September 30, 2025 • 26 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 Talies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once More. To day, we explore four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's Untamed lands,
each a reflection of terror from its hidden depths. No breaks,
just the raw mirrors of those who have faced the
uncanny steal yourself if you dare, as we gaze into
(00:21):
the dark. Part one, The Mirror that Reflects. I came
to the forests of Manitoba after a life framed by
a glass I couldn't look away from. At thirty five,
I'd been an antique stealer, restoring mirrors in Winnipeg. My
polish and frame, my trade shaped by my grandmother, a
glass maker, who taught me reflections, secrets under the attic light,
(00:44):
her tales of mirrored souls filling my youth. We work together,
her voice calm over the scrape of cloth, until a
fall through a mirror took her at sixty seven, leaving
me her hand mirror and a promise to see their face. Lana,
My business shattered when a mirror I sold reflected a fire,
damaging a home, the court calling it defective sail costing
(01:06):
me my shop. My fiancee Tom left his words cold.
You reflected our end. Lana and I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near White Shell
Provincial Park, its rooms dim, its air still in the attic,
I found a mirror, its glass cracked, its frame etched
el Juba seventeen hundred locals warning it reflected the lost,
(01:26):
but I saw a piece to restore a link to
my grandmother. The first night I polished the mirror in
the cabin attic, the air thick with the scent of
aged wood and silver tarnish, the wind rustling through the trees,
the floorboards creaking under my weight. The attic was dusty,
a chest with a warped lid, A lamp faint, the
single window framing the dark woods, the mirror's presence a
(01:47):
silent stare. At nine zero one p m. The glass
glowed a faint silver light pulsing from the cracks, and
I felt a gaze, heavy and unblinking. A voice followed, soft,
yet anguished. Look at me, Lena, my grandmother's voice from
those restoring days, pleading yet distant. The glow spread, shadows
forming in the glass, figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands reaching.
(02:10):
I checked the mirror, no light, no source, but the
glow held whispering reflect us, Lana. I logged it in
my journal nine zero one p m. Your mirrored. Now
the air grew colder, smelling of dust and decay, my
breath fogging, as if the forest mourned. I blamed the dusk,
the guilt of that fire still reflecting in me, but
the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
(02:30):
light meter, determined to measure the glow. At nine zero
one p m. The light returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you hid us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd,
their cloaks tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the day
at dim room, but the voices lingered. Tom's tone cutting
you obscured me. I researched at the Lac Dubonnet Library,
(02:51):
my hands aching from the cold, finding records of Louis Duboa,
a settler who vanished in seventeen hundred. His mirror found
glowing logs described being reflecting of the lost. Locals reported unease,
their homes haunted. My flashlight caught glints in the dark
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the glass, the
air thick with the scent of varnish and blood. The
(03:12):
whispers grew show us home. Sleep vanished. I covered the mirror,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Lana reflect. I spent weeks observing the glass,
sweating a dark mist. One dawn, I woke with the
mirror in hand, the attic marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Lena Stay. The log showed silence,
(03:32):
but I heard a cracks echoed Duboir's cry, cursing me
to show. I tried smashing it. The hammer bounced, the mirror,
laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the woods,
the cold seeping into my bones. Tom's voice pleading. I
fled to a trapper hut. But the mirror's glow follows
nine zero one p m. Each night, my logs showing
(03:53):
his face. Listener, if you see silver reflections, don't look.
Some images never fade. But we're back with another haunting
tail from listener Tail's podcast. This one glows from a
listener in Canada. They call it The Lantern that Fades.
Part two, The Lantern That Fades. I came to the
(04:14):
marshes of New Brunswick after a life dimmed by a
light I couldn't sustain a glow that flickered at my future.
At thirty four, I'd been a lighthouse keeper, tending beacons
in Moncton, my oil and wick, my duty honed by
years of watch, shaped by my uncle, a mariner, who
taught me the sea's glow under the foggy dawn that
veiled the Bay of Fundy, his tailies of fadding spirits,
(04:35):
filling my youth with a cautious reverence. We tend together
on stormy nights, his voice steady over the hiss of
flame as he trimmed the wick, recounting stories of sailors
lost to dark waters, until a storm in twenty thirteen
sank him at sixty two, his boat a wreck, leaving
me his lantern, a dented iron case with a smoked lens,
(04:56):
and a promise murmured through the rain, keep their light Jase.
His last words aflame, I couldn't guard. My watch glowed
with steady beams. A commendation from the Maritime Safety Board
in hand until a lantern I maintained during a twenty
eighteen gale failed wick drowned ship aground, the coast guard
calling it neglectful care. After an investigation that replayed the
(05:19):
wreck costing me my post and my standing. My girlfriend
Miir left after five years, her words harsh as she
packed her raincoat. You let our flame die, jace her departure,
second blackout, taking our sailing logs and the locket we'd
shared with no beacon to tend. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old boat house near Kuchebaguak
National Park. Its walls damped with the seep of time,
(05:42):
its quiet oppressive like a held breath. The boat house
a sagging structure with water stained beams and a floor
that squelched with every step. In the storeroom, buried under
pile of mildewed nets, I found a lantern, its glass
smoked with age, its base eh T. Gagnon eighteen hundred,
in a hand worn by soult, its metal corroded, as
if reclaimed by the tide. Locals in the nearest hamlet,
(06:04):
a scattering of homes thirteen miles west avoided it. Their
mutters in the fish market, hinting it faded. The lit
a tail passed down with a wary tide, But I
saw a light to revive, a link to my uncle away,
to keep the glow i'd lost. The first night, I
lit the lantern in the boat house storeroom, the air
thick with the scent of wet wood and burnt oil,
the wind moaning through the cracks like a sailor's lament,
(06:27):
the floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the boat
house settled into the marsh. The room was cluttered, a
barrel with a split seam leaking brine, a candle weak
and guttering, the single window framing the misty marsh, where
the reeds stood like ghostly sentinels. The lantern's presence a
flickering pulse that seemed to wane with the air. At
nine eleven p m. As the night deepened to a
(06:49):
murky black, the flame dimmed, a faint yellow light pulsing
beyond the wick, like embers in a dying fire, and
I felt a drain, slow and sapping, a weariness that
weighed my limbs. As I held the handle. A voice followed,
rough yet pleading, rising from the iron itself. Hold me Jase.
