October 5, 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.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to listener Taiali's podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows. Yet again, to day we unveil four
new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's wild frontiers,
each a toll of fear from its buried past. No interruptions,
just the unfiltered echoes of those who have heard the unknown.
Brace yourself if you're bold as we ring in the dark.
(00:23):
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 bell ringer,
tolling bells in Quebec City. My rope and clapper, my
craft shaped by my mother, a churchwarden, who taught me
the bell's voice under the steeple's shadow, her tailies of
tolling spirits, filling my youth. We'd ring together, her voice
(00:44):
soft over the clang of brass, until a fall from
the belfry took her at fifty eight, leaving me her
bell hammer and a promise to hear their call werem
I My duties clashed when a bell I rang cracked
during a service injuring worshippers, the parish calling it careless strike,
costing me my roll. My partner Sophie left her words sharp,
You told our end. Remai and I took a job
(01:07):
as a caretaker for an old chapel near Charliva, its
stones cold, its air heavy. In the tower, I found
a bell, its surface pitted, its rim etched pee LaVoi
sixteen fifty locals warning it told the cold, But I
saw a voice to restore a link to my mother.
The first night I struck the bell in the chapel tower,
(01:27):
the air thick with the scent of stone dust and
aged metal, the wind moaning through the arches, the platform
trembling under my feet. The tower was weathered, a beam
with a frayed rope, A lantern dim the single window
framing the misty hills, the bell's presence a deep hum.
At twelve forty four p m. The brass glowed a
faint bronze light pulsing from the etchings, and I felt
(01:49):
a vibration resonant and unending. A voice followed, gentle yet insistent,
answer me, remind my mother's voice from those ringing days,
pleading yet distant. The glow spread, shadows forming in the air,
Figures in robes faceless, their hands clasped. I checked the bell,
no strike, no echo, but the light held, whispering toll
for us from I. I logged it in my journal,
(02:09):
twelve forty four pm. You're rung now. The air grew colder,
smelling of incense and decay. My breath fogging, as if
the hills mourned. I blamed the wind, the guilt of
those injured worshippers still echoing in me. But the chapel
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a vibration censor,
determined to measure the hum. At twelve forty four pm,
the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
(02:32):
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a congregation, their
robes tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the data, still air,
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 Peer Lvoi,
a priest who vanished in sixteen fifty. His bell found
(02:53):
glowing logs describing tolling of the cold locals reported unease,
their prayers unanswered. Flashlight caught glints in the dark. Dozens
of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air. The mist
thick with the scent of wax and blood. The whispers
grew call us home. Sleep vanished. I muffled the bell,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
(03:15):
the figures chanting, REMI toll. I spent weeks observing the brass,
sweating a dark patterner. One dawn, I work with the
bell in hand, the tower marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, rem I stay. The log
showed silence, but I heard a toll's ring, La VOI's cry,
cursing me to call. I tried burying it. The earth
rejected it. The bell laughing a hollow. Your hours shadows
(03:37):
dragged me toward the hills, the cold seeping into my bones.
Sophie's voice pleading. I fled to a shepherd's hut. But
the bell's glow follows twelve forty four pm each night,
my logs showing her face. Listener, if you hear bronze, echoes,
don't ring. Some calls never cease, but we are back
with another woven tale from listener Tale's podcast Breads from
(04:00):
a listener in Canada. They call it The Quilt that Binds,
Part two, The Quilt that Binds. I came to the
tundra of Northwest Territories after a life stitched by a fabric.
I couldn't unravel a pattern that entangled my past with
every stitch. At thirty five, I'd been a seamstress, sewing
quilts in Yellowknife. My needle and thread, my trade honed
(04:22):
by years of crafting, shaped by my grandmother, a quilter
who taught me the cloth spirit under the northern light
that danced over Great Slave Lake, her tailees of stitched souls,
filling my youth with a quiet reverence. We'd sew together
on crisp winter nights, her voice warm over the hum
of fabric as she spun stories of spirits woven into threads,
(04:42):
until a fire in twenty sixteen took her at sixty four.
Her sewing basket charred, leaving me her quilt frame, a
sturdy oak stand with her initials and a promise breathed
through the smoke. Men There weave Tara her last words,
a needle I couldn't thread my creations, flourished with intric
at pattens, a ribbon from the Northwest Territory's Arts Festival
(05:03):
in hand until a quilt I made for the twenty
nineteen Yellowknife Fair unraveled under its display seams, splitting gasps,
rising the gild, calling it shoddy stitching. After an inspection
that replayed the tear, costing me my stall and leaving
me with a fine I couldn't pay. My fiancee Leo
left after seven years, his words curt as he packed
(05:25):
his winter gear. You unraveled us Tara his departure a
second rip, taking our shared blankets and the scarf weed
sown with no cloth to mend. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near Great Bear Lake,
its walls frigid with the bite of ice, its quiet
deep like a held breath. The cabin a sagging structure
with frost cracked logs and a roof that sagged under snow.
(05:47):
In the attic, buried under pile of frozen pelts, I
found a quilt, its patent faded with age, its border
etched e tik Tak eighteen hundred in a hand blurred
by time, its edges frayed, as if pulled by unseen hands.
