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.
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© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: listenertales@xmail.com | Last updated: September 29, 2025.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to listener Tilees Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once again. To day we light four
new taiales from listeners on the edges of Canada's untamed lands,
each a flicker of fear from its veiled past. No brakes,
just the steady glow of those who have seen the unknown.
Prepare yourself if you're brave, as we dim into the dark.
(00:22):
Part one, The Lantern that Flickers. I came to the
marshes of New Brunswick after life lit by a flame
I couldn't steady. At thirty three, I'd been a guide,
leading tour in fredericton my lantern and map, my tools,
shaped by my father, a ranger who taught me the
light's path under the swamp's haze, his tailies of flickering
spirits filling my youth. We'd navigate together, his voice steady
(00:44):
over the splash of water, until a Maya sucked him
at sixty, leaving me his lantern and a promise to
light their way. Jude, my tour dimmed when a lantern
I carried flared during a trip, causing a fire the park,
calling it reckless glow, costing me my badge. My partner
Lana left her words cold, you burned our trust. Jude
and I took a job as a caretaker for an
(01:06):
old shack near Kuchebauguak National Park, its walls sodden, its quiet, uneasy.
In the shed I found a lantern, its glass cracked,
its base etched g Acadian sixteen eighty locals warning it flickered.
The lit, but I saw a light to mend a
link to my father. First night, I lit the lantern
in the shack shed, the air thick with the scent
(01:28):
of mold and rusted metal, the wind moaning through the gaps,
the floorboards slick under my boots. The shed was cramped,
a crate with a rotted side, A lamp dim the
single window framing the misty marsh, the lantern's presence, a
wavering flame. At three fifty eight a m the glass
glowed a faint orange light pulsing from the etchings, and
I felt a heat, unsteady and consuming. A voice followed,
(01:49):
gruff yet pleading, guide me, Jude, my father's voice from
those gidding days, Urging yet faint. The glows spread, shadows
forming in the air, figures in coats faceless, their hands shielding.
I checked the lantern, no fuel, no burn, but the
light held whispering flicker for us, Jude. I logged it
in my journal. Three fifty eight a m. Your lit.
(02:09):
Now the air grew warmer, smelling of peat and decay.
My breath fogging as if the marsh mourned. I blamed
the damp, the guilt of that fire still flickering in me,
but the shack wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a heat censor, determined to measure the heat. At three
fifty eight a m. The glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you scorched us. The shadows sharpened, forming a group.
(02:32):
Their coats singed, eyes hollow. I played back the data,
cool air, but the voices lingered. Lana's tone cutting you
seared me. I researched at the Richibucto Library, my hands
aching from the cold, finding records of Gil's Acadian, a
settler who vanished in sixteen eighty. His lantern found glowing
logs describing flickering of the lit Locals reported unease, their
(02:54):
paths burned. My flashlight caught glints in the dark dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air, the mist
thick with the scent of ash and blood. The whispers
grew lead us home. Sleep vanished. I doused the lantern,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Jude Flicker. I spent weeks observing the glass,
(03:15):
sweating a dark soot. One dawn, I woke with the
lantern in hand, the shed marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Jude Stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a flames crackle, Accadians cry, cursing me
to flicker. I tried sinking it. The water spat it back,
the lantern, laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me
toward the marsh, the heat seeping into my bones. Lena's
(03:37):
voice pleading. I fled to a hunter's cabin, But the
lantern's glow follows three fifty at m each night, my
logs showing her face. Listener, if you see orange flickers,
don't light. Some flames never die. We are back with
another stitched tail from listener Tale's podcast. This one sows
from a listener in Canada. They call it The Quilt
(03:59):
that Traps. Part two, The Quilt That Traps. I came
to the tundra of Nunavut after a life woven by
a pattern I couldn't escape, a fabric that held my
every move. At thirty four, i'd been a weaver, crafting
quilts in icolut, my loom and thread, my craft honed
by years of skill, shaped by my grandmother, a textile artist,
(04:19):
who taught me the fabrics hold under the polar knight
that blanketed Frobisher Bay, Her tailies of trapped spirits, filling
my youth with a quiet dread. We'd weave together on
frigid winter evenings, her voice soft over the clack of
the shuttle as she spun stories of souls caught in threads,
until a storm in twenty sixteen buried her at sixty three,
Her loom frozen, leaving me her loom, a sturdy frame
(04:43):
with her initials and a promise murmured through the snow
stitched their bind near her last words, a weave I
couldn't loosen, My quilts flourished with intricate designs. A ribbon
from the Nunavut Arts council in hand until one I
made for the twenty eighteen icolut market tor or under
display seems, splitting cries rising the co op, calling it
(05:04):
weak weave. After an inspection that replayed the rip, costing
me my stall and leaving me with a loss. I
couldn't mend my partner Eli left after six years, his
words sharp as he packed his parker. You trapped our
thread near his departure, a second snag, taking our shared
blankets and the scarf weed sown with no cloth to shape.
(05:25):
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
igloo near Baffin Island. Its walls icy with the bite
of frost, its silence heavy like a held stitch. The
igloo domed relic with ice crusted walls and a floor
that echoed with every shift. In the storage nook, buried
under a pile of frozen pelts, I found a quilt,
its design faded with age, its edge etched k INUK
(05:47):
sixteen hundred in a hand blurred by cold, its corners
frayed as if pulled by unseen hands. Locals in the
nearest hamlet, a scattering of homes eighteen miles east, avoided it.
Their mutters in the seal skin shop, hinting it trapped.
The stitched a tail passed down with a hesitant tug.
