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.
© 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.
- Horror
- Supernatural
- Ghost Stories
- Haunted Places
- Cursed Objects
- Eerie Tales
- Suspense
- Storytelling
- Paranormal
- Thriller
- Listener Stories
- Dark Narratives
- Mystery
- Spooky
© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: listenertales@xmail.com | Last updated: September 29, 2025.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to Listener Tales podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once more. To day we unearth four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's rugged wilds,
Each a song of dread from its hidden depths. No pauses,
just the unbroken resonance of those who have felt the uncanny.
Steady yourself if you dare, as we tune into the dark.
(00:23):
Part one, The Stone that Sings. I came to the
cliffs of Newfoundland after life, tuned by a hum I
couldn't quiet. At thirty four, I'd been a geologist, studying
rocks in Saint John's My hammer and lens, my tools,
shaped by my aunt, a mineralogist, who taught me the
stone's song under the coastal mist, her tales of singing
spirits filling my youth. We'd explore together, her voice gentle
(00:45):
over the clink of stone, until a cavin took her
at fifty nine, leaving me her chisel and a promise
to hear their tune. Islah. My studies cracked when a
rock I analyzed vibrated during a lecture injuring attendees the university,
calling it unstable sample, costing me my post. My boyfriend
THI left his words sharp, you shattered our harmony. Isler
(01:07):
and I took a job as a caretaker for an
old lighthouse near Cape Race, its walls damp, its quiet, eerie.
In the cellar I found a stone, its surface smooth,
its base etched O O'Connell, seventeen hundred locals warning it
sang the herd, but I saw a specimen to examine,
a link to my aunt. The first night, I tapped
(01:27):
the stone in the lighthouse cellar. The air thick with
the scent of seaweed and damp granite, the wind groaning
through the vents, the floor slick under my boots. The
cellar was cramped a crate with a warped lid, A
lamp dim the single window framing the foggy sea, the
stone's presence a low hum at one eleven p m.
The surface glowed a faint amber light pulsing from the etchings,
and I felt a resonance, deep and unending. A voice followed,
(01:51):
soft yet commanding. Listen to me eler, my aunt's voice
from those exploring days, pleading yet distant. The glow spread shadows,
forming and the air. Figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands raised.
I checked the stone, no strike, no vibration, but the
light held, whispering sing for us, Elah. I logged it
in my journal. One eleven pm. Your tune. Now the
(02:12):
air grew colder, smelling of salt and decay, My breath fogging,
as if the cliffs wept. I blamed the tide, the
guilt of those lecture injuries still resonating in me, but
the lighthouse wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a seismometer,
determined to measure the resonance. At one eleven p m.
The glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
(02:32):
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd, their
cloaks tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the data, stable ground,
but the voices lingered, thea's tone cutting you muted me.
I researched at the Trepassey Library, my hands, aching from
the cold, finding records of Owen O'Connell, a settler who
vanished in seventeen hundred. His stone found glowing logs describing
(02:55):
singing of the herd. Locals reported unease, their songs lost
My flash light caught glints in the dark. Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the air. The mist thick with
the scent of moss and blood. The whispers grew humm
us home sleep vanished. I rapped the stone, but the
glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting islas sing. I spent weeks observing the surface,
(03:18):
sweating a dark sheen. One dawn, I woke with the
stone in hand, the cellar marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, isla stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a hum's echo, O'Connell's cry, cursing me
to sing. I tried shattering it. The hammer chipped, the stone,
laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the cliffs,
the cold seeping into my bones, Theo's voice pleading. I
(03:42):
fled to a fisherman's shack, But the stone's glow follows
one eleven p m each night, my logs showing his face. Listener,
if you hear amber tones, don't tap. Some songs never end.
We are back with another guided tale from listener Taley's podcast.
This one points from a listener. In Canada, they call
it the Compass that Spins. Part two, The Compass that Spins.
(04:07):
I came to the Lakes of Manitoba after a life
directed by a needle I couldn't steady, a direction that
led my piece astray. At thirty six, I'd been a surveyor,
mapping lands in Winnipeg. My compass and chain, my trade
honed by years of precision, shaped by my grandfather, a cartographer,
who taught me the Earth's pull under the prairie sun
that baked the Red River Valley, his tailies of spinning spirits,
(04:31):
filling my youth with a cautious curiosity. We'd survey together
on clear summer days, his voice steady over the click
of tools as he marked the lines, recounting stories of
traders lost to circling paths, until a flood in twenty
fifteen swept him at sixty seven, his map soaked, leaving
me his compass, a brass casing with a scratched face
(04:52):
and a promise murmured through the rain, find their way, Mara,
his last words of bearing I couldn't hold my maps
thrived with accurate grids, A certificate from the Manitoba Land
Surveyors Association in hand until a compass I used during
a twenty eighteen wetland project spun during a reading lines,
crossing errors, mounting the firm calling it faulty navigation after
(05:15):
a review that replayed them a splot, costing me my
contract and leaving me with a debt. I couldn't map
my girlfriend. Liam left after five years, his words harsh
as he packed his gear. You lost our direction, Mara.