Locals in the nearest outpost, a scattering of homes eighteen
miles east, avoided it. The mutters in the trading post,
hinting it bound the son a tail passed down with
(06:08):
a nervous stitch. But I saw a piece to mend,
a link to my grandmother, away, to weave back the
fabric i'd lost. The first night, I stitched the quilt
in the cabin attic, the air thick with the scent
of moth eaten wool and frozen thread, the wind keening
through the cracks like a distant wail, the floor boards
shivering under my weight, as if the cabin shifted with
(06:31):
my presence. The attic was sparse, a crate with a
splintered edge, tilting under frost, A lamp dim and casting
jagged shadows, the single window framing the snowy expanse where
the tundras stretched into white. The quilt's presence a faint
rustle that seemed to pulse with intent. At twelve fifty
four p m. As the day brightened to a frozen glare,
(06:51):
the fabric glowed a faint, ivory light pulsing from the
etchings like snow caught in sunlight, and I felt a tug,
gentle yet firm pull that drew my fingers toward the needle.
A voice followed, soft yet sorrowful, rising from the wool itself,
men me, Tara, my grandmother's voice from those sowing days,
pleading yet distant, the same tone she'd used when she
(07:11):
last patched to hem, her breath smelling of lavender and tallow.
The glow spread across the quilt, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in furs, faceless, their hands sowing as
if mending an invisible garment, their forms swaying with the
rhythm of the wind. Froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the quilt. No needle struck, no thread pulled. The
(07:32):
fabric cool and still despite the glow, but the light
held whispering bind for us, Tara. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my parker, smelling of tallow
and decay, my breath fogging as if the tundra wept
with the sown, the frost cracking on an unseen shift.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my seamstress days.
My hands trembling as I wrote twelve fifty four p m.
(07:52):
Your woven nows. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my hands,
as if the quilt drew my stitches into its weave.
I blamed the frost settling over the tundra, the natural
play of light on faded fabric, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of those fair injuries still threading me. The
(08:13):
rip sound, the vendor's scold, the guild's ruling, Each a
stitch 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 trade, determined to measure
the tug, to prove it was a trick of the cold,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At twelve fifty
four p m. The light returned, the ivory deepening to
(08:35):
a pale 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 quilt,
their furs worn and iced eyes, hollow mouths open in
silent pleas, their hands clutching needles that weren't there. I
played back the analyzer data, plain cloth, no fiber, but
(08:57):
the voices lingered personal now Leo's time cutting through the
hum You severed me, followed by a faigure, faint and accusing,
why didn't you check? I researched at the Norman Wells
Library the next day, a long trek that left my
hands aching from the frost. The elder's glance weary as
I asked about old seamstresses. I found records of immat
(09:18):
Tic Tac and Innu Valu, at seamstress who lived near
the lake in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard. Her
quilt found glowing ivory logs describing binding of the sone
that drew people to stitch. Her family never found. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their cabins found with quilts left folded,
their last sightings marked by an ivory glow. At noon.
(09:42):
My flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the fabric like
knots in thread. The air thickening with the scent of
hide and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant stitch us
home sleep. I vanished, my nights spent in the attic,
the quilt's glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I folded
(10:04):
it into a chest, the lid heavy with cold, but
the ivory light seeping through the seams, the voices seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting Tara bind. I filled
the journal with observations, the cloth sweating, a dark fiber
that pooled on the crate, its texture thick like yarn,
staining the wood black. As it spread weeks past, the
(10:25):
isolation deepening, the tundra hardening with each storm, and one dawn,
I woke with the quilt in my hand, the attic
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own Tara stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a needle scrape, tik
taks cry rising over the wind, cursing me to bind
with the son. I tried burning it in the cabin's stove,
(10:46):
the flames leaping high. They died to embers the quilt,
laughing a hollow, your hours that echoed off the walls.
Shadows dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the tears.
Sound cries Leo's voice, pleading come back to me. I
fought my arms, trembling, the weight of the weaver a chain,
(11:07):
the glow leading me into the tundra. I fled to
a trapper's tent twenty one miles south, but the quilt's
glow follows twelve fifty four pm each night, my shadow
bending into Leo's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of sewing patterns. Now shows
quilt sketches. I didn't draw. My hands stained with black streaks.
The cabin calls me back. It's attic glowing from the tundra. Listener,
(11:31):
if you see ivory threads, don't sew. Some weaves never tear.
We are back with another gusty tale from listener Taley's podcast.
This one blows from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Wind that Whispers. Part three, The Wind that Whispers.
I came to the mountains of Alberta after a life
carried by a breeze. I couldn't calm a current that
(11:53):
swept my stability away. At thirty seven, I'd been a
weather observer, tracking winds in Calgary, my anemometer and log,
my tools honed by years of study, shaped by my father,
a meteorologist, who taught me the air's voice under the
stormy sky that darkened the Bow River Valley, his tailies
of whispering spirits, filling my youth with a wary oar.
(12:14):
We'd measure together on blustery afternoons, his voice firm over
the whistle of gusts as he calibrated the gages, recounting
stories of climbers lost to sudden squalls, until a twister
in twenty eleven took him at sixty three. His station wrecked,
leaving me his barometer, a brass framed glass with a
faded dial, and a promise murmured through the debris. Listen
(12:35):
their breath soreign His last words of forecast, I couldn't
heed My forecasts soared with accurate readings, a citation from
the Alberta Weather Service in hand, until a wind I
predicted turned violent during a twenty eighteen storm, trees, toppling roofs, caving,
the agency calling it errant reading after an inquiry that
(12:56):
replayed the radar, costing me my station and leaving me
with a reprimand I couldn't shake my partner. Lees left
after six years, her words cold as she packed her
hiking boots. You stirred our ruined Soren her departure a
second gale, taking our weather journals and the compass we'd
carved with no sky to watch. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old lookout near Jasper National Park,
(13:18):
its structure creaking with the strain of time, its silence
uneasy like a held gust. The lookout a leaning tower
with windscarred walls and a roof that rattled with every breeze.
