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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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to Listener Talies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows yet again to day we peer into
four new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's
wild frontiers, each a reflection of terror from its hidden corners.
No interruptions, just the unbroken gaze of those who have
faced the uncanny. Steal yourself if you dare, as we
(00:22):
look into the Dark. Part one, The Mirror that Reflects.
I came to the hills of Nova, Scotia after a
life mirrored by an image I couldn't escape. At thirty two,
I'd been a photographer capturing landscapes in Halifax. My camera
and lens, my craft shaped by my uncle, a portraitist,
who taught me the glass's gaze under the coastal fog,
his tales of reflecting spirits filling my youth. We'd shoot together,
(00:46):
his voice calm over the click of shutters, until a
wave took him at fifty eight, leaving me his mirror
and a promise to see their face rear. My photos
distorted when a mirror I used reflected a strange scene
during a shoot, alarming clients the studio, calling it altered vision,
costing me my contract. My boyfriend Owen left his words
(01:06):
bitter you reflected our end rear and I took a
job as a caretaker for an old cottage near Cape
Breton Highlands, its walls damp, its quiet, eerie. In the
cellar I found a mirror, its frame cracked, its edge
etched m Migma seventeen hundred locals, warning it reflected the scene.
But I saw a prop to clean, a link to
(01:27):
my uncle. The first night I polished the mirror in
the cottage cellar, the air thick with the scent of
mildew and tarnished silver, the wind whispering through the vents,
the floor slick under my boots. The cellar was cramped
a box with a warped top, A lamp dim the
single window framing the foggy hills, the mirror's presence a
faint shimmer. At four forty a m. The glass glowed
(01:47):
a faint silver light pulsing from the etchings, and I
felt a stare, piercing and endless. A voice followed, soft
yet commanding. Look at me, rear, my uncle's voice from
those shooting days, pleading yet distant. The glow spread shadows
forming in the air, figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands covering.
I checked the mirror, no image, no reflection, but the
(02:08):
light held whispering reflect for us rear. I logged it
in my journal four forty a m. You're scene now.
The air grew cooler, smelling of salt and decay, my
breath fogging, as if the hills mourned. I blamed the mist,
the guilt of that distorted shot still reflecting in me,
but the cottage wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a light meter, determined to measure the stare. At four
(02:30):
forty a m. The glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you hid us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd,
their cloaks tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the day
a dim room, but the voices lingered. Owen's tone cutting
you obscured me. I researched at the Shater Camp library,
my hands aching from the cold, finding records of Mickey's Migma,
(02:52):
a heeler who vanished in seventeen hundred. His mirror found
glowing logs describing reflecting of the scene. Locals reported uneas
their faces lost. My flashlight caught glints in the dark.
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air, the
fog thick with the scent of seaweed and blood. The
whispers grew show us home. Sleep vanished. I covered the mirror,
(03:14):
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting rear reflect. I spent weeks observing the frame,
sweating a dark film. One dawn, I woke with the
mirror in hand, the cellar marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own Rea stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a glass's hum, Migma's cry, cursing me
to reflect. I tried smashing it. The hammer bounced, the mirror,
(03:36):
laughing a hollow. Your hours shadows dragged me toward the hills,
the cold seeping into my bones. Owen's voice pleading. I
fled to a fisherman's hut. But the mirror's glow follows
four forty a m each night, my logs showing his face. Listener,
if you see silver glares, don't look. Some reflections never fade.
(03:57):
We are back with another glowing tail from listener tale
Le podcast. This one shines from a listener. In Canada,
they call it the Lantern that Burns. Part two, The
Lantern That Burns. I came to the valleys of British
Columbia after a life kindled by a flame. I couldn't
douse a spark that ignited my every loss. At thirty four,
(04:18):
I'd been a night watchman, guarding sights in Kamloops. My
lantern and whistle, my tools honed by years of vigilance,
shaped by my father, a lighthouse keeper who taught me
the fire's watch. Under the mountain dusk that shadowed the
Thompson River, his tailies of burning spirits, filling my youth
with a wary glow. We'd patrol together on moonless nights,
(04:39):
his voice firm over the flicker of light as he
checked the beam, recounting stories of sailors lost to sudden fires,
until a blaze in twenty twelve took him at fifty nine.