My uncle's voice from those tending days, urging yet faint,
(07:11):
the same tone he'd used when he last adjusted the flame,
his breath smelling of tobacco and sea. The glow spread
across the lantern, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in coats, faceless, their hands shielding as if from
a storm, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the lantern.
(07:32):
No oil added, no breeze strong enough, the wick cold
and still despite the pulse. But the light held, whispering
fade with us, Jase. The air grew colder, a chill
that bit through my jackets, smelling of salt and rot,
my breath fogging, as if the marsh mourned with the
lit the water lapping under an unseen tide. I stumbled
to my journal, a log from my keeper days, my
hands trembling as I wrote nine eleven p M. You're
(07:54):
dimmed now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my chest, as
if the lantern drew my energy into its fade. I
blamed the damp, seeping through the marsh, the natural play
of light on heated glass, amplified by my exhaustion, the
guilt of that shipwreck still burning in me, the crash
(08:15):
of hull, the captain's shout, the inquiri's verdict, each a
spark in a flame I couldn't rekindle, but the boat
house wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a flame gauge,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the fade, to prove it was a trick of the moisture,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At nine eleven
p m. The light returned, the yellow deepening to a
(08:37):
sickly pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. You extinguished us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a crew in the room, their coats soaked and fraying, eyes,
hollow mouths open in silent cries, their hands clutching lanterns
that weren't there. I played back the gauge, day to
steady burn, no drop, but the voices lingered. Personal now
(08:57):
Mere's tone cutting through the hum. You snuffed me out,
followed by a sailor's faint and accusing, why didn't you warn?
I researched at the Richibucto Library the next day, a
long walk that left my hands aching from the cold.
The librarians glance weary as I asked about old sailors.
I found records of Tiary Gagnon, a French Acadian mariner
who sailed the coast in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a fog.
(09:20):
His lantern found glowing yellow logs describing fadding of the
lit that drew crews to dim his ship found adrift.
Locals reported disappearances over centuries, their boat houses found with
lanterns left burning, their last sightings marked by a yellow glow.
At dusk. My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints
in the dark, Dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting
(09:43):
the glass like moats in fog, The air thickening with
the scent of seaweed and blood, a stench that clung
to my skin and clothes. The whispers grew into a
chant dim us home. Sleep vanished, my nights spent in
the storeroom. The lanterns glow. A beacon I couldn't escape.
I doused it with water from the marsh the liquid
hissing against the heat, but the yellow light seeping through
(10:04):
the damp, the voices seeping into my dreams, the figures
chanting Jace fade I filled the journal with observations, the
glass sweating, a dark soot that pooled on the barrel,
its texture thick like ash, staining the wood black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the marsh flooding
with each tide, and one dawn, I woke with the
(10:24):
lantern in my hand, the room floor marked with my
boot print circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own jay stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a wave's crash, Gagnon's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to dim with the lit I tried burying
it in the mud behind the boat house, the shovel
sinking deep the mud rejected it, the lantern laughing, a
(10:45):
hollow your hours that echoed across the marsh. Shadows dragged
me toward the door, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the rex roar
and cries MIA's voice, pleading save me. Jase I fought
my arms trembling the weight of the fade a chain,
the glow leading me into the marsh. I fled to
(11:05):
a fisherman's shack seventeen miles north, but the lantern's glow
follows nine eleven p m. Each night, my shadow bending
into MIA's face, her eyes accusing from the dark. My
journal wants a record of keeper logs. Now shows lantern
sketches I didn't draw. My hand stained with black streaks.
The boat house calls me back. It's store room, glowing
from the marsh. Listener, if you see yellow flickers, don't light.
(11:28):
Some lights never re ignite. We are back with another
misty tail from listener Taley's podcast. This one drifts from
a listener in Canada. They call it The Fog That Lingers,
Part three, The Fog That Lingers. I came to the
coast of Nova Scotia after a life shrouded by a
mist I couldn't clear a haze that obscured my every choice.
(11:50):
At thirty six, i'd been a fisherman navigating waters in Halifax.
My net and compass, my livelihood honed by years at sea,
shaped by my father, a sailor, who taught me the
sea's veil under the gray dawn that cloaked the Atlantic,
his tailees of misty spirits, filling my youth with a
wary respect. We'd fish together on foggy mornings, his voice
(12:11):
gruff over the slap of waves as he adjusted the nets,
recounting stories of crews lost to unseen shores, until a
fog in twenty fourteen swallowed him at sixty, his boat vanishing,
leaving me his foghorn, a weathered brass piece with a
cracked bell, and a promise murmured through the mist sound
their path kai, his last words a call I couldn't answer.
(12:33):
My catches thrived with steady hauls, a trophy from the
Halifax Fishermen's Association in hand, until a fog I misjudged
during a twenty nineteen storm stranded my boat, hull scraping,
cries rising the harbour, calling it reckless navigation, after a
hearing that replayed the radar, costing me my license and
leaving me with a fine I couldn't pay. My wife
(12:56):
Nora left after eight years, her words stern as she
packed her sea back. You clouded our life, kai her departure,
second fog, taking our fishing charts and the ring we'd worn.