In the observation room, buried under pile of cracked log books,
I found a barometer, its glass cracked with age, its
face etched Jay Morrow eighteen eighty, in a hand worn
(13:39):
by weather, its needles stuck as if caught in a storm.
Locals in the nearest hamlet, a cluster of cabins fourteen
miles west, avoided it. Their mutters in the rangers station,
hinting it whispered the blown a tail passed down with
a cautious breath, But I saw a gage to calibrate,
a link to my father, away to listen to the
breath I'd lost. The first night, I adjusted the barometer
(14:01):
in the Lookout observation room, the air thick with the
scent of pine and weathered brass, the wind howling through
the cracks like a mournful cry, the floorboards groaning under
my step, as if the lookout swayed with the gusts.
The room was cluttered, a table with a chipped edge,
sagging under weight, a lamp dim and casting uneven light,
the single window framing the shadowed peaks where the ridges
(14:21):
cut the sky. The barometer's presence a soft sigh that
seemed to stir the stillness. At twelve fifty eight p m.
As the day brightened to a crisp noon, the glass
glowed a faint silver light pulsing from the etchings like
mist caught in moonlight, and I felt a rush, fleeting
yet persistent, a breeze that brushed my skin. As I
turned the dial. A voice followed, deep yet pleading, rising
(14:44):
from the brass itself. Hear me soreren. My father's voice
from those observing days, urging yet faint, the same tone
he'd used when he last read the pressure, his breath
smelling of coffee and pine. The glow spread across the barometer,
casting reflections into the air, shadows forming figures in coats, faceless,
their hands shielding as if against a gale, their forms
(15:05):
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the barometer, no pressure shift,
no change detected, the needles still under my gaze despite
the glow, but the light held, whispering whisper for us Soren.
The air grew colder, a chill that bit through my jacket,
smelling of resin and decay, my breath fogging, as if
(15:26):
the mountains sided with the blown, the wood creaking under
an unseen draft. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my observer days, my hands trembling as I wrote
twelve fifty eight p M. You're carried now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my lungs, as if the barometer drew my
breath into its whisper. I blamed, the altitude pressing down
(15:49):
from the peaks, the natural play of light on polished glass,
amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of that destruction still
gusting in me, the crash of timber, the emergency siren,
the AI agency's censure, each a wind in a forecast
I couldn't correct, but the lookout wouldn't rest. The next night,
I brought a wind gage, its readings, a tool from
my trade, determined to measure the rush, to prove it
(16:11):
was a trick of the cold, or my mind unraveling
after months alone. At twelve fifty eight p m. The
light returned, the silver deepening to a shimmering pulse, the
voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. You scattered us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a line across the room, their coats tattered and iced,
(16:33):
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent breaths, their hands clutching
instruments that weren't there. I played back the gauge data,
calm air, no movement, but the voices lingered. Personal now
Elise's tone cutting through the hum You blew me away,
followed by a residence, faint and accusing, why didn't you warn?
I researched at the Jasper Library the next day, a
(16:54):
long hike that left my hands aching from the cold,
the ranger's glance weary. As I asked about old old mountaineers.
I found records of Jacques Mora, a French Canadian guide
who climbed the Rockies in eighteen eighty, vanishing during a blizzard.
His barometer found glowing silver logs describing whispering of the
blown that drew climbers to drift. His party lost. Locals
(17:17):
reported disappearances over centuries, their lookouts found with barometers left silent,
their last sightings marked by a silver glow at noon.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air like
flakes in a flurry. The wind thickening with the scent
of sap and blood, a stench that clung to my
(17:39):
hair and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant, breathe
us home. Sleep vanished, My nights spent in the observation room.
The barometers glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I sealed
it in a metal box, the lid cold to the touch,
but the silver light seeping through the joints, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting, soreign whisper. I
(18:00):
filled the journal with observations, the glass sweating, a dark
dew that pooled on the table, its texture thick like mist,
staining the wood black as it spread weeks past, the
isolation deepening, the mountains icing with each storm, and one dawn.
I woke with the barometer in my hand, the room
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own soren stay. The log showed
(18:23):
silence on playback, but I heard a gust's howl, Morau's
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to whisper. With
the blown I tried smashing it with a hammer from
the lookout, the head slipping against the brass. The barometer laughed,
a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones,
(18:43):
the air thick with the memory of the storm's roar
and cries, Elise's voice pleading hold me, Soreren. I fought
my arms trembling the weight of the whisper a chain,
the glow leading me into the peaks. I fled to
a ranger's cabin twenty three miles east, but the barometer's
glow fo follows twelve fifty eight pm each night, my
shadow bending into Elize's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
(19:06):
My journal wants a record of weather patterns. Now shows
barometer sketches. I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks.
The lookout calls me back. It's room glowing from the mountains. Listener,
if you hear silver breaths, don't listen. Some winds never still.
We are back for the final tale from listener Taille's podcast.
This one cuts from a listener in Canada. They call
(19:29):
it The Axe That Chops Part four. The Axe That Chops.
I came to the forests of British Columbia after life
hewn by a blade I couldn't dull a cut that
severed my every hope. At thirty eight, i'd been a
lumberjack felling trees in Prince George. My axe and saw
my craft honed by years of toil, shaped by my uncle,
(19:49):
a logger, who taught me the woods pulse under the
forest canopy that shaded the Fraser River, his tailies of
chopped spirits, filling my youth with a rugged unease. We
chopped to together on damp mornings, his voice gruff over
the thud of steel as he split a log, recounting
stories of woodsmen lost to fallen trunks, until a falling
limb in twenty twelve took him. At sixty five, His
(20:11):
saw buried, leaving me his axe, a sturdy steel head
with a worn handle and a promise growled through the
pane cut their path fin his last words and edge.