His tower gutted, leaving me his lantern, a brass frame
with soot streaked glass, and a promise murmured through the smoke,
keep their fire chi his last words, aflame, I couldn't
(04:59):
tend my vigils thrived with steady rounds, a commendation from
the Kamloops Security Association in hand until a lantern I
held flared during a twenty eighteen warehouse shift crates, igniting alarms,
blaring the firm, calling it negligent spark. After an investigation
that replayed the blaze, costing me my job and leaving
(05:21):
me with a settlement, I couldn't rebuild. My girlfriend Tara
left after four years, her words harsh as she packed
her flashlight. You burned our bond Kai her departure a
second ember, taking our patrol logs in the lighter we'd
engraved with no sight to guard. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near Wells Gray
Provincial Park, its walls charred by past flames, its quiet
(05:43):
tents like a held breath. The cabin a leaning structure
with blackened beams and a floor that crackled with every step.
In the shed, buried under pile of singed tools, I
found a lantern, its glass soot streaked with age, its
base etched e Okanagan eighteen hundred in a handwork gathered
by smoke, its wick blackened as if burned beyond use.
Locals in the nearest hamlet, a cluster of home seventeen
(06:06):
miles south, avoided it, their mutters in the trading post,
hinting it burned. The lit A tail passed down with
a cautious spark. But I saw a light to tend
a link to my father away to keep the fire
i'd lost. The first night, I lit the lantern in
the cabin shed, the air thick with the scent of
ash and rusted iron, the wind sighing through the cracks
like a dying fire, the floorboards creaking under my weight,
(06:28):
as if the cabin swayed with the heat. The shed
was cluttered, a barrel with a split side, rolling under pressure,
A lamp dim and casting uneven light. The single window
framing the misty valley where the ridges loomed, the lantern's presence,
a faint heat that seemed to pulse with intent. At
four forty two a m. As the night deepened to
a smoky black, the glass glowed a faint red light,
(06:52):
pulsing from the etchings like embers in dusk, and I
felt a burn, sharp and persistent, a sting that seared
my palm. As I held the handle. A voice followed,
gruff yet pleading, rising from the brass itself tend me kai.
My father's voice from those patrolling days, urging yet faint,
the same tone he'd used when he last trimmed the wick,
(07:12):
his breath smelling of oil and salt. The glow spread
across the lantern, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in coats, faceless, their hands shielding as if against
a blaze, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the lantern,
no fuel added, no flame lit, the glass, cool and
(07:33):
still despite the glow, But the light held, whispering, burned
for us. Kay. The air grew warmer, a heat that
pressed through my jackets, smelling of smoke and decay, my
breath fogging as if the valley mourned with the lit
the wood creaking under an unseen flare. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my Watchman days, my hands
trembling as I wrote four forty two, a M You're
kindled now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
(07:58):
I felt a pull a target in my chest, as
if the lantern drew my breath into its burn. I
blamed the damp lingering in the valley, the natural play
of light on smoked glass, amplified by my fatigue, the
guilt of that warehouse fire still smoldering in me, The
roar of flames, the managers yell, the firms ruling each
a spark in a watch. I couldn't douse, but the
(08:19):
cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a thermal probe,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the burn, to prove it was a trick of the mist,
or my mind unraveling after months alone, four forty two
a m. The light returned, the red deepening to a
fiery pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
(08:39):
murmuring in overlapping waves. You consumed us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a group around the lantern, their coats scorched and frayed,
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent gasps, their hands clutching
buckets that weren't there. I played back the probe, data
cool and no rise, but the voices lingered. Personal, now
Tara's tone cutting through the hum. You scorched me, followed
(08:59):
by a work faint and accusing, why didn't you douse?
I researched at the clear Water Library the next day,
a long hike that left my hands aching from the cold.
The keeper's glance weary. As I asked about old traders.
I found records of Elia's Okanagan, an Okanagan trader who
traveled the valleys in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a wildfire.
His lantern found glowing red logs describing burning of the
(09:22):
lit that drew people to ash his caravan. Lost. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their cabins found with lanterns left dim,
their last sightings marked by a red glow at dawn.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air like
sparks in smoke. The mist thickening with the scent of
(09:44):
charcoal and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant feed us home.
Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the shed. The lanterns
glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I extinguished it with
a wet cloth. The fabric cold to the touch, but
the red light seeping through the weave, the voices seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting Kai burn. I filled
(10:07):
the journal with observations, the glass sweating, a dark soot
that pooled on the barrel, its texture thick like ash,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the valley drying with each wind, and one dawn,
I woke with the lantern in my hand, the shed
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own Kai stay. The log showed
(10:29):
silence on playback, but I heard a flame's crack, Okanagan's
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to burn. With
the lit I tried drowning it in the creek behind
the cabin, the water boiling around it. The steam rose,
the lantern, laughing, a hollow your hours that echoed off
the walls. Shadows dragged me toward the door, the heat
seeping into my bones, the air thick with the memory
(10:51):
of the fires, roar and cries, Tara's voice pleading cool me.