His departure a second drift, taking our travel logs in
the pendant we'd engraved, with no land to measure. I
took a job as a caretaker for an old boat
(05:37):
house near Lake Winnak Gosis, its planks weathered by the
lake's breath, its quiet tents like a held breath. The
boat house a tilting structure with water stained walls and
a floor that rocked with every wave. In the storeroom,
buried under pile of mildewed charts, I found a compass,
its face scratched with age, its rim etched h Pelletier
seventeen sixty in a hand faded by time, its needle
(05:59):
twigs as if caught in a storm. Locals in the
nearest village, a cluster of homes fifteen miles south avoided it,
their mutters in the bait shop hinting it spun the
lost A tail passed down with a wary glance. But
I saw a tool to calibrate a link to my grandfather,
away to find the way I'd lost. The first night,
I adjusted the compass in the boat house storeroom, the
(06:20):
air thick with the scent of damp wood and tarnished brass,
the wind whispering through the slats like a lost call,
the floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the boat
house swayed with the lake. The storeroom was cluttered, a
barrel with a loose hoop rolling under pressure, A lamp
dim and casting uneven light. The single window framing the
misty lake, where the horizon blurred the compass's presence, a
(06:41):
faint spin that seemed to pull the air. At one
fifteen p m. As the day warmed to a hazy noon,
the face glowed a faint copper light pulsing from the
etchings like embers in dusk, and I felt a turn,
subtle yet disorienting, a shift that twisted my sense. As
I held the case of voice followed, firm yet pleading,
(07:02):
rising from the brass itself guide me, Mara. My grandfather's
voice from those surveying days, urging yet faint, the same
tone he'd used when he last checked the bearing his
breath smelling of pipe smoke and earth. The glow spread
across the compass, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in boots, faceless, their hands pointing as if marking
(07:23):
a trail, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the compass,
No movement detected, no magnetic field, the needle still under
my gaze despite the glow, but the light held whispering
spin for us, Mara. The air grew colder, a chill
that bit through my coat, smelling of algae and decay,
(07:44):
my breath fogging, as if the lake mourned with the lost,
the water lapping under an unseen current. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my surveyor days, my hands
trembling as I wrote one fifteen p m. Your turn now.
The shadow lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my chest, as if the
(08:05):
compass drew my direction into its spin. I blamed the
humidity rising from the lake, the natural play of light
on aged metal, amplified by my fatigue, The guilt of
those mapping errors still turning me, the cross of lines,
the client's complaint, the firms ruling each a degree in
a path I couldn't correct, but the boat house wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a magnetic sensor, its readings,
(08:28):
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the turn,
to prove it was a trick of the damp or
my mind unraveling after months alone. One fifteen p m.
The light returned, the copper deepening to a warm pulse,
The voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves eustrade us. The shadows sharpened, forming
a team across the room, their boots muddied and worn,
(08:50):
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent calls, their hands clutching
chains that weren't there. I played back the sensor date
a stable field, no shift, but the voices lingered. Person
snell now, Liam's tone cutting through the hum you wandered
from me, followed by a surveyor's faint and accusing, why
didn't you check? I researched at the par library the
next day, a long trek that left my hands aching
(09:12):
from the cold, the keeper's glance weary. As I asked
about old traders. I found records of Henry Pellettier, a
French Canadian fur trader who plied the lakes in seventeen sixty,
vanishing during a fog. His compass found glowing copper logs
describing spinning of the lost that drew crews to circle
his canoe. Abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries, their boat
(09:35):
houses found with compasses left spinning, their last sightings marked
by a copper glow at noon. My flashlight, held high
that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring, dotting the air like moats in mist,
The mist thickening with the scent of musk and blood,
a stench that clung to my skin and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant point us home sleep vanished,
(09:58):
my nights spent in the storeroom. The compasses glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I cased it in a tin
box the metal cold to the touch, but the copper
lights seeping through the lid, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Mara Spin. I filled the journal with observations,
the face sweating, a dark film that pooled on the barrel,
its texture thick like oil, staining the wood black as
(10:20):
it spread it's past, the isolation deepening, the lake rising
with each rain, and one dawn, I woke with the
compass in my hand, the store room floor marked with
my boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with
my own, Mara Stay. The log showed silence on playback,
but I heard a needle's drift, pelleteers cry rising over
the wind, cursing me to spin with the lost I
(10:41):
tried burying it in the mud behind the boat house,
the shovel sinking deep the mud rejected it, the compass laughing,
a hollow your hours that echoed across the water. Shadows
dragged me toward the door, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the error's hum
and cries. Liam's voice pleading lead me back. I fought
(11:02):
my legs, trembling, the weight of the spin a chain,
the glow leading me into the lake. I fled to
a fisherman's hut nineteen miles north, but the compass's glow
follows one fifteen pm each night, my shadow bending into
Liam's face, his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal
wants a record of survey maps, now shows compass sketches
I didn't draw, My hand stained with black streaks. The
(11:25):
boat house calls me back. It's storeroom glowing from the lake. Listener,
if you see copper turns, don't guide. Some paths never find.
But we are back with another icy tale from listener
Taley's podcast. This one chills from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Ice that Freezes. Part three, The
Ice that Freezes. I came to the glassies of Yukon
(11:48):
after a life chilled by a frost. I couldn't thaw,
a cold that locked my every step. At thirty five,
I'd been an ice climber, scaling peaks in white Horse,
my crampons and wrope, my skills hon by years of ascent,
shaped by my brother, a mountaineer, who taught me the
ICE's breath under the arctic glow that lit the Yukon river,
his tailies of frozen spirits, filling my youth with a
(12:11):
shivering respect. We'd climb together on brittle winter days, his
voice calm over the crunch of snow as he secured
the lines, recounting stories of climbers trapped in ice falls,
until an avalanche in twenty fourteen took him at sixty one,
His gear buried, leaving me his ice axe, a chipped
steel blade with a worn grip and a promise whispered
(12:31):
through the snow. Feel their chill kale, his last words
a shiver. I couldn't warm My ascents soared with daring roots,
A medal from the Yukon Alpine Club in hand, until
ice I tested during a twenty nineteen expedition, shattered under
weight cracks, spreading cries, rising the guild calling it unsafe
root after an inquiry that replayed the fall, costing me
(12:54):
my license and leaving me with a ban I couldn't
lift My fiancee, Nadia left after four years, her words
icye as she packed her snow shoes. You froze our love,
kail her departure a second frieze, taking our climbing logs
in the ring. We'd etched with no peak to conquer.