But I saw a piece to mend, a link to
(06:09):
my grandmother, away to stitch the bind i'd lost. The
first night I stitched the quilt in the igloo storage nook,
the air thick with the scent of frozen hide and
brittle thread, the wind howling through the seams like a
mournful cord, the ice floor trembling under my weight, as
if the igloo shifted with my presence. The nook was narrow,
a crate with a cracked side, sagging under frost, A
(06:30):
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 tug that seemed to tighten the air.
At four zero zero a m as the night deepened
to a frozen black, the fabric glowed a faint white
light pulsing from the etchings, like snow caught in moonlight.
(06:51):
And I felt a bind, tight and unyielding, a grip
that held my fingers as I worked the needle. A
voice followed, gentle yet insistent, rising from the hide itself,
mend me near my grandmother's voice from those weaving days,
pleading yet distant, the same tone she'd used when she
last patched a seam, her breath smelling of seal oil
(07:11):
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 fabric, their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the quilt. No needle struck,
no thread pulled, The cloth cool and still despite the glow,
(07:33):
but the light held, whispering trap for us near. 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 stitch, the ice creaking on
an unseen strain. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my weaver days, my hands trembling as I wrote
four zero zero, a M You're bound now. The shadows lingered,
(07:54):
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my hands, as if the quilt drew my
stitches into its trap. I blamed the frost settling over
the tundra, the natural play of light on faded fabric,
amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of that market tear
still binding me, the rip sound, the vendors scold, the
co ops, ruling each a thread in a weave. I
(08:15):
couldn't mend, but the igloo wouldn't rest. The next night
I brought a fabric tension gage, its readings, a tool
from my trade, determined to measure the bind, to prove
it was a trick of the cold, or my mind
unraveling after months alone. At four zero zero a m.
The light returned, the white deepening to pale pulse, the
voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
(08:37):
murmuring in overlapping waves. You loosed us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a circle around the quilt, their furs worn and iced, eyes,
hollow mouths open in silent please, their hands clutching needles
that weren't there. I played back the gauge data, loose weave,
no tension, but the voices lingered. Personal now Eli's tone
cutting through the hum. You tangled me, followed by a
(08:58):
buyer's faint and accusing, why didn't you check. I researched
at the Pangnatung Library the next day, a long trek
that left my hands aching from the frost. The elders
glance cautious as I asked about old seamstresses. I found
records of kigut inuk an Inok seamstress who lived near
the coast in sixteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard. Her
quilt found glowing white logs describing trapping of the stitched
(09:21):
that drew people to freeze. Her family lost. Locals reported
disappearances over centuries, their igloos found with quilts left folded,
their last sightings marked by a white glow at dawn.
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
(09:42):
fur and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant hold us home.
Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the nook. The quilt's
glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I folded it into
a chest, the lid heavy with ice, but the white
light seeping through the cracks. The voi race is seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting near trap. I filled
(10:04):
the journal with observations, the cloth sweating, a dark fiber
that pooled on the crate, its texture thick like yarn,
staining the ice black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the tundra hardening with each storm, and one dawn,
I woke with the quilt in my hand, the nook
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own near stay. The log showed
(10:26):
silence on playback, but I heard a thread snap Inuk's cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to trap. With the
stitched I tried burning it in the igloo's oil lamp,
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 door, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the tears,
(10:48):
sound and cries. Eli's voice pleading free me. I fought,
my arms, trembling the weight of the trap a chain,
the glow leading me into the tundra. I fled to
a hunter's tent twenty two miles south, but the quilt's
glow follows four zero zero a m each night, my
shadow bending into Eli's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
(11:09):
My journal wants a record of weaving patterns. Now shows
quilt sketches. I didn't draw, my hand stained with black streaks.
The igloo calls me back, its nook glowing from the tundra. Listener,
if you see white weaves, don't stitch. Some traps never break.
We are back with another breezy tail from Listener Tales podcast.
This one gusts from a listener in Canada. They call
(11:31):
it The Wind that Waiales Part three, The Wind that Wails.
I came to the canyons of Alberta after a life
swept by a gust. I couldn't silence a breeze that
carried my calm away. At thirty six, I'd been a
wind farmer, harnessing breezes in Drumhuller, my turban engage, my
trade honed by years of study, shaped by my mother,
(11:52):
A meteorologist who taught me the airs cry under the
bad Lands, expanse that framed the Red Deer River, her
tailes of whayelling spirits, filling my youth with a restless owe.