I fought my legs, trembling the weight of the burn.
A chain the glow leading me into the valley. I
fled to a logger's camp twenty three miles east, but
the lantern's glow follows four forty two a m each night,
my shadow bending into Tara's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of patrol. Roots
(11:14):
now shows lantern sketches I didn't draw. My hands stained
with black streaks. The cabin calls me back, its shed
glowing from the valley. Listener, if you see red embers,
don't light. Some fires never cool. We are back with
another misty tail from listener Taley's podcast. This one drifts
from a listener in Canada. They call it The Fog
(11:35):
that Hides. Part three, The Fog That Hides. I came
to the shores of Prince Edward Island after a life
veiled by a mist I couldn't pierce a haze that
clouded my every horizon. At thirty three, I'd been a
sailor navigating waters in Charlottetown. My compass and sextant, my
skills honed by years at sea, shaped by my aunt,
(11:56):
a navigator who taught me the FOG's shroud under the
sea's breath that rolled over the Northumberland Strait, her tailies
of hidden spirits, filling my youth with a salty dread.
We'd sail together on foggy mornings, her voice steady over
the creak of wood as she adjusted the bearings, recounting
stories of crews lost to unseen shores, until a fog
in twenty ten swallowed her at fifty seven, her boat adrift,
(12:19):
leaving me her sextant, a brass instrument with fogged glass,
and a promise whispered through the mist find their veil, Mara,
her last words a guide I couldn't follow. My voyages
thrived with clear roots, a medal from the Maritime Navigation
Society in hand, until a fog I encountered, thickened during
a twenty sixteen supply trip. Ship stalled, crew stranded the port,
(12:43):
calling it lost bearing after a review that replayed the drift,
costing me my license and leaving me with a debt.
I couldn't navigate. My partner Finn left after three years,
his words cold as he packed his sea bag. You
hit our course, Mara. His departure, a second fog, takeing
our log books and the anchor pendent. We'd shared with
no sea to sail. I took a job as a
(13:04):
caretaker for an old boat house near Cavendish Beach, its
planks sodden with the tide's reach, its quiet eerie like
a held breath. The boat house a tilting structure with
water stained walls and a floor that rocked with every wave.
In the loft, buried under pile of mildewed ropes, I
found a sextant, its glass fogged with age, its arm
etched Smegma sixteen fifty in a hand faded by salt,
(13:27):
its sights clouded as if peering into a storm. Locals
in the nearest village, a cluster of homes fifteen miles west,
avoided it. Their mutters in the fish market hinting it
hid the veiled, a tail passed down with a wary glance.
But I saw a tool to calibrate, a link to
my aunt, a way to find the veil i'd lost.
The first night, I adjusted the sextant in the boat
(13:48):
house loft, the air thick with the scent of brine
and damp brass, the wind moaning through the slats like
a distant foghorn, the floorboards shifting under my weight, as
if the boat house swayed with the tide. The loft
was cramped a crate with a rotted lid, sagging under damp,
A lamp dim and casting uneven light. The single window
(14:09):
framing the misty shore where the dunes blurred the Sextant's presence,
a faint haze that seemed to thicken the air. At
four forty four a m. As the night deepened to
a gray dawn, the glass glowed a faint gray light,
pulsing from the etchings like mist in moonlight. And I
felt a shroud, dense and suffocating, a weight that pressed
my chest. As I turned the arm. A voice followed,
(14:30):
gentle yet insistent, rising from the brass itself. Seek me, Mara,
my aunt's voice from those sailing days, pleading yet distant,
the same tone she'd used when she last checked the stars,
her breath smelling of seaweed and tar. The glow spread
across the sextant, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands pointing as if getting
(14:52):
a lost course, their forms swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the sexton, no angle set, no reading taken, the
glass still under my gaze despite the glow, but the
light held whispering hide for us Mara. The air grew cooler,
a chill that bit through my coat, smelling of seaweed
and decay, my breath fogging, as if the shore wept
(15:15):
with the veiled, the wood creaking under an unseen tide.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my sailor days,
my hands trembling as I wrote four forty four, A M.
You're veiled now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my eyes,
as if the sextant drew my sight into its shroud.