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
cabin near Kluane National Park, Its walls icy with the
(13:16):
grip of frost, its silence stark like a held breath.
The cabin a weathered shelter with ice crusted logs and
a roof that groaned under snow. In the loft, buried
under pile of frozen hides, I found an ice shard,
its edge jagged with age, its base etched t Inuit
seventeen fifty in a hand carved by cold, its surface
gleaming as if freshly cut. Locals in the nearest outpost,
(13:39):
a scattering of homes twenty miles west, avoided it, their
mutters in the trading post hinting it froze. The chilled.
A tail passed down with a cautious shiver. But I
saw a relic to study, a link to my brother away,
to feel the chill I'd lost. The first night I
touched the shard in the cabin loft, the air thick
with the scent of frost and ancient ice, the wind
(14:00):
whistling through the cracks like a distant moan, the floorboards
creaking under my weight, as if the cabin settled into
the glacier. The loft was bare, a crate with a
frost bitten lid sagging under ice, A lamp dim and
casting faint shadows, the single window framing the frozen valley
where the peaks loomed. The shard's presence, a faint shiver
that seemed to pulse with intent. At one seventeen p m.
(14:24):
As the day brightened to a frigid noon, the surface
glowed a faint blue light, pulsing from the etchings like
a vane in ice. And I felt a frieze, sharp
and lingering, a cold that bit my fingers. As I
held the shard. A voice followed, quiet yet urgent, rising
from the ice itself, touch me Kal, my brother's voice
from those climbing days, pleading yet distant, the same tone
(14:44):
he'd used when he last checked the ice, his breath
smelling of mint and frost. The glow spread across the shard,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in parkers, faceless,
their hands outstretched as if reaching for warmth, their former
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the shard. No cold detected,
(15:06):
no melt observed, the surface still under my gaze despite
the glow, but the light held whispering freeze for us Kale.
The air grew colder, a chill that pierced through my layers,
smelling of snow and decay, my breath fogging, as if
the glacier mourned with the chilled, the wood creaking under
an unseen freeze. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my climber days, my hands trembling as I wrote
(15:29):
one seventeen p m Your ice. Now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my chest, as if the shard drew my
warmth into its freeze. I blamed the altitude pressing down
from the glacier, the natural play of light on clear ice,
amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of that shattered ice
still freezing me. The cracks echo, the teams fall, the
(15:52):
gild's ruling, each a flake in a chill. I couldn't melt,
but the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a thermal gage, its readings tool from my trade, determined
to measure the frieze, to prove it was a trick
of the frost or my mind unraveling after months alone,
At one seventeen p m. The light returned, the blue
deepening to a glacial pulse, the voice joined by others,
(16:14):
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves
you left us. The shadows sharpened, forming a line across
the loft, their parkers tattered and iced, eyes, hollow mouths
open in silent gasps, their hands clutching ropes that weren't there.
I played back the gage data, steady, tempt no drop,
but the voices lingered personal, now Nadia's tone cutting through
the hum You iced me out, followed by a climber's
(16:37):
faint and accusing, why didn't you test? I researched at
the Haines Junction Library the next day, a long hike
that left my hands aching from the cold. The elders
glance wary as I asked about old hunters. I found
records of tunu Inuit, a Yucuna hunter who roamed the
glaciers in seventeen fifty, vanishing during a storm. His shard
found glowing blue logs describing freezing of the chilled the
(17:00):
drew people to stiffen his sled. Abandoned locals reported disappearances
over centuries, their cabins found with shards left gleaming, their
last sightings marked by a blue glow. At noon. My
flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air like
crystals in snow, The frost thickening with the scent of
(17:21):
ice and blood, a stench that clung to my hair
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant coole. As
home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the loft, the
shards glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I encased it
in a metal box, the steel cold to the touch,
but the blue light seeping through the seams, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting kale freeze. I
(17:43):
filled the journal with observations, the edge sweating, a dark
frost that pooled on the crate, its texture thick like slush,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the glacier advancing with each storm, and one dawn.
I woke with the shard in my hand, the loft
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own, kale stay. The log showed
(18:07):
silence on playback, but I heard an ICE's crack inuits cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to freeze. With the
chilled I tried melting it over the cabin's stove, the
flames leaping high. They died to ash the shard, laughing
a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones.
(18:27):
The air, thick with the memory of the falls, rumble
and cries. Nardia's voice pleading warm me. Kale. I fought
my arms, trembling the weight of the frieze a chain,
the glow leading me into the glacier. I fled to
a trapper's shacked twenty four miles east, but the shard's
glow follows one seventeen p m each night, my shadow
bending into Nardia's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
(18:50):
My journal wants a record of climbing roots now shows
shard sketches. I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks.
The cabin calls me back, its loft glowing from the glow. Listener,
if you see blue glints, don't touch some frosts never melt.
We're back for the final tale from listener Tailee's podcast.
This one plays from a listener in Canada. They call
(19:12):
it the Flute that Calls. Part four, The Flute that Calls.
I came to the plains of Saskatchewan after a life
played by a melody. I couldn't silence a tune that
drowned my every piece. At thirty seven, I'd been a musician,
performing flutes in Saskatoon. My breath and read my art,
honed by years of practice, shaped by my cousin, a
(19:33):
flutist who taught me the air's song under the open
sky that stretched over the South Saskatchewan River. His tailles
of calling spirits, filling my youth with a melodic unease.