I couldn't hone. My work thrived with steady cuts, a
plaque from the British Columbia Lumber Association in hand until
an axe I swung during a twenty nineteen harvest misjudged
(20:32):
a tree, trunks snapping, shouts, rising the company, calling it
reckless swing. After an investigation that replayed the fall, costing
me my job and leaving me with a settlement, I
couldn't clear My wife. Mara left after ten years, her
words bitter as she packed her flannel. You chopped our
bond fin her departure a second cleave, taking our cabin
(20:55):
keys and the ring we'd forged with no timber to fell.
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
mill near Wells Gray Provincial Park, its timbers worn with
the weight of years, its silence heavy like a held axe.
The mill a sagging relic with moss covered beams and
a floor that echoed with every step. In the shed,
(21:16):
buried under a pile of splintered planks, I found an axe,
its blade chipped with age, its handle etched Arduba seventeen
ninety in a hand weathered by labour, its edge dulled
as if used beyond endurance. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes seventeen miles north, avoided it, their
mutters in the sawmal hinting it chopped the hewn a
tail passed down with a wary chop. But I saw
(21:37):
a tool to sharpen a link to my uncle away,
to cut the path i'd lost. The first night, I
swung the axe in the mill shed, the air thick
with the scent of sawdust and rusted iron, the wind
rustling through the gaps like a distant fall, the floorboards
creaking under my weight, as if the shed leaned with
the blow. The shed was cluttered, a bench with a
cracked top, sagging under tools, a lamp dim and cast, sting,
(22:00):
jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark woods, where
the pines stood like silent witnesses. The axe's presence, a
sharp edge that seemed to hum with intent. At one
zero one PM, as the day warmed to a crisp afternoon,
the blade glowed a faint rust light pulsing from the etchings,
like blood in sunlight. And I felt a jolt, sudden
(22:20):
and piercing, a shock that ran up my arm. As
I gripped the handle. A voice followed, horse yet pleading,
rising from the steel itself. Humi Finn, my uncle's voice
from those logging days, urging yet faint, the same tone
he'd used when he last fell to cedar, his breath
smelling of tobacco and sap. The glow spread across the axe,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in flannels, faceless,
(22:44):
their hands gripping as if steadying a trunk, their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the axe. No swing struck,
no mark left the blade cool and still despite the glow,
but the light held whispering chop for us. Fin the
air grew colder, a chill that bit through my jacket,
smelling of sap and decay, my breath fogging, as if
(23:07):
the forest mourned with the hewn, the wood creaking under
an unseen weight. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my lumberjack days, my hands trembling as I wrote,
one zero, one pm. You're hewn now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my shoulders, as if the axe drew my
strength into its chop. I blamed the dusk settling over
(23:29):
the woods, the natural play of light on tarnished steel,
amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of that collapse still
cutting me, The crack of wood, the foreman's yell, the
company's verdict, each a slice in a tree. I couldn't steady,
but the mill wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a force meter, its readings, a tool from my trade,
determined to measure the jolt, to prove it was a
(23:49):
trick of the damp or my mind unraveling After months alone.
One zero, one pm. The light returned, the rust deepening
to ruddy pulse, the voice joined by others, a corps
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves, You feld us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a crew around the axe, their
flannels torn and stained, eyes, hollow mouths open in silent grunts,
(24:10):
their hands clutching sows that weren't there. I played back
the meter data still forced no impact, but the voices lingered. Personal,
now Mara's tone cutting through the hum You severed me,
followed by a coworker's faint and accusing, why didn't you brace?
I researched at the Clearwater Library the next day, a
long walk that left my hands aching from the cold.
(24:30):
The librarians glance wary as I asked about old trappers.
I found records of Rene Duboa, a French Canadian trapper
who worked the forests in seventeen ninety, vanishing during a hunt.
His axe found glowing rust logs describing chopping of the
hewn that drew loggers to fall his cabin. Abandoned locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their mills found with axes left buried,
(24:53):
their last sightings marked by a rust glow at noon.
My flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the blade like
notches on a handle, The air thickening with the scent
of pine and blood, a stench that clung to my
fingers and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant, clear
us home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the shed.
(25:15):
The axes glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I sheathed
it in a leather case, the hide stiff with cold,
but the rust lights seeping through the seams, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting thin chop. I
filled the journal with observations, the blade sweating, a dark
rust that pooled on the bench, its texture thick like sap,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
(25:39):
isolation deepening, the forest thickening with each rain, and one dawn,
I woke with the axe in my hand, the shed
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own thin stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a tree's crack juborries cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to chop with the hewn.
I tried burying it in the earth behind the mill,
(26:00):
the shovel sinking deep the soil spat it back, the axe,
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed across the woods.
Shadows dragged me toward the door, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the
collaps's thud, and cries Mara's voice, pleading save me Finn.
I fought my legs, trembling the weight of the chop
(26:21):
a chain, the glow leading me into the forest. I
fled to a logger's camp twenty six miles east, but
the axe's glow follows one zero one p m each night,
my shadow bending into Mara's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of cutting. Records
now shows ACTE sketches. I didn't draw, my hands stained
with black streaks. The mill calls me back, its shed
(26:43):
glowing from the woods. Listener, if you see rust edges,
don't swing some cuts never heal. Thank you for joining me,
Sir Winston, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the chop,
Welcome to listener Taiali's podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows. Yet again, to day we unveil four
new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's wild frontiers,
each a toll of fear from its buried past. No interruptions,
just the unfiltered echoes of those who have heard the unknown.