I blamed the tide rolling in from the shore, the
(15:37):
natural play of light on clouded glass, amplified by my exhaustion,
the guilt of that stranded trip still shrouding me, the
ship's groan, the crew's call, the ports ruling, each a
wave in a course I couldn't steer, but the boat
house wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a humidity censer,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the shroud to prove it was a trick of the
(15:58):
damp or my mind unraveling after months alone. At four
forty four a m. The light returned, the gray deepening
to a thick pulse, the voice joined by others, a
chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You
exposed us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crew across the loft,
their cloaks sodden and frayed, eyes hollow, mouths open in
silent pleas, their hands clutching ropes that weren't there. I
(16:21):
played back the censor data, dry air, no rise, but
the voices lingered personal now Fin's tone cutting through the
hum You lost me, followed by a sailor's faint and accusing,
why didn't you guide? I researched at the North Rustico
Library the next day, a long trek that left my
hands aching from the cold, the keeper's glance wary as
I asked about old mariners. I found records of Sicu Migma,
(16:45):
a Migma mariner who fished the coast in sixteen fifty,
vanishing during a fog. His sextant found glowing gray logs
describing hiding of the veiled that drew people to wander
his canoe. Abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries, their boat
houses found with sextants, left idle, their last sightings marked
by a gray glow. At dawn, my flashlight held high
(17:07):
that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring, dotting the air like drops in mist.
The fog thickening with the scent of salt and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant, cover us home. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the loft, The sextants glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I boxed it in a metal case,
(17:29):
the steel cold to the touch, but the gray light
seeping through the seams, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Mara hide. I filled the journal with observations,
the glass sweating, a dark mist that pooled on the crate,
its texture thick like fog, staining the wood black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the shore eroding
(17:50):
with each tide, and one dawn I woke with the
sexton in my hand, the loft floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Mara stay. The long showed silence on playback, but
I heard a wave's hush, Migma's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to hide with the veiled I tried burying
it in the sand behind the boat house, the shovels
sinking deep the sand rejected it. The sextant, laughing a
(18:13):
hollow your hours that echoed across the water. Shadows dragged
me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones.
The air thick with the memory of the FOG's silence,
and cries Finn's voice, pleading find me. I fought, my arms,
trembling the weight of the shroud a chain, the glow
leading me into the shore. I fled to a fisherman's
(18:34):
shack nineteen miles north, but the Sextant's glow follows four
forty four a m each night, my shadow bending into
Finn's face, his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal
wants a record of navigation charts now shows sextant sketches.
I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks. The
boat house calls me back. It's loft, glowing from the
shore listener. If you see gray veils, don't seek. Some
(18:58):
mists never lift. We're back for the final tale from
listener Tailee's podcast. This one ticks from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Clock That Stops. Part four, The
Clock That Stops. I came to the plains of Manitoba
after a life timed by a tick. I couldn't restart,
a rhythm that halted my every hope. At thirty six,
(19:19):
I'd been a clockmaker, building time pieces in Winnipeg. My
gears and hands, my craft honed by years of precision,
shaped by my grandfather, a horologist, who taught me the
clock's pulse under the prairie sky that stretched over the
Acinaboine River, his tailies of stopped spirits, filling my youth
with a steady unease. We'd assembled together on quiet winter nights,
(19:40):
his voice steady over the click of tools as he
said a pendulum, recounting stories of travelers frozen in time,
until a heart attack in twenty fourteen took him at
sixty five. His work bent still, leaving me his clock,
a mahogany case with a cracked face and a promise
murmured through his last breath mark their time, Eli, his
final ticker duty. I couldn't fulfill my creations thrived with
(20:04):
accurate chimes, A plaque from the Manitoba Horological Society in
hand until a clock I made for the twenty nineteen
Winnipeg Festival froze at midnight, hands stuck, guests confused, the guild,
calling it faulty mechanism. After an examination that replayed the stall,
costing me my shop and leaving me with a repair cost,
(20:24):
I couldn't meet my husband. THEO left after six years,
his words blunt as he packed his suitcase. You stopped
our rhythm, Eli his departure a second frieze, taking our
shared calenders and the watch we'd engraved. With no time
to keep, I took a job as a caretaker for
an old farmhouse near Riding Mountain National Park. Its timbers
(20:45):
weathered by the plains breath, its quiet unsettling like a
held silence. The farmhouse a sagging structure with peeling walls
and a floor that groaned with every tread. In the attic,
buried under a pile of brittle ledgers, I found a clockck,
its face cracked with age, its base etched t mats
seventeen fifty in a hand worn by dust, its pendulum
(21:08):
still as if time had ceased. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes sixteen miles east, avoided it, their
mutters in the grain store hinting it stopped. The timed
A tail passed down with a hesitant tap. But I
saw a piece to repair a link to my grandfather,
away to mark the time I'd lost. The first night,
(21:29):
I wound the clock in the farmhouse attic, the air
thick with the scent of dust and oiled wood, the
wind rattling the shutters like a distant chime, the floorboards
creaking under my step, as if the farm house settled
into stillness. The attic was cluttered, a chest with a
warped lid, sagging under weight, a lamp dim and casting
jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark plains where
(21:50):
the horizon faded. The clock's presence of faint paws that
seemed to still the air. At four forty six a m.