We'd monitor together on blustery spring days, her voice clear
over the hum of blades as she adjusted the dials,
recounting stories of travelers lost to sudden gales, until a
(12:13):
storm in twenty eleven claimed her. At sixty four. Her
station shattered, leaving me her anemometer, a brass device with
bent vanes, and a promise whispered through the thunder catch
their wail Tourin her last words, a gust I couldn't
catch My harvests thrived with steady yields, a plaque from
the Alberta Renewable Energy Association in hand, until a wind
(12:35):
I tracked surged during a twenty seventeen test, turbine's buckling
sparks flying, the company calling it uncontrolled flow. After an
inquiry that replayed the surge, costing me my post and
leaving me with a repair bill I couldn't pay. My
wife segreed left after seven years, her words stern as
she packed her windbreaker. You wailed our piece tourin her departure,
(12:58):
a second blast, takeing our weather charts and the scarf
we'd knitted with no wind to harvest. I took a
job as a caretaker for an old outpost near Dinosaur
Provincial Park. Its walls brittle with the wear of time,
its quiet restless like a held breath. The outpost a
leaning shelter with dust choked windows and a floor that
groaned with every step. In the storeroom, buried under pile
(13:20):
of cracked log books, I found an anemometer, its veins
bent with age, its base etched p mats eighteen fifty
in a hand worn by weather, its dial stuck as
if caught in a storm. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes thirteen miles west, avoided it. Their
mutters in the rangers station hinting it wailed the court
A tail passed down with a cautious breath. But I
(13:40):
saw a tool to fix a link to my mother,
away to catch the whale i'd lost. The first night,
I calibrated the anemometer in the outposts storeroom, the air
thick with the scent of dust and weathered steel. The
wind keening through the cracks like a mournful cry, the
floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the outposts swayed
(14:01):
with the gusts. The storeroom was cluttered, a shelf with
a sagging board tilting under debris, A lamp dim and
casting uneven light, the single window framing the shadowed canyons
where the cliffs cut the sky. The anemometer's presence, a
low moan that seemed to stir the stillness at fazarata
a m. As the night deepened to a stark black,
(14:23):
the veins glowed a faint gray light, pulsing from the etchings,
like smoke in moonlight. And I felt a rush, wild
and unrelenting, a force that tuggered my hand. As I
turned the dial. A voice followed, strong yet pleading, rising
from the brass itself. Hold me turon, my mother's voice
from those monitoring days, urging yet faint, the same tone
she'd used when she last read the wind, her breath
(14:45):
smelling of coffee and dust. The glow spread across the anemometer,
casting reflections into the air, shadows forming figures in hats, faceless,
their hands reaching as if grasping for balance. Their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. It rose, my
heart thudding against my ribs. Checking the anemometer, no wind detected,
no spin observed, the veins still under my gaze despite
(15:07):
the glow. But the light held whispering wail for us tarran.
The air grew cooler, a chill that bit through my jacket,
smelling of clay and decay, my breath fogging, as if
the canyons mourned with the court, the wood creaking under
an unseen draft. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my wind farmer days, my hands trembling as I wrote,
faszurata a m. You're swept now. The shadows lingered, their
(15:31):
forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a tug
in my lungs, as if the anemometer drew my breath
into its wail. I blamed the draft seeping through the canyons,
the natural play of light on tarnished metal, amplified by
my exhaustion, the guilt of that surge still gusting in me,
the crash of blades. The supervisors shout the company's verdict,
each a gust in, a harvest I couldn't control. But
(15:54):
the outpost wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
wind velocity meter, its readings, a tool from my trade,
determined to measure the rush, to prove it was a
trick of the cold or my mind unraveling after months
alone at Fazzarata a m the light returned, the gray
deepening to a swirling pulse. The voice joined by others,
(16:14):
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
You released us. The shadows sharpened, forming a line across
the room, their hats tattered and dusted, eyes hollow, mouths
open in silent cries, their hands clutching tools that weren't there.
I played back the meter data, still air, no movement,
but the voices lingered. Personal now seagreed's tone cutting through
(16:36):
the hum. You blew me away, followed by a worker
faint and accusing, why didn't you warn? I researched at
the Brooks Library the next day, a long hike that
left my hands aching from the cold. The rangers glance
wary as I asked about old trappers. I found records
of Peer Mutters, a Mutter's trapper who roamed the bad
lands in eighteen fifty, vanishing during a dust storm. His
(16:59):
anemometer found glowing gray logs describing wailing of the court
that drew people to drift his camp lost. Locals reported
disappearances over centuries, their outposts found with anemometers left silent,
their last sightings marked by a gray glow. At dawn,
my flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
(17:20):
dozens of eyes, pale and stirruping, dotting the air like
grains in a gust, The dust thickening with the scent
of earth and blood, a stench that clung to my
hair and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant cry
us home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the storeroom.
The anemometers glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I covered
it with a canvas tarp, the fabric cold to the touch,
(17:43):
but the gray light seeping through the weave, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting turun wail I
filled the journal with observations, the veins sweating, a dark
grime that pooled on the shelf, its texture thick like mud,
staining the wood black as it spread weeks past, the
isolation deepening the canyons, eroding with each storm and one dawn.
(18:05):
I work with the anemometer in my hand, the store
room floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot,
the voices layered with my own taran stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a wind's howl,
mutterser's cry, rising over the gusts, cursing me to wail
with the court. I tried burying it in the earth
behind the outpost, the shovel sinking deep the ground rejected it,
(18:28):
the anemometer, 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 surges, roar and cries. Sigrid's voice, pleading hold
me Turan. I fought my arms, trembling the weight of
the whale a chain, the glow leading me into the canyons.
I fled to a ranger's hut twenty five miles east,
(18:50):
but the anemometer's glow follows for Zarata a m each night,
my shadow bending into Sigrid's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of wind patterns
now shows anamometer sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained
with black streaks. The outpost calls me back. It's storeroom
glowing from the canyons. Listener, if you hear gray howls,
(19:11):
don't measure some winds. Never hush. We're back for the
final tale from listener Taille's podcast. This one seats from
a listener in Canada. They call it The Chair that Holds.
Part four, The Chair that Holds. I came to the
forests of Quebec after a life seated by a weight.
I couldn't lift, a burden that anchored my every step.
(19:32):
At thirty five, i'd been a carpenter, crafting furniture in
Quebec City. My chisel and plane my trade honed by
years of craft, shaped by my grandfather, a woodworker who
taught me the timber's grip under the forest's shade that
darkened the sun Laurentz River, his tailies of holding spirits,
filling my youth with a sturdy unease. We'd carved together
(19:53):
on crisp autumn days, his voice steady over the rasp
of tools as he shaped a leg, recounting stories of
st settlers bound to chairs until a fall in twenty
fifteen took him At sixty six. His work bench splintered,
leaving me his chair, a sturdy oak piece with a
carved back and a promise growled through the pane bare
their sit luck, his last words a load I couldn't shoulder.