We play together on warm summer nights, his voice light
over the trill of notes as he crafted a riff,
recounting stories of wanderers drawn by flutes, until a fever
in twenty thirteen took him at sixty two, his instruments silent,
(19:57):
leaving me his flute, a cedar piece with a worn mouthpiece,
and a promise breathed through his cough. Hear their call
erin his last words, a note I couldn't hold. My
performances soared with haunting melodies, a trophy from the Saskatchewan
Music Festival in hand, until a flute I played during
a twenty seventeen recital shattered under pressure, splinters, flying, screams rising,
(20:20):
the hall calling it careless tone. After an investigation that
replayed the break, costing me my stage and leaving me
with a fine I couldn't pay. My husband Jonas left
after eight years, his words blunt as he packed his guitar.
You played our end erin his departure, a second discord
taking our duet recordings and the bracelet weed crafted with
(20:43):
no audience to enchant. I took a job as a
caretaker for an old barn near Grassland's National Park. Its
beams dry with the dust of time. It's quiet, oppressive,
like a held breath. The barn a sagging structure with
cracked walls and a loft that echoed with every step
In the loft, buried under pile of brittle hay, I
found a flute, its wood cracked with age, its stem
(21:07):
etched el Cree eighteen hundred in a hand faded by wind,
its holes darkened as if played beyond endurance. Locals in
the nearest settlement, a cluster of homes sixteen miles north,
avoided it. Their mutters in the grain store hinting it
called the plade A tail passed down with a nervous hum.
But I saw an instrument to tune a link to
(21:29):
my cousin away, to hear the call i'd lost. The
first night, I blew the flute in the barn loft,
the air thick with the scent of straw and aged wood,
the wind sighing through the slats like a distant melody,
the floorboards creaking under my step as if the barn
swayed with the tune. The loft was dusty, a stool
with a wobbly leg, tilting underweight, A lamp dim and
(21:50):
casting long shadows, the single window framing the endless plane
where the horizon shimmered. The flute's presence, a soft note
that seemed to linger in the air. One nineteen p m.
As the day warmed to a golden afternoon, the wood
glowed a faint green light, pulsing from the etchings like
moss in sunlight, and I felt a pull, gentle yet insistent,
(22:10):
a drawer that tugged my breath. As I raised the flute.
A voice followed, clear yet pleading, rising from the cedar itself.
Play me urin, my cousin's voice from those performing days,
urging yet faint, the same tone he'd used when he
last played a solo, his breath smelling of sage and wood.
The glow spread across the flute, casting reflections on the walls,
(22:31):
shadows forming figures in robes, faceless, their hands raised as
if conducting an unseen orchestra, their forms swaying with the
rhythm of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against
my ribs, checking the flute. No breath blown, no sound made,
the reeds still under my gaze despite the glow, but
the light held, whispering call for us urin the air
(22:53):
grew warmer, a heat that pressed through my shirt, smelling
of grass and decay, my breath fogging as if the
plane mourned with the plade, the wood creaking under an
unseen pulse. I stumbled to my journal, a log from
my musician days, my hands trembling as I wrote one
nineteen p m. You're played now. The shadows lingered, their
forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a tug
(23:14):
in my throat, as if the flute drew my voice
into its call. I blamed the heat rising from the plain,
the natural play of light on aged wood, amplified by
my fatigue, the guilt of that shattered flute still resonating
in me. The cracks snap, the audience's gasp, the halls
ruling each a note in a melody I couldn't tune,
but the barn wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
(23:35):
a sound meter, its readings, a tool from my trade,
determined to measure the pull, to prove it was a
trick of the dust, or my mind unraveling after months alone.
At one nineteen p m. The light returned, the green
deepening to a vibrant pulse, the voice joined by others,
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
(23:56):
You silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a chorus across
the loft. Their robes faded and frayed, eyes hollow, mouths
open in silent trills, their hands clutching reeds that weren't there.
I played back the meter data, quiet room, no vibration,
but the voices lingered. Personal now Jonas's tone cutting through
the hum You stopped me, followed by a listener's faint
(24:19):
and accusing, why didn't you stop? I researched at the
val Marie Library the next day, a long walk that
left my hands aching from the cold, the keeper's glance
weary as I asked about old musicians. I found records
of Luca Cree, a Plane's Cree flutist who roamed the
prairies in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a drought. His flute
(24:39):
found glowing green logs describing calling of the plade that
drew people to follow his camp. Deserted locals reported disappearances
over centuries, their barns found with flutes left silent, their
last sightings marked by a green glow. At noon. My
flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes hail and staring, dotting the air like
(25:02):
notes on a staff, the dust thickening with the scent
of earth and blood, a stench that clung to my fingers.
And clothes. The whispers grew into a chant tune us
home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the loft, the
flutes glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I cased it
in a leather pouch, the hide stiff with dryness, but
the green light seeping through the stitches, the voices seeping
(25:24):
into my dreams, the figures chanting ur in call. I
filled the journal with observations, the woods sweating, a dark
resin that pooled on the stool, its texture thick like sap,
staining the wood black as it spread weeks past, the
isolation deepening, the plane drying with each wind. And one dawn,
I woke with the flute in my hand, the loft
(25:44):
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own urin stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a note's echo, creese
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to call with
the plade. I tried breaking it with a hammer from
the loft, the head denting against the cedar. The flute
laughed a hollow your hours that echoed off the beams.
(26:05):
Shadows dragged me toward the window, the warmth seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the
shatter's chime and cries. Jonahs's voice, pleading sing with me.
I fought my legs trembling, the weight of the call
a chain, the glow leading me into the plane. I
fled to a farmer's shed twenty one miles east. But
the flute's glow follows one nineteen p m each night,
(26:27):
my shadow bending into Jonahs's face, his eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of music scores
now shows flute sketches. I didn't draw, my hands stained
with black streaks. The barn calls me back. It's loft,
glowing from the plane. Listener, if you hear green notes,
don't play. Some calls never fade. Thank you for joining me,
(26:48):
sir Winstone, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the tune.
Welcome to Listener Tales podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once more. To day we unearth four
new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's rugged wilds,
Each a song of dread from its hidden depths. No pauses,
just the unbroken resonance of those who have felt the uncanny.