With no water to navigate, I took a job as
a caretaker for an old dock house near Peggy's Cove.
Its timbers wet with the salt of time, its silence
eerie like a held breath. The dockhouse a leaning structure
(13:17):
with algae slick walls, and a roof that dripped with
every tide. In the shed, buried under a pile of
sodden ropes, I found a foghorn, its brass tarnished with age,
its bell etched m le Blanc seventeen fifty in a
hand eroded by salt, its surface pitted as if weathered
by endless blasts. Locals in the nearest village, a cluster
of cottages eleven miles east, avoided it, their mutters in
(13:39):
the wharf hinting. It lingered, the lost. A tail passed
down with a cautious wave. But I saw a signal
to restore a link to my father, away, to sound
the path i'd lost. The first night, I blew the
foghorn in the dock house shed, the air thick with
the scent of brine and rusted metal, the wind sighing
through the gaps like a distant moan, the floorboards slick
(14:01):
under my boots, as if the shed swayed with the tide.
The shed was cramped a crate with a rotted side,
sagging under weight, A lamp dim and casting jagged shadows,
the single window framing the foggy sea where the horizon dissolved.
The horn's presence, a muted blast that seemed to thicken
the air. At nine twenty one p m. As the
(14:22):
night deepened to a shrouded black, the brass glowed a
faint gray light, pulsing from the etchings, like mist caught
in dawn. And I felt a weight, heavy and suffocating,
a pressure that pressed against my chest. As I held
the horn. A voice followed, deep yet pleading, rising from
the brass itself guide me Kai, my father's voice from
those fishing days, urging yet faint, the same tone he'd
(14:43):
used when he last sounded the horn, his breath smelling
of fish and salt. The glow spread across the foghorn,
casting reflections into the air, shadows forming figures in oil skins, 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 horn. No
(15:04):
air blown, no sound, made the metal cool and still
despite the glow. But the light held, whispering, lingering for
a ski. The air grew colder, a chill that bit
through my coat, smelling of seaweed and decay, my breath fogging,
as if the coast mourned with the lost, the water
lapping under an unseen swell. I stumbled to my journal,
a log from my fishing days, my hands trembling as
(15:26):
I wrote nine twenty one p M. You'r shrouded now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my lungs, as if the
horn drew my breath into its call. I blamed the
tide rolling in from the coast, the natural play of
light on polished brass, amplified by my fatigue, the guilt
of those lost lives still fogging me, the scrape of hull,
(15:48):
the survivor's sob, the harbour masters reprimand each a wave
in a mist I couldn't pierce, but the dock house
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a sound analyzer
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to me
measure the weight, to prove it was a trick of
the damp or my mind unraveling after months alone. At
nine twenty one p m. The glow returned, the gray
(16:09):
deepening to a dense pulse, the voice joined by others,
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves,
you abandoned us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crew around
the horn, their olskins torn and dripping, eyes hollow, mouths
open in silent pleas, their hands clutching nets that weren't there.
I played back the analyzer data, silent room, no vibration,
(16:32):
but the voices lingered. Personal now Norah's tone cutting through
the hum You veiled me, followed by a crewmates, faint
and accusing, why did you see? I researched at the
Chester Library the next day, a long hike that left
my hands aching from the cold. The librarians glance wary
as I asked about old fishermen. I found records of
(16:52):
Mitchell LeBlanc, an Acadian fisherman who worked the coast in
seventeen fifty, vanishing during a fog. His foghorn found glowing
gray logs, describing lingering of the lost that drew boats
to drift. His family never found. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their dockhouses found with foghorns, left silent, their last sightings
(17:13):
marked by a gray glow. At dusk. My flashlight held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of
eyes pale and staring, dotting the air like drops in mist,
the fog thickening with the scent of kelp and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant, lead us home. Sleep vanished,
(17:34):
my nights spent in the shed. The horns glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I silenced it with a cloth,
the fabric damp with effort, but the gray light seeping
through the weave, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting ki linger. I filled the journal with observations,
the brass sweating, a dark dampness that pooled on the crate,
its texture thick like sludge, staining the wood black as
(17:56):
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepened, the coast flooding
with each storm, and one dawn I woke with the
horn in my hand, the shed floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Kai stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a FOG's hush, LeBlanc's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to lead with the lost. I tried sinking
(18:18):
it in the sea beyond the dock, the weight dragging deep.
The waters spat it back, the horn laughing a hollow
your hours that carried on the gusts. Shadows dragged me
toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones, the
air thick with the memory of the stranding's wail and
cries Norah's voice, pleading find me Kai. I fought my legs, trembling,
(18:39):
the weight of the fog, a chain, the glow leading
me into the mist. I fled to a crabber's hut
fourteen miles south, but the horn's glow follows nine twenty
one p m each night, my shadow bending into Norah's face,
her eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of fishing. Roots now shows foghorns, sketches I didn't draw,
my hands stained with black streaks, the dock house calls
(19:01):
me back, its shed glowing from the coast. Listener, if
you hear gray echoes don't sound. Some fogs never lift.
We're back for the final tale from listener Tailee's podcast.
This one ticks from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Clock That Stops. Part four, The Clock That Stops.
I came to the plains of Saskatchewan after life halted
(19:23):
by a tick. I couldn't restart a rhythm that froze
my every step. At thirty nine, I'd been a clockmaker,
crafting time pieces in Regina. My gears and hands my
art honed by years of precision, shaped by my grandfather,
a watchmaker who taught me times rhythm under the workshop
lamp that lit our garage near Wacana Lake, his tailies
of stilled souls, filling my youth with a measured dread.
(19:47):
We'd build together on winter evenings, his voice measured over
the click of metal as he aligned the cogs, recounting
stories of workers trapped by stopped clocks, until a fall
from a ladder in twenty ten took him at seventy one.