Brace yourself if you're bold as we ring in the dark.
(00:23):
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 bell ringer,
tolling bells in Quebec City. My rope and clapper, my
craft shaped by my mother, a churchwarden, who taught me
the bell's voice under the steeple's shadow, her tailies of
tolling spirits, filling my youth. We'd ring together, her voice
(00:44):
soft over the clang of brass, until a fall from
the belfry took her at fifty eight, leaving me her
bell hammer and a promise to hear their call werem
I My duties clashed when a bell I rang cracked
during a service injuring worshippers, the parish calling it careless strike,
costing me my roll. My partner Sophie left her words sharp,
You told our end. Remai and I took a job
(01:07):
as a caretaker for an old chapel near Charliva, its
stones cold, its air heavy. In the tower, I found
a bell, its surface pitted, its rim etched pee LaVoi
sixteen fifty locals warning it told the cold, But I
saw a voice to restore a link to my mother.
The first night I struck the bell in the chapel tower,
(01:27):
the air thick with the scent of stone dust and
aged metal, the wind moaning through the arches, the platform
trembling under my feet. The tower was weathered, a beam
with a frayed rope, A lantern dim the single window
framing the misty hills, the bell's presence a deep hum.
At twelve forty four p m. The brass glowed a
faint bronze light pulsing from the etchings, and I felt
(01:49):
a vibration resonant and unending. A voice followed, gentle yet insistent,
answer me, remind my mother's voice from those ringing days,
pleading yet distant. The glow spread, shadows forming in the air,
Figures in robes faceless, their hands clasped. I checked the bell,
no strike, no echo, but the light held, whispering toll
for us from I. I logged it in my journal,
(02:09):
twelve forty four pm. You're rung now. The air grew colder,
smelling of incense and decay. My breath fogging, as if
the hills mourned. I blamed the wind, the guilt of
those injured worshippers still echoing in me. But the chapel
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a vibration censor,
determined to measure the hum. At twelve forty four pm,
the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
(02:32):
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a congregation, their
robes tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the data, still air,
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 Peer Lvoi,
a priest who vanished in sixteen fifty. His bell found
(02:53):
glowing logs describing tolling of the cold locals reported unease,
their prayers unanswered. Flashlight caught glints in the dark. Dozens
of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air. The mist
thick with the scent of wax and blood. The whispers
grew call us home. Sleep vanished. I muffled the bell,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
(03:15):
the figures chanting, REMI toll. I spent weeks observing the brass,
sweating a dark patterner. One dawn, I work with the
bell in hand, the tower marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, rem I stay. The log
showed silence, but I heard a toll's ring, La VOI's cry,
cursing me to call. I tried burying it. The earth
rejected it. The bell laughing a hollow. Your hours shadows
(03:37):
dragged me toward the hills, the cold seeping into my bones.
Sophie's voice pleading. I fled to a shepherd's hut. But
the bell's glow follows twelve forty four pm each night,
my logs showing her face. Listener, if you hear bronze, echoes,
don't ring. Some calls never cease, but we are back
with another woven tale from listener Tale's podcast Breads from
(04:00):
a listener in Canada. They call it The Quilt that Binds,
Part two, The Quilt that Binds. I came to the
tundra of Northwest Territories after a life stitched by a fabric.
I couldn't unravel a pattern that entangled my past with
every stitch. At thirty five, I'd been a seamstress, sewing
quilts in Yellowknife. My needle and thread, my trade honed
(04:22):
by years of crafting, shaped by my grandmother, a quilter
who taught me the cloth spirit under the northern light
that danced over Great Slave Lake, her tailees of stitched souls,
filling my youth with a quiet reverence. We'd sew together
on crisp winter nights, her voice warm over the hum
of fabric as she spun stories of spirits woven into threads,
(04:42):
until a fire in twenty sixteen took her at sixty four.
Her sewing basket charred, leaving me her quilt frame, a
sturdy oak stand with her initials and a promise breathed
through the smoke. Men There weave Tara her last words,
a needle I couldn't thread my creations, flourished with intric
at pattens, a ribbon from the Northwest Territory's Arts Festival
(05:03):
in hand until a quilt I made for the twenty
nineteen Yellowknife Fair unraveled under its display seams, splitting gasps,
rising the gild, calling it shoddy stitching. After an inspection
that replayed the tear, costing me my stall and leaving
me with a fine I couldn't pay. My fiancee Leo
left after seven years, his words curt as he packed
(05:25):
his winter gear. You unraveled us Tara his departure a
second rip, taking our shared blankets and the scarf weed
sown with no cloth to mend. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near Great Bear Lake,
its walls frigid with the bite of ice, its quiet
deep like a held breath. The cabin a sagging structure
with frost cracked logs and a roof that sagged under snow.
(05:47):
In the attic, buried under pile of frozen pelts, I
found a quilt, its patent faded with age, its border
etched e tik Tak eighteen hundred in a hand blurred
by time, its edges frayed, as if pulled by unseen hands.