Steady yourself if you dare, as we tune into the dark.
(00:23):
Part one, The Stone that Sings. I came to the
cliffs of Newfoundland after life, tuned by a hum I
couldn't quiet. At thirty four, I'd been a geologist, studying
rocks in Saint John's My hammer and lens, my tools,
shaped by my aunt, a mineralogist, who taught me the
stone's song under the coastal mist, her tales of singing
spirits filling my youth. We'd explore together, her voice gentle
(00:45):
over the clink of stone, until a cavin took her
at fifty nine, leaving me her chisel and a promise
to hear their tune. Islah. My studies cracked when a
rock I analyzed vibrated during a lecture injuring attendees the university,
calling it unstable sample, costing me my post. My boyfriend
THI left his words sharp, you shattered our harmony. Isler
(01:07):
and I took a job as a caretaker for an
old lighthouse near Cape Race, its walls damp, its quiet, eerie.
In the cellar I found a stone, its surface smooth,
its base etched O O'Connell, seventeen hundred locals warning it
sang the herd, but I saw a specimen to examine,
a link to my aunt. The first night, I tapped
(01:27):
the stone in the lighthouse cellar. The air thick with
the scent of seaweed and damp granite, the wind groaning
through the vents, the floor slick under my boots. The
cellar was cramped a crate with a warped lid, A
lamp dim the single window framing the foggy sea, the
stone's presence a low hum at one eleven p m.
The surface glowed a faint amber light pulsing from the etchings,
and I felt a resonance, deep and unending. A voice followed,
(01:51):
soft yet commanding. Listen to me eler, my aunt's voice
from those exploring days, pleading yet distant. The glow spread shadows,
forming and the air. Figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands raised.
I checked the stone, no strike, no vibration, but the
light held, whispering sing for us, Elah. I logged it
in my journal. One eleven pm. Your tune. Now the
(02:12):
air grew colder, smelling of salt and decay, My breath fogging,
as if the cliffs wept. I blamed the tide, the
guilt of those lecture injuries still resonating in me, but
the lighthouse wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a seismometer,
determined to measure the resonance. At one eleven p m.
The glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
(02:32):
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd, their
cloaks tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the data, stable ground,
but the voices lingered, thea's tone cutting you muted me.
I researched at the Trepassey Library, my hands, aching from
the cold, finding records of Owen O'Connell, a settler who
vanished in seventeen hundred. His stone found glowing logs describing
(02:55):
singing of the herd. Locals reported unease, their songs lost
My flash light caught glints in the dark. Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the air. The mist thick with
the scent of moss and blood. The whispers grew humm
us home sleep vanished. I rapped the stone, but the
glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting islas sing. I spent weeks observing the surface,
(03:18):
sweating a dark sheen. One dawn, I woke with the
stone in hand, the cellar marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, isla stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a hum's echo, O'Connell's cry, cursing me
to sing. I tried shattering it. The hammer chipped, the stone,
laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me toward the cliffs,
the cold seeping into my bones, Theo's voice pleading. I
(03:42):
fled to a fisherman's shack, But the stone's glow follows
one eleven p m each night, my logs showing his face. Listener,
if you hear amber tones, don't tap. Some songs never end.
We are back with another guided tale from listener Taley's podcast.
This one points from a listener. In Canada, they call
it the Compass that Spins. Part two, The Compass that Spins.
(04:07):
I came to the Lakes of Manitoba after a life
directed by a needle I couldn't steady, a direction that
led my piece astray. At thirty six, I'd been a surveyor,
mapping lands in Winnipeg. My compass and chain, my trade
honed by years of precision, shaped by my grandfather, a cartographer,
who taught me the Earth's pull under the prairie sun
that baked the Red River Valley, his tailies of spinning spirits,
(04:31):
filling my youth with a cautious curiosity. We'd survey together
on clear summer days, his voice steady over the click
of tools as he marked the lines, recounting stories of
traders lost to circling paths, until a flood in twenty
fifteen swept him at sixty seven, his map soaked, leaving
me his compass, a brass casing with a scratched face
(04:52):
and a promise murmured through the rain, find their way, Mara,
his last words of bearing I couldn't hold my maps
thrived with accurate grids, A certificate from the Manitoba Land
Surveyors Association in hand until a compass I used during
a twenty eighteen wetland project spun during a reading lines,
crossing errors, mounting the firm calling it faulty navigation after
(05:15):
a review that replayed them a splot, costing me my
contract and leaving me with a debt. I couldn't map
my girlfriend. Liam left after five years, his words harsh
as he packed his gear. You lost our direction, Mara.
His departure a second drift, taking our travel logs in
the pendant we'd engraved, with no land to measure. I
took a job as a caretaker for an old boat
(05:37):
house near Lake Winnak Gosis, its planks weathered by the
lake's breath, its quiet tents like a held breath. The
boat house a tilting structure with water stained walls and
a floor that rocked with every wave. In the storeroom,
buried under pile of mildewed charts, I found a compass,
its face scratched with age, its rim etched h Pelletier
seventeen sixty in a hand faded by time, its needle
(05:59):
twigs as if caught in a storm. Locals in the
nearest village, a cluster of homes fifteen miles south avoided it,
their mutters in the bait shop hinting it spun the
lost A tail passed down with a wary glance. But
I saw a tool to calibrate a link to my grandfather,
away to find the way I'd lost. The first night,
I adjusted the compass in the boat house storeroom, the
(06:20):
air thick with the scent of damp wood and tarnished brass,
the wind whispering through the slats like a lost call,
the floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the boat
house swayed with the lake. The storeroom was cluttered, a
barrel with a loose hoop rolling under pressure, A lamp
dim and casting uneven light. The single window framing the
misty lake, where the horizon blurred the compass's presence, a
(06:41):
faint spin that seemed to pull the air. At one
fifteen p m. As the day warmed to a hazy noon,
the face glowed a faint copper light pulsing from the
etchings like embers in dusk, and I felt a turn,
subtle yet disorienting, a shift that twisted my sense. As
I held the case of voice followed, firm yet pleading,
(07:02):
rising from the brass itself guide me, Mara. My grandfather's
voice from those surveying days, urging yet faint, the same
tone he'd used when he last checked the bearing his
breath smelling of pipe smoke and earth. The glow spread
across the compass, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in boots, faceless, their hands pointing as if marking
(07:23):
a trail, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the compass,
No movement detected, no magnetic field, the needle still under
my gaze despite the glow, but the light held whispering
spin for us, Mara. The air grew colder, a chill
that bit through my coat, smelling of algae and decay,
(07:44):
my breath fogging, as if the lake mourned with the lost,
the water lapping under an unseen current. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my surveyor days, my hands
trembling as I wrote one fifteen p m. Your turn now.