His tools scattered, leaving me his clock a mahogany case
with a cracked face and a promise whispered through his fall,
keep their time, Eli, his last words a pendulum. I
(20:09):
couldn't swing my work, ticked with intricate designs, A medal
from the Saskatchewan Craft Council in hand, until a clock
I made for the twenty seventeen town Halls stopped during
a speech, gears jamming, panic rising, the Council calling it
faulty design. After a review that replayed the silence, costing
me my workshop and leaving me with a debt. I
(20:31):
couldn't settle my husband. Paul left after nine years, his
words flat as he packed his toolbox. You froze our time, Eli,
his departure a second halt, taking our family photos and
the watch we'd engraved with no mechanism to mend. I
took a job as a caretaker for an old barn
near Grassland's National Park. Its beams dry with the dust
(20:53):
of neglect, its silent stark like a paused second. The
barn a weathered structure with splintered walls and a loft
that groaned with every wind. In the loft buried under
a pile of brittle saddles, I found a clock, its
face cracked with age, its back etched a tremblay eighteen
fifty in a hand faded by time, its hands frozen
(21:14):
as if seized by an unseen force. Locals in the
nearest settlement, a cluster of homes sixteen miles north, avoided it,
their mutters in the grain store hinting it stopped. The
timed a tail passed down with a hesitant nod. But
I saw a piece to repair, a link to my grandfather,
away to keep the time i'd lost. The first night,
(21:36):
I wound the clock in the barn loft, the air
thick with the scent of old hay and rusted springs,
the wind whistling through the slats like a distant chime,
the floorboards creaking under my step, as if the barn
shifted with the weight. The loft was dusty, a stool
with a wobbly leg tilting under dust, A lamp dim
and casting long shadows, the single window framing the endless
(21:56):
plane where the horizons stretched into dusk. The clock's press,
and a faint tick that seemed to pause with intent.
At nine thirty one p m. As the night deepened
to a dusty black the face glowed a faint gold
light pulsing from the cracks, like sunlight trapped in amber,
and I felt a pause, sudden and eternal, a stillness
that held my breath. As I turned the key. A
(22:17):
voice followed, steady yet pleading, rising from the mahogany itself.
Wind me Eli, my grandfather's voice from those building days,
urging yet faint, the same tone he'd used when he
last said a pendulum, his breath smelling of tobacco and oil.
The glow spread across the clock, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in aprons, faceless, their hands turning as
(22:39):
if adjusting unseen gears, their forms swaying with the rhythm
of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the clock, no movement detected, no power source, the
hands still under my gaze despite the glow. But the
light held, whispering stop with us Eli. The air grew warmer,
a heat that bit through my sweater, smell of oil
(23:00):
and rot, my breath fogging as if the plains sided
with the timed, the wood creaking under an unseen strain.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my clockmaker days,
my hands trembling as I wrote nine thirty one p m.
You're stalled now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my pulse,
as if the clock drew my heart beat into its halt.
(23:23):
I blamed the night settling over the plain, the natural
play of light on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that chaos still ticking in me. The
jam's click, the mare's shout, the council's ruling, each a beaten,
a time I couldn't fix, but the barn wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a time meter, its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the pores,
(23:44):
to prove it was a trick of the dust or
my mind unraveling after months alone. Nine thirty one p m.
The light returned, the gold deepening to a rich pulse,
the voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. You halted us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a workshop around the clock, their aprons stained and frayed,
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent ticks, their hands holding
(24:07):
tools that weren't there. I played back the meter data,
steady time, no lag, but the voices lingered personal. Now
Paul's tone cutting through the hum you stop me, followed
by a townsfolks faint and accusing, why didn't you test?
I researched at the val Marie Library the next day,
a long trek that left my hands aching from the cold.
The librarians glanced cautious as I asked about old clockmakers.
(24:30):
I found records of Antine Tremblay, a French Canadian watchmaker
who settled the planes in eighteen fifty, vanishing during a drought.
His clock found glowing gold logs describing stopping of the
timed that drew workers to freeze. His apprentice. Lost. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their barns found with clocks left still,
(24:50):
their last sightings marked by a gold glow at dusk.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the face like
marks on a dial. The air thickening with the scent
of brass and blood, a stench that clung to my
fingers and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant tick
us home. Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the loft.
(25:13):
The clocks glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I unwound
it with a key from the barn, the mechanism stiff
with effort, but the gold light seeping through the cracks,
the voices seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting Eli stop.
I filled the journal with observations, the face sweating, a
dark grease that pooled on the stool, its texture thick
like sludge, staining the wood black as it spread it's past,
(25:36):
the isolation deepening, the plane drying with each wind. And
one dawn, I woke with the clock in my hand,
the loft floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot,
the voices layered with my own Eli stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a tick's halt.
Tremblays cry rising over the wind, cursing me to stop
with the timed I tried smashing it with a hammer
from the loft, the head denting against the mahogany. The
(25:59):
clock laughed, a hollow your hours that echoed off the beams.
Shadows dragged me toward the window, the warmth seeping into
my bones. The air thick with the memory of the
stop's silence, and cries Paul's voice, pleading move with me.
I fought my legs, trembling, the weight of the paws
a chain, the glow leading me into the plane. I
(26:20):
fled to a farmer's shed nineteen miles east, but the
clock's glow follows nine thirty one p m each night,
my shadow bending into Paul's face, his eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of clock designs.
Now shows clock sketches. I didn't draw, My hands stained
with black streaks. The barn calls me back. It's loft,
glowing from the plane. Listener, if you hear gold ticks,
(26:42):
don't wind sometime never moves. Thank you for joining me,
sir Winstone, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the tick.