Locals in the nearest outpost, a scattering of homes eighteen
miles east, avoided it. The mutters in the trading post,
hinting it bound the son a tail passed down with
(06:08):
a nervous stitch. But I saw a piece to mend,
a link to my grandmother, away, to weave back the
fabric i'd lost. The first night, I stitched the quilt
in the cabin attic, the air thick with the scent
of moth eaten wool and frozen thread, the wind keening
through the cracks like a distant wail, the floor boards
shivering under my weight, as if the cabin shifted with
(06:31):
my presence. The attic was sparse, a crate with a
splintered edge, tilting under frost, A lamp dim and casting
jagged shadows, the single window framing the snowy expanse where
the tundras stretched into white. The quilt's presence a faint
rustle that seemed to pulse with intent. At twelve fifty
four p m. As the day brightened to a frozen glare,
(06:51):
the fabric glowed a faint, ivory light pulsing from the
etchings like snow caught in sunlight, and I felt a tug,
gentle yet firm pull that drew my fingers toward the needle.
A voice followed, soft yet sorrowful, rising from the wool itself,
men me, Tara, my grandmother's voice from those sowing days,
pleading yet distant, the same tone she'd used when she
(07:11):
last patched to hem, her breath smelling of lavender and tallow.
The glow spread across the quilt, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in furs, faceless, their hands sowing as
if mending an invisible garment, their forms swaying with the
rhythm of the wind. Froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the quilt. No needle struck, no thread pulled. The
(07:32):
fabric cool and still despite the glow, but the light
held whispering bind for us, Tara. The air grew colder,
a chill that bit through my parker, smelling of tallow
and decay, my breath fogging as if the tundra wept
with the sown, the frost cracking on an unseen shift.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my seamstress days.
My hands trembling as I wrote twelve fifty four p m.
(07:52):
Your woven nows. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my hands,
as if the quilt drew my stitches into its weave.
I blamed the frost settling over the tundra, the natural
play of light on faded fabric, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of those fair injuries still threading me. The
(08:13):
rip sound, the vendor's scold, the guild's ruling, Each a
stitch 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 trade, determined to measure
the tug, to prove it was a trick of the cold,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At twelve fifty
four p m. The light returned, the ivory deepening to
(08:35):
a pale 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 quilt,
their furs worn and iced eyes, hollow mouths open in
silent pleas, their hands clutching needles that weren't there. I
played back the analyzer data, plain cloth, no fiber, but
(08:57):
the voices lingered personal now Leo's time cutting through the
hum You severed me, followed by a faigure, faint and accusing,
why didn't you check? I researched at the Norman Wells
Library the next day, a long trek that left my
hands aching from the frost. The elder's glance weary as
I asked about old seamstresses. I found records of immat
(09:18):
Tic Tac and Innu Valu, at seamstress who lived near
the lake in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard. Her
quilt found glowing ivory logs describing binding of the sone
that drew people to stitch. Her family never found. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their cabins found with quilts left folded,
their last sightings marked by an ivory glow. At noon.
(09:42):
My flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the fabric like
knots in thread. The air thickening with the scent of
hide and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant stitch us
home sleep. I vanished, my nights spent in the attic,
the quilt's glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I folded
(10:04):
it into a chest, the lid heavy with cold, but
the ivory light seeping through the seams, the voices seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting Tara bind. I filled
the journal with observations, the cloth sweating, a dark fiber
that pooled on the crate, its texture thick like yarn,
staining the wood black. As it spread weeks past, the
(10:25):
isolation deepening, the tundra hardening with each storm, and one dawn,
I woke with the quilt in my hand, the attic
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own Tara stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a needle scrape, tik
taks cry rising over the wind, cursing me to bind
with the son. I tried burning it in the cabin's stove,
(10:46):
the flames leaping high. They died to embers the quilt,
laughing a hollow, your hours that echoed off the walls.
Shadows dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the tears.
Sound cries Leo's voice, pleading come back to me. I
fought my arms, trembling, the weight of the weaver a chain,
(11:07):
the glow leading me into the tundra. I fled to
a trapper's tent twenty one miles south, but the quilt's
glow follows twelve fifty four pm each night, my shadow
bending into Leo's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of sewing patterns. Now shows
quilt sketches. I didn't draw. My hands stained with black streaks.
The cabin calls me back. It's attic glowing from the tundra. Listener,
(11:31):
if you see ivory threads, don't sew. Some weaves never tear.
We are back with another gusty tale from listener Taley's podcast.
This one blows from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Wind that Whispers. Part three, The Wind that Whispers.
I came to the mountains of Alberta after a life
carried by a breeze. I couldn't calm a current that
(11:53):
swept my stability away. At thirty seven, I'd been a
weather observer, tracking winds in Calgary, my anemometer and log,
my tools honed by years of study, shaped by my father,
a meteorologist, who taught me the air's voice under the
stormy sky that darkened the Bow River Valley, his tailies
of whispering spirits, filling my youth with a wary oar.
(12:14):
We'd measure together on blustery afternoons, his voice firm over
the whistle of gusts as he calibrated the gages, recounting
stories of climbers lost to sudden squalls, until a twister
in twenty eleven took him at sixty three. His station wrecked,
leaving me his barometer, a brass framed glass with a
faded dial, and a promise murmured through the debris. Listen
(12:35):
their breath soreign His last words of forecast, I couldn't
heed My forecasts soared with accurate readings, a citation from
the Alberta Weather Service in hand, until a wind I
predicted turned violent during a twenty eighteen storm, trees, toppling roofs, caving,
the agency calling it errant reading after an inquiry that
(12:56):
replayed the radar, costing me my station and leaving me
with a reprimand I couldn't shake my partner. Lees left
after six years, her words cold as she packed her
hiking boots. You stirred our ruined Soren her departure a
second gale, taking our weather journals and the compass we'd
carved with no sky to watch. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old lookout near Jasper National Park,
(13:18):
its structure creaking with the strain of time, its silence
uneasy like a held gust. The lookout a leaning tower
with windscarred walls and a roof that rattled with every breeze.