The shadow lingered, their forms drifting closer, and I felt
a pull, a tug in my chest, as if the
(08:05):
compass drew my direction into its spin. I blamed the
humidity rising from the lake, the natural play of light
on aged metal, amplified by my fatigue, The guilt of
those mapping errors still turning me, the cross of lines,
the client's complaint, the firms ruling each a degree in
a path I couldn't correct, but the boat house wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a magnetic sensor, its readings,
(08:28):
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the turn,
to prove it was a trick of the damp or
my mind unraveling after months alone. One fifteen p m.
The light returned, the copper deepening to a warm pulse,
The voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves eustrade us. The shadows sharpened, forming
a team across the room, their boots muddied and worn,
(08:50):
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent calls, their hands clutching
chains that weren't there. I played back the sensor date
a stable field, no shift, but the voices lingered. Person
snell now, Liam's tone cutting through the hum you wandered
from me, followed by a surveyor's faint and accusing, why
didn't you check? I researched at the par library the
next day, a long trek that left my hands aching
(09:12):
from the cold, the keeper's glance weary. As I asked
about old traders. I found records of Henry Pellettier, a
French Canadian fur trader who plied the lakes in seventeen sixty,
vanishing during a fog. His compass found glowing copper logs
describing spinning of the lost that drew crews to circle
his canoe. Abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries, their boat
(09:35):
houses found with compasses left spinning, their last sightings marked
by a copper glow at noon. My flashlight, held high
that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring, dotting the air like moats in mist,
The mist thickening with the scent of musk and blood,
a stench that clung to my skin and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant point us home sleep vanished,
(09:58):
my nights spent in the storeroom. The compasses glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I cased it in a tin
box the metal cold to the touch, but the copper
lights seeping through the lid, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Mara Spin. I filled the journal with observations,
the face sweating, a dark film that pooled on the barrel,
its texture thick like oil, staining the wood black as
(10:20):
it spread it's past, the isolation deepening, the lake rising
with each rain, and one dawn, I woke with the
compass in my hand, the store room floor marked with
my boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with
my own, Mara Stay. The log showed silence on playback,
but I heard a needle's drift, pelleteers cry rising over
the wind, cursing me to spin with the lost I
(10:41):
tried burying it in the mud behind the boat house,
the shovel sinking deep the mud rejected it, the compass laughing,
a hollow your hours that echoed across the water. Shadows
dragged me toward the door, the cold seeping into my bones,
the air thick with the memory of the error's hum
and cries. Liam's voice pleading lead me back. I fought
(11:02):
my legs, trembling, the weight of the spin a chain,
the glow leading me into the lake. I fled to
a fisherman's hut nineteen miles north, but the compass's glow
follows one fifteen pm each night, my shadow bending into
Liam's face, his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal
wants a record of survey maps, now shows compass sketches
I didn't draw, My hand stained with black streaks. The
(11:25):
boat house calls me back. It's storeroom glowing from the lake. Listener,
if you see copper turns, don't guide. Some paths never find.
But we are back with another icy tale from listener
Taley's podcast. This one chills from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Ice that Freezes. Part three, The
Ice that Freezes. I came to the glassies of Yukon
(11:48):
after a life chilled by a frost. I couldn't thaw,
a cold that locked my every step. At thirty five,
I'd been an ice climber, scaling peaks in white Horse,
my crampons and wrope, my skills hon by years of ascent,
shaped by my brother, a mountaineer, who taught me the
ICE's breath under the arctic glow that lit the Yukon river,
his tailies of frozen spirits, filling my youth with a
(12:11):
shivering respect. We'd climb together on brittle winter days, his
voice calm over the crunch of snow as he secured
the lines, recounting stories of climbers trapped in ice falls,
until an avalanche in twenty fourteen took him at sixty one,
His gear buried, leaving me his ice axe, a chipped
steel blade with a worn grip and a promise whispered
(12:31):
through the snow. Feel their chill kale, his last words
a shiver. I couldn't warm My ascents soared with daring roots,
A medal from the Yukon Alpine Club in hand, until
ice I tested during a twenty nineteen expedition, shattered under
weight cracks, spreading cries, rising the guild calling it unsafe
root after an inquiry that replayed the fall, costing me
(12:54):
my license and leaving me with a ban I couldn't
lift My fiancee, Nadia left after four years, her words
icye as she packed her snow shoes. You froze our love,
kail her departure a second frieze, taking our climbing logs
in the ring. We'd etched with no peak to conquer.
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
cabin near Kluane National Park, Its walls icy with the
(13:16):
grip of frost, its silence stark like a held breath.