Welcome to Listener Talies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once More. To day, we explore four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's Untamed lands,
each a reflection of terror from its hidden depths. No breaks,
just the raw mirrors of those who have faced the
uncanny steal yourself if you dare, as we gaze into
(00:21):
the dark. Part one, The Mirror that Reflects. I came
to the forests of Manitoba after a life framed by
a glass I couldn't look away from. At thirty five,
I'd been an antique stealer, restoring mirrors in Winnipeg. My
polish and frame, my trade shaped by my grandmother, a
glass maker, who taught me reflections, secrets under the attic light,
(00:44):
her tales of mirrored souls filling my youth. We work together,
her voice calm over the scrape of cloth, until a
fall through a mirror took her at sixty seven, leaving
me her hand mirror and a promise to see their face. Lana,
My business shattered when a mirror I sold reflected a fire,
damaging a home, the court calling it defective sail costing
(01:06):
me my shop. My fiancee Tom left his words cold.
You reflected our end. Lana and I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near White Shell
Provincial Park, its rooms dim, its air still in the attic,
I found a mirror, its glass cracked, its frame etched
el Juba seventeen hundred locals warning it reflected the lost,
(01:26):
but I saw a piece to restore a link to
my grandmother. The first night I polished the mirror in
the cabin attic, the air thick with the scent of
aged wood and silver tarnish, the wind rustling through the trees,
the floorboards creaking under my weight. The attic was dusty,
a chest with a warped lid, A lamp faint, the
single window framing the dark woods, the mirror's presence a
(01:47):
silent stare. At nine zero one p m. The glass
glowed a faint silver light pulsing from the cracks, and
I felt a gaze, heavy and unblinking. A voice followed, soft,
yet anguished. Look at me, Lena, my grandmother's voice from
those restoring days, pleading yet distant. The glow spread, shadows
forming in the glass, figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands reaching.
(02:10):
I checked the mirror, no light, no source, but the
glow held whispering reflect us, Lana. I logged it in
my journal nine zero one p m. Your mirrored. Now
the air grew colder, smelling of dust and decay, my
breath fogging, as if the forest mourned. I blamed the dusk,
the guilt of that fire still reflecting in me, but
the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
(02:30):
light meter, determined to measure the glow. At nine zero
one p m. The light returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you hid us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd,
their cloaks tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the day
at dim room, but the voices lingered. Tom's tone cutting
you obscured me. I researched at the Lac Dubonnet Library,
(02:51):
my hands aching from the cold, finding records of Louis Duboa,
a settler who vanished in seventeen hundred. His mirror found
glowing logs described being reflecting of the lost. Locals reported unease,
their homes haunted. My flashlight caught glints in the dark
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the glass, the
air thick with the scent of varnish and blood. The
(03:12):
whispers grew show us home. Sleep vanished. I covered the mirror,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Lana reflect. I spent weeks observing the glass,
sweating a dark mist. One dawn, I woke with the
mirror in hand, the attic marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Lena Stay. The log showed silence,
(03:32):
but I heard a cracks echoed Duboir's cry, cursing me
to show. I tried smashing it. The hammer bounced, the mirror,
laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the woods,
the cold seeping into my bones. Tom's voice pleading. I
fled to a trapper hut. But the mirror's glow follows
nine zero one p m. Each night, my logs showing
(03:53):
his face. Listener, if you see silver reflections, don't look.
Some images never fade. But we're back with another haunting
tail from listener Tail's podcast. This one glows from a
listener in Canada. They call it The Lantern that Fades.
Part two, The Lantern That Fades. I came to the
(04:14):
marshes of New Brunswick after a life dimmed by a
light I couldn't sustain a glow that flickered at my future.
At thirty four, I'd been a lighthouse keeper, tending beacons
in Moncton, my oil and wick, my duty honed by
years of watch, shaped by my uncle, a mariner, who
taught me the sea's glow under the foggy dawn that
veiled the Bay of Fundy, his tailies of fadding spirits,
(04:35):
filling my youth with a cautious reverence. We tend together
on stormy nights, his voice steady over the hiss of
flame as he trimmed the wick, recounting stories of sailors
lost to dark waters, until a storm in twenty thirteen
sank him at sixty two, his boat a wreck, leaving
me his lantern, a dented iron case with a smoked lens,
(04:56):
and a promise murmured through the rain, keep their light Jase.
His last words aflame, I couldn't guard. My watch glowed
with steady beams. A commendation from the Maritime Safety Board
in hand until a lantern I maintained during a twenty
eighteen gale failed wick drowned ship aground, the coast guard
calling it neglectful care. After an investigation that replayed the
(05:19):
wreck costing me my post and my standing. My girlfriend
Miir left after five years, her words harsh as she
packed her raincoat. You let our flame die, jace her departure,
second blackout, taking our sailing logs and the locket we'd
shared with no beacon to tend. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old boat house near Kuchebaguak
National Park. Its walls damped with the seep of time,
(05:42):
its quiet oppressive like a held breath. The boat house
a sagging structure with water stained beams and a floor
that squelched with every step. In the storeroom, buried under
pile of mildewed nets, I found a lantern, its glass
smoked with age, its base eh T. Gagnon eighteen hundred,
in a hand worn by soult, its metal corroded, as
if reclaimed by the tide. Locals in the nearest hamlet,
(06:04):
a scattering of homes thirteen miles west avoided it. Their
mutters in the fish market, hinting it faded. The lit
a tail passed down with a wary tide, But I
saw a light to revive, a link to my uncle away,
to keep the glow i'd lost. The first night, I
lit the lantern in the boat house storeroom, the air
thick with the scent of wet wood and burnt oil,
the wind moaning through the cracks like a sailor's lament,
(06:27):
the floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the boat
house settled into the marsh. The room was cluttered, a
barrel with a split seam leaking brine, a candle weak
and guttering, the single window framing the misty marsh, where
the reeds stood like ghostly sentinels. The lantern's presence a
flickering pulse that seemed to wane with the air. At
nine eleven p m. As the night deepened to a
(06:49):
murky black, the flame dimmed, a faint yellow light pulsing
beyond the wick, like embers in a dying fire, and
I felt a drain, slow and sapping, a weariness that
weighed my limbs. As I held the handle. A voice followed,
rough yet pleading, rising from the iron itself. Hold me Jase.