(20:17):
My works thrived with solid designs, a certificate from the
Quebec Woodworkers Guild in hand, until a chair I built
for the twenty nineteen Quebec City Fair collapsed under a guest,
wood cracking, shouts rising, the guild calling it flimsy frame
after an inspection that replayed the break, costing me my
workshop and leaving me with a fine. I couldn't plane.
(20:39):
My Fianza Clare left after five years, her words firm
as she packed her toolkit. You held our ruin luck.
Her departure a second collapse, taking our joint carvings and
the ring we'd forged with no wood to shape. I
took a job as a caretaker for an old lodge
near mountmoransa falls, its beams creaking with the strain of age,
(20:59):
its quiet tents like a held breath, The lodgers sagging
structure with moss covered walls and a floor that echoed
with every tread. In the attic, buried under a pile
of warped planks, I found a chair, its wood warped
with time, its back etched j French seventeen fifty, in
a hand worn by labour, its seats sagging as if
(21:20):
weighed by invisible hands. Locals in the nearest village, a
cluster of homes fourteen miles north, avoided it, their mutters
in the lumber yard hinting it held the sat a
tail passed down with a cautious tap. But I saw
a piece to restore a link to my grandfather, away
to bear the sit I'd lost. The first night I
(21:41):
planed the chair in the lodge attic, the air thick
with the scent of sawdust and aged oak, the wind
rattling through the eaves like a distant groan, the floorboards
groaning under my step, as if the lodge leaned with
the work. The attic was cluttered, a trunk with a
split lid, sagging under dust, A lamp dim and casting
jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark woods, where
(22:01):
the pines stood like silent sentinels. The chair's presence a
faint pressure that seemed to press the air. At four
zero four a m. As the night deepened to a
murky black, the wood glowed a faint brown light, pulsing
from the etchings like sap in sunlight, and I felt
a hold firm and inescapable, a weight that pinned my
hand as I ran the plane. A voice followed, deep
(22:22):
yet pleading, rising from the oak itself, support me, Luke,
my grandfather's voice from those carving days, urging yet faint,
the same tone he'd used when he last shaped a seat,
his breath smelling of cedar and sweat. The glow spread
across the chair, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in vests, faceless, their hands resting as if settling
(22:44):
into place, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the chair,
No weight detected, no shift observed, the wood still under
my gaze despite the glow, but the light held whispering
hold for us, Luke. The air grew warmer, a heat
that pressed through my shirt, smelling of resin and decay,
(23:04):
my breath fogging as if the forest side with the sat,
the beams creaking under an unseen load. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my carpenter days, my hands
trembling as I wrote, four zero four a m. You're
seated now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my back, as
if the chair drew my strength into its hold. I
(23:26):
blamed the humidity rising from the falls, the natural play
of light on polished wood, amplified by my fatigue, the
guilt of that collapse still pressing me. The cracks echo,
the guests cry, the guilds ruling, each a splinter in
a frame. I couldn't strengthen, but the lodge wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a strained gage, its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the hold,
(23:47):
to prove it was a trick of the damp or
my mind unraveling after months alone. At four zero four
a m. The light returned, the brown deepening to a
rich pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus of men,
women and children, murmuring in overlapping waves, You dropped us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a row across the attic, Their
vests faded and torn, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent size,
(24:09):
their hands clutching tools that weren't there. I played back
the gauge day to stable load, no stress, but the
voices lingered personal now clayer's tone cutting through the hum
you let me fall, followed by a visitors faint and accusing,
why didn't you test? I researched at the Beaupreix Library
the next day, a long walk that left my hands
aching from the cold, the keeper's glance weary. As I
(24:31):
asked about old settlers. I found records of Jacques French,
a French Canadian settler who lived near the falls in
seventeen fifty, vanishing during a flood. His chair found glowing
brown logs describing holding of the sat that drew people
to sit his home. Abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their lodges found with chairs left upright, their last sightings
(24:54):
marked by a brown glow. At dawn, my flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the air like knots in grain,
the dust thickening with the scent of pine and blood.
A stench that clung to my fingers and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant, lift us home. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the attic, The chairs glow a
(25:16):
beacon I couldn't escape. I stored it in a wooden crate,
the lid heavy with age, but the brown light seeping
through the joints, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Luke hold. I filled the journal with observations,
the woods sweating, a dark sap that pooled on the trunk,
its texture thick like pitch, staining the floor black as
it spread weeks past, the isolation deepening, the forest thickening
(25:41):
with each rain. And one dawn, I woke with the
chair in my hand, the attic floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Luke's stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a creak's groan, frenches cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to hold with the sat. I tried breaking
it with an axe from the lodge, the blades slipping
against the oak. The chair laughed, a hollow your hours
(26:03):
that echoed off the rafters, shadows dragged me toward the window,
the warmth seeping into my bones, the air thick with
the memory of the collapse's thud, and cries Clayre's voice,
pleading raise me up. I fought, my legs trembling, the
weight of the holder chain, the glow leading me into
the woods. I fled to a logger's cabin twenty seven
(26:24):
miles east. But the chair's glow follows four zero four
a m each night, my shadow bending into Clayre's face,
her eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of woodworking plans, now shows chair sketches. I didn't draw.
My hands stained with black streaks. The lodge calls me back.
It's attic glowing from the woods. Listener, if you see
brown grips, don't sit. Some holds never release. Thank you
(26:47):
for joining me, Sir Winstone, on this journey through four
dark tailies. Until next time, stay out of the seat.
Welcome to listener Tilees Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once again. To day we light four
new taiales from listeners on the edges of Canada's untamed lands,
each a flicker of fear from its veiled past. No brakes,
just the steady glow of those who have seen the unknown.