The cabin a weathered shelter with ice crusted logs and
a roof that groaned under snow. In the loft, buried
under pile of frozen hides, I found an ice shard,
its edge jagged with age, its base etched t Inuit
seventeen fifty in a hand carved by cold, its surface
gleaming as if freshly cut. Locals in the nearest outpost,
(13:39):
a scattering of homes twenty miles west, avoided it, their
mutters in the trading post hinting it froze. The chilled.
A tail passed down with a cautious shiver. But I
saw a relic to study, a link to my brother away,
to feel the chill I'd lost. The first night I
touched the shard in the cabin loft, the air thick
with the scent of frost and ancient ice, the wind
(14:00):
whistling through the cracks like a distant moan, the floorboards
creaking under my weight, as if the cabin settled into
the glacier. The loft was bare, a crate with a
frost bitten lid sagging under ice, A lamp dim and
casting faint shadows, the single window framing the frozen valley
where the peaks loomed. The shard's presence, a faint shiver
that seemed to pulse with intent. At one seventeen p m.
(14:24):
As the day brightened to a frigid noon, the surface
glowed a faint blue light, pulsing from the etchings like
a vane in ice. And I felt a frieze, sharp
and lingering, a cold that bit my fingers. As I
held the shard. A voice followed, quiet yet urgent, rising
from the ice itself, touch me Kal, my brother's voice
from those climbing days, pleading yet distant, the same tone
(14:44):
he'd used when he last checked the ice, his breath
smelling of mint and frost. The glow spread across the shard,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in parkers, faceless,
their hands outstretched as if reaching for warmth, their former
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the shard. No cold detected,
(15:06):
no melt observed, the surface still under my gaze despite
the glow, but the light held whispering freeze for us Kale.
The air grew colder, a chill that pierced through my layers,
smelling of snow and decay, my breath fogging, as if
the glacier mourned with the chilled, the wood creaking under
an unseen freeze. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my climber days, my hands trembling as I wrote
(15:29):
one seventeen p m Your ice. Now. The shadows lingered,
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my chest, as if the shard drew my
warmth into its freeze. I blamed the altitude pressing down
from the glacier, the natural play of light on clear ice,
amplified by my exhaustion, the guilt of that shattered ice
still freezing me. The cracks echo, the teams fall, the
(15:52):
gild's ruling, each a flake in a chill. I couldn't melt,
but the cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a thermal gage, its readings tool from my trade, determined
to measure the frieze, to prove it was a trick
of the frost or my mind unraveling after months alone,
At one seventeen p m. The light returned, the blue
deepening to a glacial pulse, the voice joined by others,
(16:14):
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves
you left us. The shadows sharpened, forming a line across
the loft, their parkers tattered and iced, eyes, hollow mouths
open in silent gasps, their hands clutching ropes that weren't there.
I played back the gage data, steady, tempt no drop,
but the voices lingered personal, now Nadia's tone cutting through
the hum You iced me out, followed by a climber's
(16:37):
faint and accusing, why didn't you test? I researched at
the Haines Junction Library the next day, a long hike
that left my hands aching from the cold. The elders
glance wary as I asked about old hunters. I found
records of tunu Inuit, a Yucuna hunter who roamed the
glaciers in seventeen fifty, vanishing during a storm. His shard
found glowing blue logs describing freezing of the chilled the
(17:00):
drew people to stiffen his sled. Abandoned locals reported disappearances
over centuries, their cabins found with shards left gleaming, their
last sightings marked by a blue glow. At noon. My
flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air like
crystals in snow, The frost thickening with the scent of
(17:21):
ice and blood, a stench that clung to my hair
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant coole. As
home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the loft, the
shards glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I encased it
in a metal box, the steel cold to the touch,
but the blue light seeping through the seams, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting kale freeze. I
(17:43):
filled the journal with observations, the edge sweating, a dark
frost that pooled on the crate, its texture thick like slush,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the glacier advancing with each storm, and one dawn.
I woke with the shard in my hand, the loft
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own, kale stay. The log showed
(18:07):
silence on playback, but I heard an ICE's crack inuits cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to freeze. With the
chilled I tried melting it over the cabin's stove, the
flames leaping high. They died to ash the shard, laughing
a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls. Shadows
dragged me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones.
(18:27):
The air, thick with the memory of the falls, rumble
and cries. Nardia's voice pleading warm me. Kale. I fought
my arms, trembling the weight of the frieze a chain,
the glow leading me into the glacier. I fled to
a trapper's shacked twenty four miles east, but the shard's
glow follows one seventeen p m each night, my shadow
bending into Nardia's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
(18:50):
My journal wants a record of climbing roots now shows
shard sketches. I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks.
The cabin calls me back, its loft glowing from the glow. Listener,
if you see blue glints, don't touch some frosts never melt.
We're back for the final tale from listener Tailee's podcast.
This one plays from a listener in Canada. They call
(19:12):
it the Flute that Calls. Part four, The Flute that Calls.
I came to the plains of Saskatchewan after a life
played by a melody. I couldn't silence a tune that
drowned my every piece. At thirty seven, I'd been a musician,
performing flutes in Saskatoon. My breath and read my art,
honed by years of practice, shaped by my cousin, a
(19:33):
flutist who taught me the air's song under the open
sky that stretched over the South Saskatchewan River. His tailles
of calling spirits, filling my youth with a melodic unease.
We play together on warm summer nights, his voice light
over the trill of notes as he crafted a riff,
recounting stories of wanderers drawn by flutes, until a fever
in twenty thirteen took him at sixty two, his instruments silent,
(19:57):
leaving me his flute, a cedar piece with a worn mouthpiece,
and a promise breathed through his cough. Hear their call
erin his last words, a note I couldn't hold. My
performances soared with haunting melodies, a trophy from the Saskatchewan
Music Festival in hand, until a flute I played during
a twenty seventeen recital shattered under pressure, splinters, flying, screams rising,
(20:20):
the hall calling it careless tone. After an investigation that
replayed the break, costing me my stage and leaving me
with a fine I couldn't pay. My husband Jonas left
after eight years, his words blunt as he packed his guitar.