In the observation room, buried under pile of cracked log books,
I found a barometer, its glass cracked with age, its
face etched Jay Morrow eighteen eighty, in a hand worn
(13:39):
by weather, its needles stuck as if caught in a storm.
Locals in the nearest hamlet, a cluster of cabins fourteen
miles west, avoided it. Their mutters in the rangers station,
hinting it whispered the blown a tail passed down with
a cautious breath, But I saw a gage to calibrate,
a link to my father, away to listen to the
breath I'd lost. The first night, I adjusted the barometer
(14:01):
in the Lookout observation room, the air thick with the
scent of pine and weathered brass, the wind howling through
the cracks like a mournful cry, the floorboards groaning under
my step, as if the lookout swayed with the gusts.
The room was cluttered, a table with a chipped edge,
sagging under weight, a lamp dim and casting uneven light,
the single window framing the shadowed peaks where the ridges
(14:21):
cut the sky. The barometer's presence a soft sigh that
seemed to stir the stillness. At twelve fifty eight p m.
As the day brightened to a crisp noon, the glass
glowed a faint silver light pulsing from the etchings like
mist caught in moonlight, and I felt a rush, fleeting
yet persistent, a breeze that brushed my skin. As I
turned the dial. A voice followed, deep yet pleading, rising
(14:44):
from the brass itself. Hear me soreren. My father's voice
from those observing days, urging yet faint, the same tone
he'd used when he last read the pressure, his breath
smelling of coffee and pine. The glow spread across the barometer,
casting reflections into the air, shadows forming figures in coats, faceless,
their hands shielding as if against a gale, their forms
(15:05):
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the barometer, no pressure shift,
no change detected, the needles still under my gaze despite
the glow, but the light held, whispering whisper for us Soren.
The air grew colder, a chill that bit through my jacket,
smelling of resin and decay, my breath fogging, as if
(15:26):
the mountains sided with the blown, the wood creaking under
an unseen draft. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my observer days, my hands trembling as I wrote
twelve fifty eight p M. You're carried now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my lungs, as if the barometer drew my
breath into its whisper. I blamed, the altitude pressing down
(15:49):
from the peaks, the natural play of light on polished glass,
amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of that destruction still
gusting in me, the crash of timber, the emergency siren,
the AI agency's censure, each a wind in a forecast
I couldn't correct, but the lookout wouldn't rest. The next night,
I brought a wind gage, its readings, a tool from
my trade, determined to measure the rush, to prove it
(16:11):
was a trick of the cold, or my mind unraveling
after months alone. At twelve fifty eight p m. The
light returned, the silver deepening to a shimmering pulse, the
voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. You scattered us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a line across the room, their coats tattered and iced,
(16:33):
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent breaths, their hands clutching
instruments that weren't there. I played back the gauge data,
calm air, no movement, but the voices lingered. Personal now
Elise's tone cutting through the hum You blew me away,
followed by a residence, faint and accusing, why didn't you warn?
I researched at the Jasper Library the next day, a
(16:54):
long hike that left my hands aching from the cold,
the ranger's glance weary. As I asked about old old mountaineers.
I found records of Jacques Mora, a French Canadian guide
who climbed the Rockies in eighteen eighty, vanishing during a blizzard.
His barometer found glowing silver logs describing whispering of the
blown that drew climbers to drift. His party lost. Locals
(17:17):
reported disappearances over centuries, their lookouts found with barometers left silent,
their last sightings marked by a silver glow at noon.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air like
flakes in a flurry. The wind thickening with the scent
of sap and blood, a stench that clung to my
(17:39):
hair and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant, breathe
us home. Sleep vanished, My nights spent in the observation room.
The barometers glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I sealed
it in a metal box, the lid cold to the touch,
but the silver light seeping through the joints, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting, soreign whisper. I
(18:00):
filled the journal with observations, the glass sweating, a dark
dew that pooled on the table, its texture thick like mist,
staining the wood black as it spread weeks past, the
isolation deepening, the mountains icing with each storm, and one dawn.
I woke with the barometer in my hand, the room
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own soren stay. The log showed
(18:23):
silence on playback, but I heard a gust's howl, Morau's
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to whisper. With
the blown I tried smashing it with a hammer from
the lookout, the head slipping against the brass. The barometer laughed,
a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones,
(18:43):
the air thick with the memory of the storm's roar
and cries, Elise's voice pleading hold me, Soreren. I fought
my arms trembling the weight of the whisper a chain,
the glow leading me into the peaks. I fled to
a ranger's cabin twenty three miles east, but the barometer's
glow fo follows twelve fifty eight pm each night, my
shadow bending into Elize's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
(19:06):
My journal wants a record of weather patterns. Now shows
barometer sketches. I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks.
The lookout calls me back. It's room glowing from the mountains. Listener,
if you hear silver breaths, don't listen. Some winds never still.
We are back for the final tale from listener Taille's podcast.
This one cuts from a listener in Canada. They call
(19:29):
it The Axe That Chops Part four. The Axe That Chops.
I came to the forests of British Columbia after life
hewn by a blade I couldn't dull a cut that
severed my every hope. At thirty eight, i'd been a
lumberjack felling trees in Prince George. My axe and saw
my craft honed by years of toil, shaped by my uncle,
(19:49):
a logger, who taught me the woods pulse under the
forest canopy that shaded the Fraser River, his tailies of
chopped spirits, filling my youth with a rugged unease. We
chopped to together on damp mornings, his voice gruff over
the thud of steel as he split a log, recounting
stories of woodsmen lost to fallen trunks, until a falling
limb in twenty twelve took him. At sixty five, His
(20:11):
saw buried, leaving me his axe, a sturdy steel head
with a worn handle and a promise growled through the
pane cut their path fin his last words and edge.