Prepare yourself if you're brave, as we dim into the dark.
(00:22):
Part one, The Lantern that Flickers. I came to the
marshes of New Brunswick after life lit by a flame
I couldn't steady. At thirty three, I'd been a guide,
leading tour in fredericton my lantern and map, my tools,
shaped by my father, a ranger who taught me the
light's path under the swamp's haze, his tailies of flickering
spirits filling my youth. We'd navigate together, his voice steady
(00:44):
over the splash of water, until a Maya sucked him
at sixty, leaving me his lantern and a promise to
light their way. Jude, my tour dimmed when a lantern
I carried flared during a trip, causing a fire the park,
calling it reckless glow, costing me my badge. My partner
Lana left her words cold, you burned our trust. Jude
and I took a job as a caretaker for an
(01:06):
old shack near Kuchebauguak National Park, its walls sodden, its quiet, uneasy.
In the shed I found a lantern, its glass cracked,
its base etched g Acadian sixteen eighty locals warning it flickered.
The lit, but I saw a light to mend a
link to my father. First night, I lit the lantern
in the shack shed, the air thick with the scent
(01:28):
of mold and rusted metal, the wind moaning through the gaps,
the floorboards slick under my boots. The shed was cramped,
a crate with a rotted side, A lamp dim the
single window framing the misty marsh, the lantern's presence, a
wavering flame. At three fifty eight a m the glass
glowed a faint orange light pulsing from the etchings, and
I felt a heat, unsteady and consuming. A voice followed,
(01:49):
gruff yet pleading, guide me, Jude, my father's voice from
those gidding days, Urging yet faint. The glows spread, shadows
forming in the air, figures in coats faceless, their hands shielding.
I checked the lantern, no fuel, no burn, but the
light held whispering flicker for us, Jude. I logged it
in my journal. Three fifty eight a m. Your lit.
(02:09):
Now the air grew warmer, smelling of peat and decay.
My breath fogging as if the marsh mourned. I blamed
the damp, the guilt of that fire still flickering in me,
but the shack wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a heat censor, determined to measure the heat. At three
fifty eight a m. The glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you scorched us. The shadows sharpened, forming a group.
(02:32):
Their coats singed, eyes hollow. I played back the data,
cool air, but the voices lingered. Lana's tone cutting you
seared me. I researched at the Richibucto Library, my hands
aching from the cold, finding records of Gil's Acadian, a
settler who vanished in sixteen eighty. His lantern found glowing
logs describing flickering of the lit Locals reported unease, their
(02:54):
paths burned. My flashlight caught glints in the dark dozens
of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air, the mist
thick with the scent of ash and blood. The whispers
grew lead us home. Sleep vanished. I doused the lantern,
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Jude Flicker. I spent weeks observing the glass,
(03:15):
sweating a dark soot. One dawn, I woke with the
lantern in hand, the shed marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own, Jude Stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a flames crackle, Accadians cry, cursing me
to flicker. I tried sinking it. The water spat it back,
the lantern, laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me
toward the marsh, the heat seeping into my bones. Lena's
(03:37):
voice pleading. I fled to a hunter's cabin, But the
lantern's glow follows three fifty at m each night, my
logs showing her face. Listener, if you see orange flickers,
don't light. Some flames never die. We are back with
another stitched tail from listener Tale's podcast. This one sows
from a listener in Canada. They call it The Quilt
(03:59):
that Traps. Part two, The Quilt That Traps. I came
to the tundra of Nunavut after a life woven by
a pattern I couldn't escape, a fabric that held my
every move. At thirty four, i'd been a weaver, crafting
quilts in icolut, my loom and thread, my craft honed
by years of skill, shaped by my grandmother, a textile artist,
(04:19):
who taught me the fabrics hold under the polar knight
that blanketed Frobisher Bay, Her tailies of trapped spirits, filling
my youth with a quiet dread. We'd weave together on
frigid winter evenings, her voice soft over the clack of
the shuttle as she spun stories of souls caught in threads,
until a storm in twenty sixteen buried her at sixty three,
Her loom frozen, leaving me her loom, a sturdy frame
(04:43):
with her initials and a promise murmured through the snow
stitched their bind near her last words, a weave I
couldn't loosen, My quilts flourished with intricate designs. A ribbon
from the Nunavut Arts council in hand until one I
made for the twenty eighteen icolut market tor or under
display seems, splitting cries rising the co op, calling it
(05:04):
weak weave. After an inspection that replayed the rip, costing
me my stall and leaving me with a loss. I
couldn't mend my partner Eli left after six years, his
words sharp as he packed his parker. You trapped our
thread near his departure, a second snag, taking our shared
blankets and the scarf weed sown with no cloth to shape.
(05:25):
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
igloo near Baffin Island. Its walls icy with the bite
of frost, its silence heavy like a held stitch. The
igloo domed relic with ice crusted walls and a floor
that echoed with every shift. In the storage nook, buried
under a pile of frozen pelts, I found a quilt,
its design faded with age, its edge etched k INUK
(05:47):
sixteen hundred in a hand blurred by cold, its corners
frayed as if pulled by unseen hands. Locals in the
nearest hamlet, a scattering of homes eighteen miles east, avoided it.
Their mutters in the seal skin shop, hinting it trapped.
The stitched a tail passed down with a hesitant tug.
But I saw a piece to mend, a link to
(06:09):
my grandmother, away to stitch the bind i'd lost. The
first night I stitched the quilt in the igloo storage nook,
the air thick with the scent of frozen hide and
brittle thread, the wind howling through the seams like a
mournful cord, the ice floor trembling under my weight, as
if the igloo shifted with my presence. The nook was narrow,
a crate with a cracked side, sagging under frost, A
(06:30):
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 tug that seemed to tighten the air.
