to cinders, with lanterns left behind, their last sightings
marked by an orange glow at night. My flashlight held
high that night, caught glints in the door, Dozens of
eyes pale and staring, dotting the glass like sparks in coal.
The air thickening with the scent of charcoal and blood,
a stench that clung to my skin and hair. The
whispers grew into a chant ignite us home. Sleep vanished,
(10:14):
my nights spent in the main room. The lanterns glow
a beacon I couldn't escape. I doused it with snow,
the water hissing against the heat, but the orange light
seeping through the melt, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting kai burn. I filled the journal with observations,
the glass sweating, a dark soot that pooled on the crate,
its texture thick like ash, staining the wood black as
(10:37):
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the tundra hardening
with each frieze, and one dawn, I woke with the
lantern in my hand, the floor marked with my boot
prints circling the crate, the voices layered with my own
chais stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a blaze's roar, Lecklerk's cry rising over the wind,
(10:58):
cursing me to ignite with the forgotten. I tried burying
it in the ice behind the outpost, the shovel bending
under the effort. The ice rejected it. The lantern laughing
a hollow, your hours that echoed across the plane. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the heat seeping into my bones.
The air thick with the memory of the wildfire's crackle
and cries Asia's voice, pleading save me Kai. I fought,
(11:21):
my arms, trembling, the weight of the flame a chain,
the glow leading me into the fire. I fled to
a trapper cabin thirty miles west, but the lantern's glow
follows nine zero nine p m each night, my shadow
bending into Asha's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of expedition. Roots now shows
lantern sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks.
(11:43):
The outpost calls me back, its walls glowing from the tundra. Listener,
if you see an orange flicker, don't light. Some fires
never die. We are back with another eerie tale from
listener Taley's podcast. This one whistles from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Wind that Whispers. Part three, The
Wind that Whispers. I came to the plains of Alberta
(12:06):
after a life carried away by a breeze. I couldn't
catch a current that swept my stability into the void.
At thirty five, i'd been a meteorologist, tracking winds in Edmonton,
my anemometer and charts, my trade honed by years of forecasting,
shaped by my brother, a farmer, who taught me the
prairie's breath under the wide sky that stretched over the
Peace River Valley, his tailies of airy spirits, filling my
(12:29):
youth with a sense of the unseen. We'd measure together
on windy afternoons, his voice firm over the rustle of
grass as he adjusted the vein, recounting stories of travelers
lost to sudden gusts, until a tornado in twenty fifteen
took him at forty eight. His barn lifted into the sky,
leaving me his wind vane, a weathered copper piece with
(12:49):
a crooked arrow and a promise whispered through the debris.
Read their voice, Leela his last words a compass. I
couldn't follow my forecast soward with accurate predictions, a degree
from the University of Alberta in hand, until a storm
I predicted in twenty eighteen veered off course, devastating a
town roofs torn cries rising, the Weather Service calling it
(13:13):
misread winds. After an analysis that replayed the radar, costing
me my roll and my credibility. My husband Paul left
after seven years, his words cold as he packed his bag.
You blew us apart Leela his departure a second gale,
taking our weather station and the quilt we'd stitched with
no horizon to read. I took a job as a
(13:33):
caretaker for an old windmill near Medicine hat its blades
still and rusted, its air restless like a held breath.
The windmill a creaking relic with sun bleached wood and
a ladder that swayed with every step. In the base.
Buried under a pile of brittle straw, I found a
wind vane, its metal etched with faint lines, its spin
faint despite its weight, marked h. Jurrard eighteen seventy in
(13:57):
a hand faded by time, its edge which is worn
as if spun by countless storms. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes fourteen miles north, avoided it, their
mutters in the grain silo hinting it whispered the lost
A tail passed down with a cautious breath. But I
saw a guide to tune, a link to my brother away,
(14:18):
to hear the voice I'd failed to read. First night,
I mounted the wind vane on the windmill roof, the
air thick with the scent of dry straw and rusted steel,
the wind sighing through the blades like a mournful tune,
the platform creaking under my feet as if the structure
leaned into the gusts. The roof was weathered, a beam
with a frayed rope dangling under dust, a lantern dim
(14:39):
and casting long shadows, the single window framing the endless
fields where the horizon faded into dusk. The vanes presence
a subtle turn that seemed to stir the air. Nine
nineteen PM. As the night deepened to starlit black, the
metal glowed a faint silver light pulsing from the etchings
like moonlight on water, and I felt a draft, cool
and insist distant, a breeze that brushed my cheek. As
(15:02):
I steadied the vein. A voice followed, strong yet mournful,
rising from the copper itself. Hear me Leela, my brother's
voice from those measuring days pleading yet distant, the same
tone he'd used when he last pointed to a dust devil,
his breath smelling of hay and sweat. The glow spread
across the vein, casting reflections into the air, shadows forming
(15:22):
figures in hats, faceless, their hands waving as if signaling
through a storm, their forms swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the vein. No wind strong enough, no spin, the
metal still under my fingers despite the glow, but the
light held, whispering blow for us Liela. The air grew colder,
(15:42):
a chill that bit through my jacket, smelling of dust
and decay, my breath fogging as if the planes wept
with the lost, the straw rustling without a breeze. I
stumbled to my journal, a log from my meteorology days,
my hands trembling as I wrote nine nineteen p m.