My uncle's voice from those tending days, urging yet faint,
(07:11):
the same tone he'd used when he last adjusted the flame,
his breath smelling of tobacco and sea. The glow spread
across the lantern, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in coats, faceless, their hands shielding as if from
a storm, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the lantern.
(07:32):
No oil added, no breeze strong enough, the wick cold
and still despite the pulse. But the light held, whispering
fade with us, Jase. The air grew colder, a chill
that bit through my jackets, smelling of salt and rot,
my breath fogging, as if the marsh mourned with the
lit the water lapping under an unseen tide. I stumbled
to my journal, a log from my keeper days, my
hands trembling as I wrote nine eleven p M. You're
(07:54):
dimmed now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my chest, as
if the lantern drew my energy into its fade. I
blamed the damp, seeping through the marsh, the natural play
of light on heated glass, amplified by my exhaustion, the
guilt of that shipwreck still burning in me, the crash
(08:15):
of hull, the captain's shout, the inquiri's verdict, each a
spark in a flame I couldn't rekindle, but the boat
house wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a flame gauge,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the fade, to prove it was a trick of the moisture,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At nine eleven
p m. The light returned, the yellow deepening to a
(08:37):
sickly pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. You extinguished us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a crew in the room, their coats soaked and fraying, eyes,
hollow mouths open in silent cries, their hands clutching lanterns
that weren't there. I played back the gauge, day to
steady burn, no drop, but the voices lingered. Personal now
(08:57):
Mere's tone cutting through the hum. You snuffed me out,
followed by a sailor's faint and accusing, why didn't you warn?
I researched at the Richibucto Library the next day, a
long walk that left my hands aching from the cold.
The librarians glance weary as I asked about old sailors.
I found records of Tiary Gagnon, a French Acadian mariner
who sailed the coast in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a fog.
(09:20):
His lantern found glowing yellow logs describing fadding of the
lit that drew crews to dim his ship found adrift.
Locals reported disappearances over centuries, their boat houses found with
lanterns left burning, their last sightings marked by a yellow glow.
At dusk. My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints
in the dark, Dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting
(09:43):
the glass like moats in fog, The air thickening with
the scent of seaweed and blood, a stench that clung
to my skin and clothes. The whispers grew into a
chant dim us home. Sleep vanished, my nights spent in
the storeroom. The lanterns glow. A beacon I couldn't escape.
I doused it with water from the marsh the liquid
hissing against the heat, but the yellow light seeping through
(10:04):
the damp, the voices seeping into my dreams, the figures
chanting Jace fade I filled the journal with observations, the
glass sweating, a dark soot that pooled on the barrel,
its texture thick like ash, staining the wood black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the marsh flooding
with each tide, and one dawn, I woke with the
(10:24):
lantern in my hand, the room floor marked with my
boot print circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own jay stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a wave's crash, Gagnon's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to dim with the lit I tried burying
it in the mud behind the boat house, the shovel
sinking deep the mud rejected it, the lantern laughing, a
(10:45):
hollow your hours that echoed across the marsh. Shadows dragged
me toward the door, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the rex roar
and cries MIA's voice, pleading save me. Jase I fought
my arms trembling the weight of the fade a chain,
the glow leading me into the marsh. I fled to
(11:05):
a fisherman's shack seventeen miles north, but the lantern's glow
follows nine eleven p m. Each night, my shadow bending
into MIA's face, her eyes accusing from the dark. My
journal wants a record of keeper logs. Now shows lantern
sketches I didn't draw. My hand stained with black streaks.
The boat house calls me back. It's store room, glowing
from the marsh. Listener, if you see yellow flickers, don't light.
(11:28):
Some lights never re ignite. We are back with another
misty tail from listener Taley's podcast. This one drifts from
a listener in Canada. They call it The Fog That Lingers,
Part three, The Fog That Lingers. I came to the
coast of Nova Scotia after a life shrouded by a
mist I couldn't clear a haze that obscured my every choice.
(11:50):
At thirty six, i'd been a fisherman navigating waters in Halifax.
My net and compass, my livelihood honed by years at sea,
shaped by my father, a sailor, who taught me the
sea's veil under the gray dawn that cloaked the Atlantic,
his tailees of misty spirits, filling my youth with a
wary respect. We'd fish together on foggy mornings, his voice
(12:11):
gruff over the slap of waves as he adjusted the nets,
recounting stories of crews lost to unseen shores, until a
fog in twenty fourteen swallowed him at sixty, his boat vanishing,
leaving me his foghorn, a weathered brass piece with a
cracked bell, and a promise murmured through the mist sound
their path kai, his last words a call I couldn't answer.
(12:33):
My catches thrived with steady hauls, a trophy from the
Halifax Fishermen's Association in hand, until a fog I misjudged
during a twenty nineteen storm stranded my boat, hull scraping,
cries rising the harbour, calling it reckless navigation, after a
hearing that replayed the radar, costing me my license and
leaving me with a fine I couldn't pay. My wife
(12:56):
Nora left after eight years, her words stern as she
packed her sea back. You clouded our life, kai her departure,
second fog, taking our fishing charts and the ring we'd worn.