You played our end erin his departure, a second discord
taking our duet recordings and the bracelet weed crafted with
(20:43):
no audience to enchant. I took a job as a
caretaker for an old barn near Grassland's National Park. Its
beams dry with the dust of time. It's quiet, oppressive,
like a held breath. The barn a sagging structure with
cracked walls and a loft that echoed with every step
In the loft, buried under pile of brittle hay, I
found a flute, its wood cracked with age, its stem
(21:07):
etched el Cree eighteen hundred in a hand faded by wind,
its holes darkened as if played beyond endurance. Locals in
the nearest settlement, a cluster of homes sixteen miles north,
avoided it. Their mutters in the grain store hinting it
called the plade A tail passed down with a nervous hum.
But I saw an instrument to tune a link to
(21:29):
my cousin away, to hear the call i'd lost. The
first night, I blew the flute in the barn loft,
the air thick with the scent of straw and aged wood,
the wind sighing through the slats like a distant melody,
the floorboards creaking under my step as if the barn
swayed with the tune. The loft was dusty, a stool
with a wobbly leg, tilting underweight, A lamp dim and
(21:50):
casting long shadows, the single window framing the endless plane
where the horizon shimmered. The flute's presence, a soft note
that seemed to linger in the air. One nineteen p m.
As the day warmed to a golden afternoon, the wood
glowed a faint green light, pulsing from the etchings like
moss in sunlight, and I felt a pull, gentle yet insistent,
(22:10):
a drawer that tugged my breath. As I raised the flute.
A voice followed, clear yet pleading, rising from the cedar itself.
Play me urin, my cousin's voice from those performing days,
urging yet faint, the same tone he'd used when he
last played a solo, his breath smelling of sage and wood.
The glow spread across the flute, casting reflections on the walls,
(22:31):
shadows forming figures in robes, faceless, their hands raised as
if conducting an unseen orchestra, their forms swaying with the
rhythm of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against
my ribs, checking the flute. No breath blown, no sound made,
the reeds still under my gaze despite the glow, but
the light held, whispering call for us urin the air
(22:53):
grew warmer, a heat that pressed through my shirt, smelling
of grass and decay, my breath fogging as if the
plane mourned with the plade, the wood creaking under an
unseen pulse. I stumbled to my journal, a log from
my musician days, my hands trembling as I wrote one
nineteen p m. You're played now. The shadows lingered, their
forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a tug
(23:14):
in my throat, as if the flute drew my voice
into its call. I blamed the heat rising from the plain,
the natural play of light on aged wood, amplified by
my fatigue, the guilt of that shattered flute still resonating
in me. The cracks snap, the audience's gasp, the halls
ruling each a note in a melody I couldn't tune,
but the barn wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
(23:35):
a sound meter, its readings, a tool from my trade,
determined to measure the pull, to prove it was a
trick of the dust, or my mind unraveling after months alone.
At one nineteen p m. The light returned, the green
deepening to a vibrant pulse, the voice joined by others,
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
(23:56):
You silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a chorus across
the loft. Their robes faded and frayed, eyes hollow, mouths
open in silent trills, their hands clutching reeds that weren't there.
I played back the meter data, quiet room, no vibration,
but the voices lingered. Personal now Jonas's tone cutting through
the hum You stopped me, followed by a listener's faint
(24:19):
and accusing, why didn't you stop? I researched at the
val Marie Library the next day, a long walk that
left my hands aching from the cold, the keeper's glance
weary as I asked about old musicians. I found records
of Luca Cree, a Plane's Cree flutist who roamed the
prairies in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a drought. His flute
(24:39):
found glowing green logs describing calling of the plade that
drew people to follow his camp. Deserted locals reported disappearances
over centuries, their barns found with flutes left silent, their
last sightings marked by a green glow. At noon. My
flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes hail and staring, dotting the air like
(25:02):
notes on a staff, the dust thickening with the scent
of earth and blood, a stench that clung to my fingers.
And clothes. The whispers grew into a chant tune us
home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the loft, the
flutes glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I cased it
in a leather pouch, the hide stiff with dryness, but
the green light seeping through the stitches, the voices seeping
(25:24):
into my dreams, the figures chanting ur in call. I
filled the journal with observations, the woods sweating, a dark
resin that pooled on the stool, its texture thick like sap,
staining the wood black as it spread weeks past, the
isolation deepening, the plane drying with each wind. And one dawn,
I woke with the flute in my hand, the loft
(25:44):
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own urin stay. The log showed
silence on playback, but I heard a note's echo, creese
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to call with
the plade. I tried breaking it with a hammer from
the loft, the head denting against the cedar. The flute
laughed a hollow your hours that echoed off the beams.
(26:05):
Shadows dragged me toward the window, the warmth seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the
shatter's chime and cries. Jonahs's voice, pleading sing with me.
I fought my legs trembling, the weight of the call
a chain, the glow leading me into the plane. I
fled to a farmer's shed twenty one miles east. But
the flute's glow follows one nineteen p m each night,
(26:27):
my shadow bending into Jonahs's face, his eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of music scores
now shows flute sketches. I didn't draw, my hands stained
with black streaks. The barn calls me back. It's loft,
glowing from the plane. Listener, if you hear green notes,
don't play. Some calls never fade. Thank you for joining me,
(26:48):
sir Winstone, on this journey through four dark tailies. Until
next time, stay out of the tune.
Popular Podcasts
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
Stuff You Should Know
If you've ever wanted to know about champagne, satanism, the Stonewall Uprising, chaos theory, LSD, El Nino, true crime and Rosa Parks, then look no further. Josh and Chuck have you covered.
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.