You're carried now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my lungs,
(16:04):
as if the vein drew my breath into its spin.
I blamed the gusts sweeping across the plains the natural
play of light on polished metal, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that town's ruin still swirling in me.
The wail of sirens, the collapsed barn, the mare's reprimand
at the hearing, each a gust in a storm I
couldn't calm, but the windmill wouldn't rest. The next night,
(16:24):
I brought a wind gage, its readings, a tool from
my trade, determined to record the draft, to prove it
was a trick of the air or my mind unraveling
after months alone. At nine nineteen p m. The glow returned,
the silver deepening to a shimmering pulse, the voice joined
by others, a chorus of men, women, children, whispering in
overlapping waves. You left us. The shadows sharpened, forming a
(16:48):
crowd around the vein, their hats tattered and flapping, eyes,
hollow mouths open in silent pleas, their hands gesturing as
if caught in a gale. I played back the gauge data,
still air, no movement, but the voices lingered. Personal now,
Paul's tone cutting through the hum You drifted from me,
followed by a residence, faint and accusing, why didn't you
(17:09):
warn us. I researched at the Medicine Hat library the
next day, a long walk that left my legs aching
from the cold, the librarian's glance weary. As I asked
about old settlers. I found records of Henry Jurrard, a
French homesteader who farmed the planes in eighteen seventy, vanishing
during a dust storm. His wind vane found glowing silver
(17:30):
logs describing whispers of the lost that drew people into
the wind. His family never found. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their homes abandoned, with veins left spinning, their last sightings
marked by a silver glow. At dusk. My flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
(17:51):
pale and staring, dotting the air like dust moats in sunlight.
The wind thickening with the scent of chaff and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and cloth booths.
The whispers grew into a chant sweep us home. Sleep vanished,
My nights spent on the roof. The veins glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I stowed it in a crate,
the wood creaking under the weight but the silver light
(18:13):
seeping through the cracks, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Leela Blow. I filled the journal with observations,
the metal sweating, a dark dust that pooled on the platform,
its texture thick like silt, staining the boards black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the planes drying
with each wind, and one dawn, I woke with the
(18:34):
vein in my hand, the roof marked with my boot
prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my own,
Leela Stay. The log showed silence on playback, but I
heard a gale's howl, Jurrard's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to sweep with the lost. I tried grounding
it with a stake from the base, the metal bending
under the force. The vein laughed, a hollow your hours
(18:54):
that carried across the fields. Shadows dragged me toward the edge,
the cold seeping into my bones. The air, thick with
the memory of the tornadoes, roar and cries Paul's voice,
pleading find me, Leela. I fought my legs, trembling, the
weight of the air a chain, the glow leading me
into the wind. I fled to a farmer's shack eighteen
(19:15):
miles east, but the veins glow follows nine nineteen p
m each night, my shadow bending into Paul's face, his
eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a record
of weather patterns. Now shows vain sketches I didn't draw,
my hands stained with black streaks. The windmill calls me back,
its blades glowing from the plane. Listener, if you hear
(19:35):
silver whispers, don't listen. Some winds never fade. We are
back for the final tale from listener Taley's podcast. This
one weaves from a listener in Canada. They call it
The Loom that Binds. Part four, The Loom that Binds.
I came to the forests of Ontario after a life
tangled in threads. I couldn't unravel a fabric that ensnared
(19:57):
my past with every stitch. At the thirty nine, I'd
been a weaver, crafting fabrics in Ottawa. My shuttle and loom,
my craft honed by years of threading, shaped by my mother,
a textile artist, who taught me patterns. Under the candle's
warm flicker in our attic near Rihydeou River, her tailies
of woven souls, filling my youth with a quiet mystery.
(20:18):
We'd weave together on winter nights, her voice soft over
the clack of wood as she spun stories of spirits
trapped in cloth, until a loom jam in twenty fourteen
crushed her at sixty three, her fingers caught in the gears,
leaving me her loom, a sturdy maple frame with her
name carved and a promise breathed through her pain. Weave
their story, Elise her last words, A pattern I couldn't follow.
(20:41):
My work flourished with intricate tapestries, a ribbon from the
Ottawa Arts Festival in hand, until a tapestry I made
for the twenty nineteen National Gallery Show tore under its weight,
threads snapping gasps, filling the room, the Art's Council calling
it shoddy work after an inspection that replayed the rip,
costing me my studio and leaving me with a fine
(21:01):
I couldn't pay. My fiancee, Daniel left after eight years,
his words curt as he packed his loom weights You
unraveled us. Elise his departure a second tier, taking our
shared designs and the scarf we'd woven with no warp
to set. I took a job as a caretaker for
an old cabin near Algonquin Park, Its rooms dusty with
(21:22):
the silt of neglect, its quiet deep like a held thread.