I couldn't hone. My work thrived with steady cuts, a
plaque from the British Columbia Lumber Association in hand until
an axe I swung during a twenty nineteen harvest misjudged
(20:32):
a tree, trunks snapping, shouts, rising the company, calling it
reckless swing. After an investigation that replayed the fall, costing
me my job and leaving me with a settlement, I
couldn't clear My wife. Mara left after ten years, her
words bitter as she packed her flannel. You chopped our
bond fin her departure a second cleave, taking our cabin
(20:55):
keys and the ring we'd forged with no timber to fell.
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
mill near Wells Gray Provincial Park, its timbers worn with
the weight of years, its silence heavy like a held axe.
The mill a sagging relic with moss covered beams and
a floor that echoed with every step. In the shed,
(21:16):
buried under a pile of splintered planks, I found an axe,
its blade chipped with age, its handle etched Arduba seventeen
ninety in a hand weathered by labour, its edge dulled
as if used beyond endurance. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes seventeen miles north, avoided it, their
mutters in the sawmal hinting it chopped the hewn a
tail passed down with a wary chop. But I saw
(21:37):
a tool to sharpen a link to my uncle away,
to cut the path i'd lost. The first night, I
swung the axe in the mill shed, the air thick
with the scent of sawdust and rusted iron, the wind
rustling through the gaps like a distant fall, the floorboards
creaking under my weight, as if the shed leaned with
the blow. The shed was cluttered, a bench with a
cracked top, sagging under tools, a lamp dim and cast, sting,
(22:00):
jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark woods, where
the pines stood like silent witnesses. The axe's presence, a
sharp edge that seemed to hum with intent. At one
zero one PM, as the day warmed to a crisp afternoon,
the blade glowed a faint rust light pulsing from the etchings,
like blood in sunlight. And I felt a jolt, sudden
(22:20):
and piercing, a shock that ran up my arm. As
I gripped the handle. A voice followed, horse yet pleading,
rising from the steel itself. Humi Finn, my uncle's voice
from those logging days, urging yet faint, the same tone
he'd used when he last fell to cedar, his breath
smelling of tobacco and sap. The glow spread across the axe,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in flannels, faceless,
(22:44):
their hands gripping as if steadying a trunk, their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the axe. No swing struck,
no mark left the blade cool and still despite the glow,
but the light held whispering chop for us. Fin the
air grew colder, a chill that bit through my jacket,
smelling of sap and decay, my breath fogging, as if
(23:07):
the forest mourned with the hewn, the wood creaking under
an unseen weight. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my lumberjack days, my hands trembling as I wrote,
one zero, one pm. You're hewn now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my shoulders, as if the axe drew my
strength into its chop. I blamed the dusk settling over
(23:29):
the woods, the natural play of light on tarnished steel,
amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of that collapse still
cutting me, The crack of wood, the foreman's yell, the
company's verdict, each a slice in a tree. I couldn't steady,
but the mill wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a force meter, its readings, a tool from my trade,
determined to measure the jolt, to prove it was a
(23:49):
trick of the damp or my mind unraveling After months alone.
One zero, one pm. The light returned, the rust deepening
to ruddy pulse, the voice joined by others, a corps
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves, You feld us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a crew around the axe, their
flannels torn and stained, eyes, hollow mouths open in silent grunts,
(24:10):
their hands clutching sows that weren't there. I played back
the meter data still forced no impact, but the voices lingered. Personal,
now Mara's tone cutting through the hum You severed me,
followed by a coworker's faint and accusing, why didn't you brace?
I researched at the Clearwater Library the next day, a
long walk that left my hands aching from the cold.
(24:30):
The librarians glance wary as I asked about old trappers.
I found records of Rene Duboa, a French Canadian trapper
who worked the forests in seventeen ninety, vanishing during a hunt.
His axe found glowing rust logs describing chopping of the
hewn that drew loggers to fall his cabin. Abandoned locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their mills found with axes left buried,
(24:53):
their last sightings marked by a rust glow at noon.
My flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the blade like
notches on a handle, The air thickening with the scent
of pine and blood, a stench that clung to my
fingers and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant, clear
us home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the shed.
(25:15):
The axes glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I sheathed
it in a leather case, the hide stiff with cold,
but the rust lights seeping through the seams, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting thin chop. I
filled the journal with observations, the blade sweating, a dark
rust that pooled on the bench, its texture thick like sap,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
(25:39):
isolation deepening, the forest thickening with each rain, and one dawn,
I woke with the axe in my hand, the shed
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own thin stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a tree's crack juborries cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to chop with the hewn.
I tried burying it in the earth behind the mill,
(26:00):
the shovel sinking deep the soil spat it back, the axe,
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed across the woods.
Shadows dragged me toward the door, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the
collaps's thud, and cries Mara's voice, pleading save me Finn.
I fought my legs, trembling the weight of the chop
(26:21):
a chain, the glow leading me into the forest. I
fled to a logger's camp twenty six miles east, but
the axe's glow follows one zero one p m each night,
my shadow bending into Mara's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of cutting. Records
now shows ACTE sketches. I didn't draw, my hands stained
with black streaks. The mill calls me back, its shed
(26:43):
glowing from the woods. Listener, if you see rust edges,
don't swing some cuts never heal. Thank you for joining me,
Sir Winston, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the chop,
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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.