At four zero zero a m as the night deepened
to a frozen black, the fabric glowed a faint white
light pulsing from the etchings, like snow caught in moonlight.
(06:51):
And I felt a bind, tight and unyielding, a grip
that held my fingers as I worked the needle. A
voice followed, gentle yet insistent, rising from the hide itself,
mend me near my grandmother's voice from those weaving days,
pleading yet distant, the same tone she'd used when she
last patched a seam, her breath smelling of seal oil
(07:11):
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 fabric, their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze, my
heart thudding against my ribs, checking the quilt. No needle struck,
no thread pulled, The cloth cool and still despite the glow,
(07:33):
but the light held, whispering trap for us near. 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 stitch, the ice creaking on
an unseen strain. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my weaver days, my hands trembling as I wrote
four zero zero, a M You're bound now. The shadows lingered,
(07:54):
their forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a
tug in my hands, as if the quilt drew my
stitches into its trap. I blamed the frost settling over
the tundra, the natural play of light on faded fabric,
amplified by my fatigue, the guilt of that market tear
still binding me, the rip sound, the vendors scold, the
co ops, ruling each a thread in a weave. I
(08:15):
couldn't mend, but the igloo wouldn't rest. The next night
I brought a fabric tension gage, its readings, a tool
from my trade, determined to measure the bind, to prove
it was a trick of the cold, or my mind
unraveling after months alone. At four zero zero a m.
The light returned, the white deepening to pale pulse, the
voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
(08:37):
murmuring in overlapping waves. You loosed us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a circle around the quilt, their furs worn and iced, eyes,
hollow mouths open in silent please, their hands clutching needles
that weren't there. I played back the gauge data, loose weave,
no tension, but the voices lingered. Personal now Eli's tone
cutting through the hum. You tangled me, followed by a
(08:58):
buyer's faint and accusing, why didn't you check. I researched
at the Pangnatung Library the next day, a long trek
that left my hands aching from the frost. The elders
glance cautious as I asked about old seamstresses. I found
records of kigut inuk an Inok seamstress who lived near
the coast in sixteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard. Her
quilt found glowing white logs describing trapping of the stitched
(09:21):
that drew people to freeze. Her family lost. Locals reported
disappearances over centuries, their igloos found with quilts left folded,
their last sightings marked by a white glow at dawn.
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
(09:42):
fur and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant hold us home.
Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the nook. The quilt's
glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I folded it into
a chest, the lid heavy with ice, but the white
light seeping through the cracks. The voi race is seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting near trap. I filled
(10:04):
the journal with observations, the cloth sweating, a dark fiber
that pooled on the crate, its texture thick like yarn,
staining the ice black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the tundra hardening with each storm, and one dawn,
I woke with the quilt in my hand, the nook
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own near stay. The log showed
(10:26):
silence on playback, but I heard a thread snap Inuk's cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to trap. With the
stitched I tried burning it in the igloo's oil lamp,
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 door, the cold seeping into
my bones, the air thick with the memory of the tears,
(10:48):
sound and cries. Eli's voice pleading free me. I fought,
my arms, trembling the weight of the trap a chain,
the glow leading me into the tundra. I fled to
a hunter's tent twenty two miles south, but the quilt's
glow follows four zero zero a m each night, my
shadow bending into Eli's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
(11:09):
My journal wants a record of weaving patterns. Now shows
quilt sketches. I didn't draw, my hand stained with black streaks.
The igloo calls me back, its nook glowing from the tundra. Listener,
if you see white weaves, don't stitch. Some traps never break.
We are back with another breezy tail from Listener Tales podcast.
This one gusts from a listener in Canada. They call
(11:31):
it The Wind that Waiales Part three, The Wind that Wails.
I came to the canyons of Alberta after a life
swept by a gust. I couldn't silence a breeze that
carried my calm away. At thirty six, I'd been a
wind farmer, harnessing breezes in Drumhuller, my turban engage, my
trade honed by years of study, shaped by my mother,
(11:52):
A meteorologist who taught me the airs cry under the
bad Lands, expanse that framed the Red Deer River, her
tailes of whayelling spirits, filling my youth with a restless owe.
We'd monitor together on blustery spring days, her voice clear
over the hum of blades as she adjusted the dials,
recounting stories of travelers lost to sudden gales, until a
(12:13):
storm in twenty eleven claimed her. At sixty four. Her
station shattered, leaving me her anemometer, a brass device with
bent vanes, and a promise whispered through the thunder catch
their wail Tourin her last words, a gust I couldn't
catch My harvests thrived with steady yields, a plaque from
the Alberta Renewable Energy Association in hand, until a wind
(12:35):
I tracked surged during a twenty seventeen test, turbine's buckling
sparks flying, the company calling it uncontrolled flow. After an
inquiry that replayed the surge, costing me my post and
leaving me with a repair bill I couldn't pay. My
wife segreed left after seven years, her words stern as
she packed her windbreaker. You wailed our piece tourin her departure,
(12:58):
a second blast, takeing our weather charts and the scarf
we'd knitted with no wind to harvest. I took a
job as a caretaker for an old outpost near Dinosaur
Provincial Park. Its walls brittle with the wear of time,
its quiet restless like a held breath. The outpost a
leaning shelter with dust choked windows and a floor that
groaned with every step. In the storeroom, buried under pile
(13:20):
of cracked log books, I found an anemometer, its veins
bent with age, its base etched p mats eighteen fifty
in a hand worn by weather, its dial stuck as
if caught in a storm. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes thirteen miles west, avoided it. Their
mutters in the rangers station hinting it wailed the court
A tail passed down with a cautious breath. But I
(13:40):
saw a tool to fix a link to my mother,
away to catch the whale i'd lost. The first night,
I calibrated the anemometer in the outposts storeroom, the air
thick with the scent of dust and weathered steel. The
wind keening through the cracks like a mournful cry, the
floorboards shifting under my weight, as if the outposts swayed
(14:01):
with the gusts. The storeroom was cluttered, a shelf with
a sagging board tilting under debris, A lamp dim and
casting uneven light, the single window framing the shadowed canyons
where the cliffs cut the sky. The anemometer's presence, a
low moan that seemed to stir the stillness at fazarata
a m. As the night deepened to a stark black,
(14:23):
the veins glowed a faint gray light, pulsing from the etchings,
like smoke in moonlight. And I felt a rush, wild
and unrelenting, a force that tuggered my hand. As I
turned the dial. A voice followed, strong yet pleading, rising
from the brass itself. Hold me turon, my mother's voice
from those monitoring days, urging yet faint, the same tone
she'd used when she last read the wind, her breath
(14:45):
smelling of coffee and dust. The glow spread across the anemometer,
casting reflections into the air, shadows forming figures in hats, faceless,
their hands reaching as if grasping for balance. Their forms
swaying with the rhythm of the wind. It rose, my
heart thudding against my ribs. Checking the anemometer, no wind detected,
no spin observed, the veins still under my gaze despite
(15:07):
the glow. But the light held whispering wail for us tarran.