The cabin a sagging structure with moss covered walls and
a roof that leaked during rains. In the loft, buried
under a pile of mildewed blankets, I found a loom,
its frame weathered with age, its shuttle etched see Mora
eighteen hundred in a hand blurred by time, its beams
(21:43):
warped as if strained by unseen hands. Locals in the
nearest hamlet, a scattering of homes sixteen miles west, avoided it,
their mutters in the trading post hinting it bound. The
woven a tail passed down with a nervous weave. But
I saw a frame to restore a link to my mother, away,
to stitch back the story i'd lost. The first night
(22:05):
I worked the loom in the cabin loft, the air
thick with the scent of old wool and splintered cedar,
the wind creaking through the rafters like a distant loom.
The floorboards trembling under my tread, as if the cabin
shifted with my presence. The loft was dim, a stool
with a wobbly leg, tilting under dust, A lamp faint
and casting jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark trees,
(22:29):
where the forest loomed like silent spinners. The loom's presence
a steady rhythm that seemed to pulse with intent. At
nine twenty nine p m. As the night deepened to
a shadowy black, the wood glowed a faint purple light
pulsing from the etchings, like dye bleeding into cloth, and
I felt a tug, gentle yet firm, a pull that
drew me toward the frame. A voice followed, warm yet anguished,
(22:51):
rising from the maple itself. Men me elise my mother's
voice from those weaving nights, pleading yet distant, the same
tone she'd used when she last threaded the shut, her
breath smelling of lavender and wool. The glow spread across
the loom, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures
in shawls, faceless, their hands threading as if mending an
invisible tapestry, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
(23:15):
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the loom,
no thread set, no motion, the wood cool and still
despite the glow, but the light held whispering weave for
us elise. The air grew warmer, a heat that bit
through my sweater, smelling of dye and rot, my breath
fogging as if the forests sighed through the room, the
dust stirring on the floor. I stumbled to my journal,
a ledger from my weaver days, my hands trembling as
(23:37):
I wrote nine twenty nine p M. You're threaded now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my fingers, as if the
loom drew my hands into its weave. I blamed the
dusk settling over the forest, the natural play of light
on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue. The guilt of
(23:58):
that exhibits ruins still notting me. The tears sound, the
curators frown, the buyer's complaint at the hearing, each a
strand in a weave. I couldn't mend, but the cabin
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
grain or my mind unraveling after months alone, at nine
(24:20):
twenty nine p m. The light returned, the purple deepening
to a rich violet pulse, the voice joined by others,
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
You cut us off. The shadows sharpened, forming a circle
around the loom, their shawls frayed and stained, eyes, hollow
mouths open in silent pleas, their hands working shuttles that
(24:41):
weren't there. I played back the analyzer date of plain wood,
no fiber, but the voices lingered personal now Daniel's tone
cutting through the hum You severed me, followed by a
gallery patron's faint and accusing, why didn't you check? I
researched at the Pembroke Library the next day, a long
hike that left my hands aching from the cold, the
(25:01):
librarian's glance weary as I asked about old weavers. I
found records of Claude Mora, a French Canadian weaver who
settled near the forest in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard.
His loom found glowing purple logs describing binding of the
woven that drew people to sit and fade, his apprentice
claiming he'd cursed the frame. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
(25:25):
their cabins found with looms left threaded, their last sightings
marked by a purple glow. At dusk. My flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark. Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the frame like knots in fabric,
The air thickening with the scent of flax and blood,
a stench that clung to my fingers and clothes. The
(25:45):
whispers grew into a chant stitch us home sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the loft. The looms glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I dismantled it, the pieces heavy
in my arms, but the purple light seeping through the gaps,
the voices see into my dreams, the figures chanting elise weave.
I filled the journal with observations. The wood sweating, a
(26:07):
dark thread that pooled on the floor, its texture thick
like yarn, staining the boards black as it spread. Weeks passed,
the isolation deepening the forest, thickening with each rain, and
one dawn, I woke with the loom in my hand,
the loft floor marked with my boot prints circling the frame,
the voices layered with my own elise stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a shuttle's clack,
(26:29):
Moreo's cry rising over the wind, cursing me to bind
with the woven. I tried burning it in the cabin's fireplace,
the flames leaping high. They died to embers, the loom,
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls.
Shadows dragged me toward the frame, the warmth seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the
tapestry's tear and cries Daniel's voice, pleading come back to me.
(26:54):
I fought my legs, trembling, the weight of the threads
a chain, the glow leading me into the weave. I
fled to a logger's hut twenty two miles south, but
the loom's glow follows nine twenty nine p m each night,
my shadow bending into Daniel's face, his eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of weaving patterns
now shows loom sketches. I didn't draw. My hands stained
(27:16):
with black streaks. The cabin calls me back. It's loft,
glowing from the forest. Listener, if you see purple threads,
don't weave. Some fabrics never tear. Thank you for joining me,
Sir Winston, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the weave.
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