As the night deepened to a stark black, the face
glowed a faint gold light pulsing from the etchings like
pollen in sunlight, and I felt a halt, heavy and final,
a weight that pressed my chest. As I turned the key.
A voice followed, deep yet pleading, rising from the mahogany itself,
(22:13):
count me Eli, my grandfather's voice from those assembling days,
urging yet faint, the same tone he'd used when he
last adjusted a gear, his breath smelling of linseed and earth.
The glow spread across the clock, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in coats, faceless, their hands poised as
if holding a moment, their forms swaying with the rhythm
(22:34):
of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the clock. No movement detected, no tick heard, the
pendulum still under my gaze despite the glow, but the
light held, whispering stopped for us Eli. The air grew cooler,
a chill that bit through my sweater, smelling of grain
and decay, my breath fogging as if the planes mourned
(22:54):
with the timed, the beams creaking under an unseen pause.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my clockmaker days,
my hands trembling as I wrote four forty six a
m Your time now, the shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my pulse,
as if the clock drew my heart beat into its halt.
(23:14):
I blamed the cold seeping across the plains, the natural
play of light on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that frozen event still ticking in me,
The clock's silence, the client's complaint, the guilds ruling each
a gear in a time I couldn't fix, but the
farm house wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a chronometer,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
(23:36):
the halt, to prove it was a trick of the frost,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At four forty
six a m. The light returned, the gold deepening to
a rich pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You rushed us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a line across the attic, Their
coats faded and dusted, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent size,
(23:59):
their hands clasing tools that weren't there. I played back
the chronometer data, steady beat, no stop, but the voices
lingered personal now, theo's tone cutting through the hum. You
stalled me, followed by a guest's faint and accusing, why
didn't you check? I researched at the washergaming library the
next day, a long walk that left my hands aching
from the cold. The keepers glanced cautious as I asked
(24:21):
about old traders. I found records of Teary Matis, a
Matis trader who traveled the planes in seventeen fifty, vanishing
during a blizzard. His clock found glowing gold logs describing
stopping of the timed that drew people to linger. His
wagon lost. Locals reported disappearances over centuries, their farmhouses found
(24:41):
with clocks left silent, their last sightings marked by a
gold glow at dawn. My flashlight, held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes, pale and staring,
dotting the air like grains in a field, 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 hold us home. Sleep vanished, my nights
(25:04):
spent in the attic, the clock's glow a beacon I
couldn't escape. I stilled it with a cloth cover, the
fabric cold to the touch, but the gold light seeping
through the weave, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Eli stop. I filled the journal with observations,
the face sweating, a dark oil that pooled on the chest,
its texture thick like grease, staining the wood black as
(25:26):
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the planes hardening
with each frost, and one dawn, I woke with the
clock in my hand, the attic floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Eli stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a gears grind Matis's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to stop with the timed I tried smashing
(25:49):
it with a hammer from the attic, the head dulling
against the mahogany. The clock laughed, a hollow your hours
that echoed off the rafters. Shadows dragged me toward the window,
the cold seeping into my bones, the air thick with
the memory of the frieze's click and murmurs, theo's voice
pleading move with me. I fought, my legs trembling the
(26:09):
weight of the halt a chain, the glow leading me
into the plains. I fled to a farmer's shed twenty
one miles west, but the clock's glow follows four forty
six a m each night, my shadow bending into theo's face,
his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of clock designs. Now shows clock sketches. I didn't draw,
my hand stained with black streaks. The farmhouse calls me back.
(26:32):
It's attic glowing from the plains. Listener, if you see
gold pauses, don't wind, sometimes never move. Thank you for
joining me, Sir Winston, on this journey through four dark tailies.
Until next time, stay out of the tick.
Welcome to Listener Talies Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows yet again to day we peer into
four new tales from listeners on the fringes of Canada's
wild frontiers, each a reflection of terror from its hidden corners.