The air grew cooler, a chill that bit through my jacket,
smelling of clay and decay, my breath fogging, as if
the canyons mourned with the court, the wood creaking under
an unseen draft. I stumbled to my journal, a log
from my wind farmer days, my hands trembling as I wrote,
faszurata a m. You're swept now. The shadows lingered, their
(15:31):
forms drifting closer, and I felt a pull, a tug
in my lungs, as if the anemometer drew my breath
into its wail. I blamed the draft seeping through the canyons,
the natural play of light on tarnished metal, amplified by
my exhaustion, the guilt of that surge still gusting in me,
the crash of blades. The supervisors shout the company's verdict,
each a gust in, a harvest I couldn't control. But
(15:54):
the outpost wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a
wind velocity meter, its readings, a tool from my trade,
determined to measure the rush, to prove it was a
trick of the cold or my mind unraveling after months
alone at Fazzarata a m the light returned, the gray
deepening to a swirling pulse. The voice joined by others,
(16:14):
a chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves.
You released us. The shadows sharpened, forming a line across
the room, their hats tattered and dusted, eyes hollow, mouths
open in silent cries, their hands clutching tools that weren't there.
I played back the meter data, still air, no movement,
but the voices lingered. Personal now seagreed's tone cutting through
(16:36):
the hum. You blew me away, followed by a worker
faint and accusing, why didn't you warn? I researched at
the Brooks Library the next day, a long hike that
left my hands aching from the cold. The rangers glance
wary as I asked about old trappers. I found records
of Peer Mutters, a Mutter's trapper who roamed the bad
lands in eighteen fifty, vanishing during a dust storm. His
(16:59):
anemometer found glowing gray logs describing wailing of the court
that drew people to drift his camp lost. Locals reported
disappearances over centuries, their outposts found with anemometers left silent,
their last sightings marked by a gray glow. At dawn,
my flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
(17:20):
dozens of eyes, pale and stirruping, dotting the air like
grains in a gust, The dust thickening with the scent
of earth and blood, a stench that clung to my
hair and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant cry
us home sleep vanished, my nights spent in the storeroom.
The anemometers glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I covered
it with a canvas tarp, the fabric cold to the touch,
(17:43):
but the gray light seeping through the weave, the voices
seeping into my dreams, the figures chanting turun wail I
filled the journal with observations, the veins sweating, a dark
grime that pooled on the shelf, its texture thick like mud,
staining the wood black as it spread weeks past, the
isolation deepening the canyons, eroding with each storm and one dawn.
(18:05):
I work with the anemometer in my hand, the store
room floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot,
the voices layered with my own taran stay. The log
showed silence on playback, but I heard a wind's howl,
mutterser's cry, rising over the gusts, cursing me to wail
with the court. I tried burying it in the earth
behind the outpost, the shovel sinking deep the ground rejected it,
(18:28):
the anemometer, 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 surges, roar and cries. Sigrid's voice, pleading hold
me Turan. I fought my arms, trembling the weight of
the whale a chain, the glow leading me into the canyons.
I fled to a ranger's hut twenty five miles east,
(18:50):
but the anemometer's glow follows for Zarata a m each night,
my shadow bending into Sigrid's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of wind patterns
now shows anamometer sketches I didn't draw, my hands stained
with black streaks. The outpost calls me back. It's storeroom
glowing from the canyons. Listener, if you hear gray howls,
(19:11):
don't measure some winds. Never hush. We're back for the
final tale from listener Taille's podcast. This one seats from
a listener in Canada. They call it The Chair that Holds.
Part four, The Chair that Holds. I came to the
forests of Quebec after a life seated by a weight.
I couldn't lift, a burden that anchored my every step.
(19:32):
At thirty five, i'd been a carpenter, crafting furniture in
Quebec City. My chisel and plane my trade honed by
years of craft, shaped by my grandfather, a woodworker who
taught me the timber's grip under the forest's shade that
darkened the sun Laurentz River, his tailies of holding spirits,
filling my youth with a sturdy unease. We'd carved together
(19:53):
on crisp autumn days, his voice steady over the rasp
of tools as he shaped a leg, recounting stories of
st settlers bound to chairs until a fall in twenty
fifteen took him At sixty six. His work bench splintered,
leaving me his chair, a sturdy oak piece with a
carved back and a promise growled through the pane bare
their sit luck, his last words a load I couldn't shoulder.