With no water to navigate, I took a job as
a caretaker for an old dock house near Peggy's Cove.
Its timbers wet with the salt of time, its silence
eerie like a held breath. The dockhouse a leaning structure
(13:17):
with algae slick walls, and a roof that dripped with
every tide. In the shed, buried under a pile of
sodden ropes, I found a foghorn, its brass tarnished with age,
its bell etched m le Blanc seventeen fifty in a
hand eroded by salt, its surface pitted as if weathered
by endless blasts. Locals in the nearest village, a cluster
of cottages eleven miles east, avoided it, their mutters in
(13:39):
the wharf hinting. It lingered, the lost. A tail passed
down with a cautious wave. But I saw a signal
to restore a link to my father, away, to sound
the path i'd lost. The first night, I blew the
foghorn in the dock house shed, the air thick with
the scent of brine and rusted metal, the wind sighing
through the gaps like a distant moan, the floorboards slick
(14:01):
under my boots, as if the shed swayed with the tide.
The shed was cramped a crate with a rotted side,
sagging under weight, A lamp dim and casting jagged shadows,
the single window framing the foggy sea where the horizon dissolved.
The horn's presence, a muted blast that seemed to thicken
the air. At nine twenty one p m. As the
(14:22):
night deepened to a shrouded black, the brass glowed a
faint gray light, pulsing from the etchings, like mist caught
in dawn. And I felt a weight, heavy and suffocating,
a pressure that pressed against my chest. As I held
the horn. A voice followed, deep yet pleading, rising from
the brass itself guide me Kai, my father's voice from
those fishing days, urging yet faint, the same tone he'd
(14:43):
used when he last sounded the horn, his breath smelling
of fish and salt. The glow spread across the foghorn,
casting reflections into the air, shadows forming figures in oil skins, 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 horn. No
(15:04):
air blown, no sound, made the metal cool and still
despite the glow. But the light held, whispering, lingering for
a ski. The air grew colder, a chill that bit
through my coat, smelling of seaweed and decay, my breath fogging,
as if the coast mourned with the lost, the water
lapping under an unseen swell. I stumbled to my journal,
a log from my fishing days, my hands trembling as
(15:26):
I wrote nine twenty one p M. You'r shrouded now.
The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my lungs, as if the
horn drew my breath into its call. I blamed the
tide rolling in from the coast, the natural play of
light on polished brass, amplified by my fatigue, the guilt
of those lost lives still fogging me, the scrape of hull,
(15:48):
the survivor's sob, the harbour masters reprimand each a wave
in a mist I couldn't pierce, but the dock house
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a sound analyzer
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to me
measure the weight, to prove it was a trick of
the damp or my mind unraveling after months alone. At
nine twenty one p m. The glow returned, the gray
(16:09):
deepening to a dense pulse, the voice joined by others,
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves,
you abandoned us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crew around
the horn, their olskins torn and dripping, eyes hollow, mouths
open in silent pleas, their hands clutching nets that weren't there.
I played back the analyzer data, silent room, no vibration,
(16:32):
but the voices lingered. Personal now Norah's tone cutting through
the hum You veiled me, followed by a crewmates, faint
and accusing, why did you see? I researched at the
Chester Library the next day, a long hike that left
my hands aching from the cold. The librarians glance wary
as I asked about old fishermen. I found records of
(16:52):
Mitchell LeBlanc, an Acadian fisherman who worked the coast in
seventeen fifty, vanishing during a fog. His foghorn found glowing
gray logs, describing lingering of the lost that drew boats
to drift. His family never found. Locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their dockhouses found with foghorns, left silent, their last sightings
(17:13):
marked by a gray glow. At dusk. My flashlight held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of
eyes pale and staring, dotting the air like drops in mist,
the fog thickening with the scent of kelp and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant, lead us home. Sleep vanished,
(17:34):
my nights spent in the shed. The horns glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I silenced it with a cloth,
the fabric damp with effort, but the gray light seeping
through the weave, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting ki linger. I filled the journal with observations,
the brass sweating, a dark dampness that pooled on the crate,
its texture thick like sludge, staining the wood black as
(17:56):
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepened, the coast flooding
with each storm, and one dawn I woke with the
horn in my hand, the shed floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Kai stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a FOG's hush, LeBlanc's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to lead with the lost. I tried sinking
(18:18):
it in the sea beyond the dock, the weight dragging deep.
The waters spat it back, the horn laughing a hollow
your hours that carried on the gusts. Shadows dragged me
toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones, the
air thick with the memory of the stranding's wail and
cries Norah's voice, pleading find me Kai. I fought my legs, trembling,
(18:39):
the weight of the fog, a chain, the glow leading
me into the mist. I fled to a crabber's hut
fourteen miles south, but the horn's glow follows nine twenty
one p m each night, my shadow bending into Norah's face,
her eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of fishing. Roots now shows foghorns, sketches I didn't draw,
my hands stained with black streaks, the dock house calls
(19:01):
me back, its shed glowing from the coast. Listener, if
you hear gray echoes don't sound. Some fogs never lift.
We're back for the final tale from listener Tailee's podcast.
This one ticks from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Clock That Stops. Part four, The Clock That Stops.
I came to the plains of Saskatchewan after life halted
(19:23):
by a tick. I couldn't restart a rhythm that froze
my every step. At thirty nine, I'd been a clockmaker,
crafting time pieces in Regina. My gears and hands my
art honed by years of precision, shaped by my grandfather,
a watchmaker who taught me times rhythm under the workshop
lamp that lit our garage near Wacana Lake, his tailies
of stilled souls, filling my youth with a measured dread.
(19:47):
We'd build together on winter evenings, his voice measured over
the click of metal as he aligned the cogs, recounting
stories of workers trapped by stopped clocks, until a fall
from a ladder in twenty ten took him at seventy one.