No interruptions, just the unbroken gaze of those who have
faced the uncanny. Steal yourself if you dare, as we
(00:22):
look into the Dark. Part one, The Mirror that Reflects.
I came to the hills of Nova, Scotia after a
life mirrored by an image I couldn't escape. At thirty two,
I'd been a photographer capturing landscapes in Halifax. My camera
and lens, my craft shaped by my uncle, a portraitist,
who taught me the glass's gaze under the coastal fog,
his tales of reflecting spirits filling my youth. We'd shoot together,
(00:46):
his voice calm over the click of shutters, until a
wave took him at fifty eight, leaving me his mirror
and a promise to see their face rear. My photos
distorted when a mirror I used reflected a strange scene
during a shoot, alarming clients the studio, calling it altered vision,
costing me my contract. My boyfriend Owen left his words
(01:06):
bitter you reflected our end rear and I took a
job as a caretaker for an old cottage near Cape
Breton Highlands, its walls damp, its quiet, eerie. In the
cellar I found a mirror, its frame cracked, its edge
etched m Migma seventeen hundred locals, warning it reflected the scene.
But I saw a prop to clean, a link to
(01:27):
my uncle. The first night I polished the mirror in
the cottage cellar, the air thick with the scent of
mildew and tarnished silver, the wind whispering through the vents,
the floor slick under my boots. The cellar was cramped
a box with a warped top, A lamp dim the
single window framing the foggy hills, the mirror's presence a
faint shimmer. At four forty a m. The glass glowed
(01:47):
a faint silver light pulsing from the etchings, and I
felt a stare, piercing and endless. A voice followed, soft
yet commanding. Look at me, rear, my uncle's voice from
those shooting days, pleading yet distant. The glow spread shadows
forming in the air, figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands covering.
I checked the mirror, no image, no reflection, but the
(02:08):
light held whispering reflect for us rear. I logged it
in my journal four forty a m. You're scene now.
The air grew cooler, smelling of salt and decay, my
breath fogging, as if the hills mourned. I blamed the mist,
the guilt of that distorted shot still reflecting in me,
but the cottage wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought
a light meter, determined to measure the stare. At four
(02:30):
forty a m. The glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children,
murmuring you hid us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crowd,
their cloaks tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the day
a dim room, but the voices lingered. Owen's tone cutting
you obscured me. I researched at the Shater Camp library,
my hands aching from the cold, finding records of Mickey's Migma,
(02:52):
a heeler who vanished in seventeen hundred. His mirror found
glowing logs describing reflecting of the scene. Locals reported uneas
their faces lost. My flashlight caught glints in the dark.
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air, the
fog thick with the scent of seaweed and blood. The
whispers grew show us home. Sleep vanished. I covered the mirror,
(03:14):
but the glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting rear reflect. I spent weeks observing the frame,
sweating a dark film. One dawn, I woke with the
mirror in hand, the cellar marked with my prints, the
voices layered with my own Rea stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a glass's hum, Migma's cry, cursing me
to reflect. I tried smashing it. The hammer bounced, the mirror,
(03:36):
laughing a hollow. Your hours shadows dragged me toward the hills,
the cold seeping into my bones. Owen's voice pleading. I
fled to a fisherman's hut. But the mirror's glow follows
four forty a m each night, my logs showing his face. Listener,
if you see silver glares, don't look. Some reflections never fade.
(03:57):
We are back with another glowing tail from listener tale
Le podcast. This one shines from a listener. In Canada,
they call it the Lantern that Burns. Part two, The
Lantern That Burns. I came to the valleys of British
Columbia after a life kindled by a flame. I couldn't
douse a spark that ignited my every loss. At thirty four,
(04:18):
I'd been a night watchman, guarding sights in Kamloops. My
lantern and whistle, my tools honed by years of vigilance,
shaped by my father, a lighthouse keeper who taught me
the fire's watch. Under the mountain dusk that shadowed the
Thompson River, his tailies of burning spirits, filling my youth
with a wary glow. We'd patrol together on moonless nights,
(04:39):
his voice firm over the flicker of light as he
checked the beam, recounting stories of sailors lost to sudden fires,
until a blaze in twenty twelve took him at fifty nine.