(20:17):
My works thrived with solid designs, a certificate from the
Quebec Woodworkers Guild in hand, until a chair I built
for the twenty nineteen Quebec City Fair collapsed under a guest,
wood cracking, shouts rising, the guild calling it flimsy frame
after an inspection that replayed the break, costing me my
workshop and leaving me with a fine. I couldn't plane.
(20:39):
My Fianza Clare left after five years, her words firm
as she packed her toolkit. You held our ruin luck.
Her departure a second collapse, taking our joint carvings and
the ring we'd forged with no wood to shape. I
took a job as a caretaker for an old lodge
near mountmoransa falls, its beams creaking with the strain of age,
(20:59):
its quiet tents like a held breath, The lodgers sagging
structure with moss covered walls and a floor that echoed
with every tread. In the attic, buried under a pile
of warped planks, I found a chair, its wood warped
with time, its back etched j French seventeen fifty, in
a hand worn by labour, its seats sagging as if
(21:20):
weighed by invisible hands. Locals in the nearest village, a
cluster of homes fourteen miles north, avoided it, their mutters
in the lumber yard hinting it held the sat a
tail passed down with a cautious tap. But I saw
a piece to restore a link to my grandfather, away
to bear the sit I'd lost. The first night I
(21:41):
planed the chair in the lodge attic, the air thick
with the scent of sawdust and aged oak, the wind
rattling through the eaves like a distant groan, the floorboards
groaning under my step, as if the lodge leaned with
the work. The attic was cluttered, a trunk with a
split lid, sagging under dust, A lamp dim and casting
jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark woods, where
(22:01):
the pines stood like silent sentinels. The chair's presence a
faint pressure that seemed to press the air. At four
zero four a m. As the night deepened to a
murky black, the wood glowed a faint brown light, pulsing
from the etchings like sap in sunlight, and I felt
a hold firm and inescapable, a weight that pinned my
hand as I ran the plane. A voice followed, deep
(22:22):
yet pleading, rising from the oak itself, support me, Luke,
my grandfather's voice from those carving days, urging yet faint,
the same tone he'd used when he last shaped a seat,
his breath smelling of cedar and sweat. The glow spread
across the chair, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in vests, faceless, their hands resting as if settling
(22:44):
into place, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the chair,
No weight detected, no shift observed, the wood still under
my gaze despite the glow, but the light held whispering
hold for us, Luke. The air grew warmer, a heat
that pressed through my shirt, smelling of resin and decay,
(23:04):
my breath fogging as if the forest side with the sat,
the beams creaking under an unseen load. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my carpenter days, my hands
trembling as I wrote, four zero four a m. You're
seated now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my back, as
if the chair drew my strength into its hold. I
(23:26):
blamed the humidity rising from the falls, the natural play
of light on polished wood, amplified by my fatigue, the
guilt of that collapse still pressing me. The cracks echo,
the guests cry, the guilds ruling, each a splinter in
a frame. I couldn't strengthen, but the lodge wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a strained gage, its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the hold,
(23:47):
to prove it was a trick of the damp or
my mind unraveling after months alone. At four zero four
a m. The light returned, the brown deepening to a
rich pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus of men,
women and children, murmuring in overlapping waves, You dropped us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a row across the attic, Their
vests faded and torn, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent size,
(24:09):
their hands clutching tools that weren't there. I played back
the gauge day to stable load, no stress, but the
voices lingered personal now clayer's tone cutting through the hum
you let me fall, followed by a visitors faint and accusing,
why didn't you test? I researched at the Beaupreix Library
the next day, a long walk that left my hands
aching from the cold, the keeper's glance weary. As I
(24:31):
asked about old settlers. I found records of Jacques French,
a French Canadian settler who lived near the falls in
seventeen fifty, vanishing during a flood. His chair found glowing
brown logs describing holding of the sat that drew people
to sit his home. Abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries,
their lodges found with chairs left upright, their last sightings
(24:54):
marked by a brown glow. At dawn, my flashlight, held
high that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes,
pale and staring, dotting the air like knots in grain,
the dust thickening with the scent of pine and blood.
A stench that clung to my fingers and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant, lift us home. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the attic, The chairs glow a
(25:16):
beacon I couldn't escape. I stored it in a wooden crate,
the lid heavy with age, but the brown light seeping
through the joints, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Luke hold. I filled the journal with observations,
the woods sweating, a dark sap that pooled on the trunk,
its texture thick like pitch, staining the floor black as
it spread weeks past, the isolation deepening, the forest thickening
(25:41):
with each rain. And one dawn, I woke with the
chair in my hand, the attic floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Luke's stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a creak's groan, frenches cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to hold with the sat. I tried breaking
it with an axe from the lodge, the blades slipping
against the oak. The chair laughed, a hollow your hours
(26:03):
that echoed off the rafters, shadows dragged me toward the window,
the warmth seeping into my bones, the air thick with
the memory of the collapse's thud, and cries Clayre's voice,
pleading raise me up. I fought, my legs trembling, the
weight of the holder chain, the glow leading me into
the woods. I fled to a logger's cabin twenty seven
(26:24):
miles east. But the chair's glow follows four zero four
a m each night, my shadow bending into Clayre's face,
her eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of woodworking plans, now shows chair sketches. I didn't draw.
My hands stained with black streaks. The lodge calls me back.
It's attic glowing from the woods. Listener, if you see
brown grips, don't sit. Some holds never release. Thank you
(26:47):
for joining me, Sir Winstone, on this journey through four
dark tailies. Until next time, stay out of the seat.
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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.