His tools scattered, leaving me his clock a mahogany case
with a cracked face and a promise whispered through his fall,
keep their time, Eli, his last words a pendulum. I
(20:09):
couldn't swing my work, ticked with intricate designs, A medal
from the Saskatchewan Craft Council in hand, until a clock
I made for the twenty seventeen town Halls stopped during
a speech, gears jamming, panic rising, the Council calling it
faulty design. After a review that replayed the silence, costing
me my workshop and leaving me with a debt. I
(20:31):
couldn't settle my husband. Paul left after nine years, his
words flat as he packed his toolbox. You froze our time, Eli,
his departure a second halt, taking our family photos and
the watch we'd engraved with no mechanism to mend. I
took a job as a caretaker for an old barn
near Grassland's National Park. Its beams dry with the dust
(20:53):
of neglect, its silent stark like a paused second. The
barn a weathered structure with splintered walls and a loft
that groaned with every wind. In the loft buried under
a pile of brittle saddles, I found a clock, its
face cracked with age, its back etched a tremblay eighteen
fifty in a hand faded by time, its hands frozen
(21:14):
as if seized by an unseen force. Locals in the
nearest settlement, a cluster of homes sixteen miles north, avoided it,
their mutters in the grain store hinting it stopped. The
timed a tail passed down with a hesitant nod. But
I saw a piece to repair, a link to my grandfather,
away to keep the time i'd lost. The first night,
(21:36):
I wound the clock in the barn loft, the air
thick with the scent of old hay and rusted springs,
the wind whistling through the slats like a distant chime,
the floorboards creaking under my step, as if the barn
shifted with the weight. The loft was dusty, a stool
with a wobbly leg tilting under dust, A lamp dim
and casting long shadows, the single window framing the endless
(21:56):
plane where the horizons stretched into dusk. The clock's press,
and a faint tick that seemed to pause with intent.
At nine thirty one p m. As the night deepened
to a dusty black the face glowed a faint gold
light pulsing from the cracks, like sunlight trapped in amber,
and I felt a pause, sudden and eternal, a stillness
that held my breath. As I turned the key. A
(22:17):
voice followed, steady yet pleading, rising from the mahogany itself.
Wind me Eli, my grandfather's voice from those building days,
urging yet faint, the same tone he'd used when he
last said a pendulum, his breath smelling of tobacco and oil.
The glow spread across the clock, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in aprons, faceless, their hands turning as
(22:39):
if adjusting unseen gears, their forms swaying with the rhythm
of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the clock, no movement detected, no power source, the
hands still under my gaze despite the glow. But the
light held, whispering stop with us Eli. The air grew warmer,
a heat that bit through my sweater, smell of oil
(23:00):
and rot, my breath fogging as if the plains sided
with the timed, the wood creaking under an unseen strain.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my clockmaker days,
my hands trembling as I wrote nine thirty one p m.
You're stalled now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my pulse,
as if the clock drew my heart beat into its halt.
(23:23):
I blamed the night settling over the plain, the natural
play of light on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that chaos still ticking in me. The
jam's click, the mare's shout, the council's ruling, each a beaten,
a time I couldn't fix, but the barn wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a time meter, its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the pores,
(23:44):
to prove it was a trick of the dust or
my mind unraveling after months alone. Nine thirty one p m.
The light returned, the gold deepening to a rich pulse,
the voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. You halted us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a workshop around the clock, their aprons stained and frayed,
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent ticks, their hands holding
(24:07):
tools that weren't there. I played back the meter data,
steady time, no lag, but the voices lingered personal. Now
Paul's tone cutting through the hum you stop me, followed
by a townsfolks faint and accusing, why didn't you test?
I researched at the val Marie Library the next day,
a long trek that left my hands aching from the cold.
The librarians glanced cautious as I asked about old clockmakers.
(24:30):
I found records of Antine Tremblay, a French Canadian watchmaker
who settled the planes in eighteen fifty, vanishing during a drought.
His clock found glowing gold logs describing stopping of the
timed that drew workers to freeze. His apprentice. Lost. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their barns found with clocks left still,
(24:50):
their last sightings marked by a gold glow at dusk.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the face like
marks on a dial. The air thickening with the scent
of brass and blood, a stench that clung to my
fingers and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant tick
us home. Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the loft.
(25:13):
The clocks glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I unwound
it with a key from the barn, the mechanism stiff
with effort, but the gold light seeping through the cracks,
the voices seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting Eli stop.
I filled the journal with observations, the face sweating, a
dark grease that pooled on the stool, its texture thick
like sludge, staining the wood black as it spread it's past,
(25:36):
the isolation deepening, the plane drying with each wind. And
one dawn, I woke with the clock in my hand,
the loft floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot,
the voices layered with my own Eli stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a tick's halt.
Tremblays cry rising over the wind, cursing me to stop
with the timed I tried smashing it with a hammer
from the loft, the head denting against the mahogany. The
(25:59):
clock laughed, a hollow your hours that echoed off the beams.
Shadows dragged me toward the window, the warmth seeping into
my bones. The air thick with the memory of the
stop's silence, and cries Paul's voice, pleading move with me.
I fought my legs, trembling, the weight of the paws
a chain, the glow leading me into the plane. I
(26:20):
fled to a farmer's shed nineteen miles east, but the
clock's glow follows nine thirty one p m each night,
my shadow bending into Paul's face, his eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of clock designs.
Now shows clock sketches. I didn't draw, My hands stained
with black streaks. The barn calls me back. It's loft,
glowing from the plane. Listener, if you hear gold ticks,
(26:42):
don't wind sometime never moves. Thank you for joining me,
sir Winstone, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the tick.
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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.