His tower gutted, leaving me his lantern, a brass frame
with soot streaked glass, and a promise murmured through the smoke,
keep their fire chi his last words, aflame, I couldn't
(04:59):
tend my vigils thrived with steady rounds, a commendation from
the Kamloops Security Association in hand until a lantern I
held flared during a twenty eighteen warehouse shift crates, igniting alarms,
blaring the firm, calling it negligent spark. After an investigation
that replayed the blaze, costing me my job and leaving
(05:21):
me with a settlement, I couldn't rebuild. My girlfriend Tara
left after four years, her words harsh as she packed
her flashlight. You burned our bond Kai her departure a
second ember, taking our patrol logs in the lighter we'd
engraved with no sight to guard. I took a job
as a caretaker for an old cabin near Wells Gray
Provincial Park, its walls charred by past flames, its quiet
(05:43):
tents like a held breath. The cabin a leaning structure
with blackened beams and a floor that crackled with every step.
In the shed, buried under pile of singed tools, I
found a lantern, its glass soot streaked with age, its
base etched e Okanagan eighteen hundred in a handwork gathered
by smoke, its wick blackened as if burned beyond use.
Locals in the nearest hamlet, a cluster of home seventeen
(06:06):
miles south, avoided it, their mutters in the trading post,
hinting it burned. The lit A tail passed down with
a cautious spark. But I saw a light to tend
a link to my father away to keep the fire
i'd lost. The first night, I lit the lantern in
the cabin shed, the air thick with the scent of
ash and rusted iron, the wind sighing through the cracks
like a dying fire, the floorboards creaking under my weight,
(06:28):
as if the cabin swayed with the heat. The shed
was cluttered, a barrel with a split side, rolling under pressure,
A lamp dim and casting uneven light. The single window
framing the misty valley where the ridges loomed, the lantern's presence,
a faint heat that seemed to pulse with intent. At
four forty two a m. As the night deepened to
a smoky black, the glass glowed a faint red light,
(06:52):
pulsing from the etchings like embers in dusk, and I
felt a burn, sharp and persistent, a sting that seared
my palm. As I held the handle. A voice followed,
gruff yet pleading, rising from the brass itself tend me kai.
My father's voice from those patrolling days, urging yet faint,
the same tone he'd used when he last trimmed the wick,
(07:12):
his breath smelling of oil and salt. The glow spread
across the lantern, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in coats, faceless, their hands shielding as if against
a blaze, their forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind.
I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the lantern,
no fuel added, no flame lit, the glass, cool and
(07:33):
still despite the glow, But the light held, whispering, burned
for us. Kay. The air grew warmer, a heat that
pressed through my jackets, smelling of smoke and decay, my
breath fogging as if the valley mourned with the lit
the wood creaking under an unseen flare. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my Watchman days, my hands
trembling as I wrote four forty two, a M You're
kindled now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
(07:58):
I felt a pull a target in my chest, as
if the lantern drew my breath into its burn. I
blamed the damp lingering in the valley, the natural play
of light on smoked glass, amplified by my fatigue, the
guilt of that warehouse fire still smoldering in me, The
roar of flames, the managers yell, the firms ruling each
a spark in a watch. I couldn't douse, but the
(08:19):
cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a thermal probe,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the burn, to prove it was a trick of the mist,
or my mind unraveling after months alone, four forty two
a m. The light returned, the red deepening to a
fiery pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
(08:39):
murmuring in overlapping waves. You consumed us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a group around the lantern, their coats scorched and frayed,
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent gasps, their hands clutching
buckets that weren't there. I played back the probe, data
cool and no rise, but the voices lingered. Personal, now
Tara's tone cutting through the hum. You scorched me, followed
(08:59):
by a work faint and accusing, why didn't you douse?
I researched at the clear Water Library the next day,
a long hike that left my hands aching from the cold.
The keeper's glance weary. As I asked about old traders.
I found records of Elia's Okanagan, an Okanagan trader who
traveled the valleys in eighteen hundred, vanishing during a wildfire.
His lantern found glowing red logs describing burning of the
(09:22):
lit that drew people to ash his caravan. Lost. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their cabins found with lanterns left dim,
their last sightings marked by a red glow at dawn.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
Dozens of eyes pale and staring, dotting the air like
sparks in smoke. The mist thickening with the scent of
(09:44):
charcoal and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant feed us home.
Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the shed. The lanterns
glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I extinguished it with
a wet cloth. The fabric cold to the touch, but
the red light seeping through the weave, the voices seeping
into my dreams, the figures chanting Kai burn. I filled
(10:07):
the journal with observations, the glass sweating, a dark soot
that pooled on the barrel, its texture thick like ash,
staining the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the
isolation deepening, the valley drying with each wind, and one dawn,
I woke with the lantern in my hand, the shed
floor marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the
voices layered with my own Kai stay. The log showed
(10:29):
silence on playback, but I heard a flame's crack, Okanagan's
cry rising over the wind, cursing me to burn. With
the lit I tried drowning it in the creek behind
the cabin, the water boiling around it. The steam rose,
the lantern, laughing, a hollow your hours that echoed off
the walls. Shadows dragged me toward the door, the heat
seeping into my bones, the air thick with the memory
(10:51):
of the fires, roar and cries, Tara's voice pleading cool me.
I fought my legs, trembling the weight of the burn.
A chain the glow leading me into the valley. I
fled to a logger's camp twenty three miles east, but
the lantern's glow follows four forty two a m each night,
my shadow bending into Tara's face, her eyes accusing from
the dark. My journal wants a record of patrol. Roots
(11:14):
now shows lantern sketches I didn't draw. My hands stained
with black streaks. The cabin calls me back, its shed
glowing from the valley. Listener, if you see red embers,
don't light. Some fires never cool. We are back with
another misty tail from listener Taley's podcast. This one drifts
from a listener in Canada. They call it The Fog
(11:35):
that Hides. Part three, The Fog That Hides. I came
to the shores of Prince Edward Island after a life
veiled by a mist I couldn't pierce a haze that
clouded my every horizon. At thirty three, I'd been a
sailor navigating waters in Charlottetown. My compass and sextant, my
skills honed by years at sea, shaped by my aunt,
(11:56):
a navigator who taught me the FOG's shroud under the
sea's breath that rolled over the Northumberland Strait, her tailies
of hidden spirits, filling my youth with a salty dread.
We'd sail together on foggy mornings, her voice steady over
the creak of wood as she adjusted the bearings, recounting
stories of crews lost to unseen shores, until a fog
in twenty ten swallowed her at fifty seven, her boat adrift,
(12:19):
leaving me her sextant, a brass instrument with fogged glass,
and a promise whispered through the mist find their veil, Mara,
her last words a guide I couldn't follow. My voyages
thrived with clear roots, a medal from the Maritime Navigation
Society in hand, until a fog I encountered, thickened during
a twenty sixteen supply trip. Ship stalled, crew stranded the port,
(12:43):
calling it lost bearing after a review that replayed the drift,
costing me my license and leaving me with a debt.
I couldn't navigate. My partner Finn left after three years,
his words cold as he packed his sea bag. You
hit our course, Mara. His departure, a second fog, takeing
our log books and the anchor pendent. We'd shared with
no sea to sail. I took a job as a
(13:04):
caretaker for an old boat house near Cavendish Beach, its
planks sodden with the tide's reach, its quiet eerie like
a held breath. The boat house a tilting structure with
water stained walls and a floor that rocked with every wave.
In the loft, buried under pile of mildewed ropes, I
found a sextant, its glass fogged with age, its arm
etched Smegma sixteen fifty in a hand faded by salt,
(13:27):
its sights clouded as if peering into a storm. Locals
in the nearest village, a cluster of homes fifteen miles west,
avoided it. Their mutters in the fish market hinting it
hid the veiled, a tail passed down with a wary glance.
But I saw a tool to calibrate, a link to
my aunt, a way to find the veil i'd lost.
The first night, I adjusted the sextant in the boat
(13:48):
house loft, the air thick with the scent of brine
and damp brass, the wind moaning through the slats like
a distant foghorn, the floorboards shifting under my weight, as
if the boat house swayed with the tide. The loft
was cramped a crate with a rotted lid, sagging under damp,
A lamp dim and casting uneven light. The single window
(14:09):
framing the misty shore where the dunes blurred the Sextant's presence,
a faint haze that seemed to thicken the air. At
four forty four a m. As the night deepened to
a gray dawn, the glass glowed a faint gray light,
pulsing from the etchings like mist in moonlight. And I
felt a shroud, dense and suffocating, a weight that pressed
my chest. As I turned the arm. A voice followed,
(14:30):
gentle yet insistent, rising from the brass itself. Seek me, Mara,
my aunt's voice from those sailing days, pleading yet distant,
the same tone she'd used when she last checked the stars,
her breath smelling of seaweed and tar. The glow spread
across the sextant, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming
figures in cloaks, faceless, their hands pointing as if getting
(14:52):
a lost course, their forms swaying with the rhythm of
the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the sexton, no angle set, no reading taken, the
glass still under my gaze despite the glow, but the
light held whispering hide for us Mara. The air grew cooler,
a chill that bit through my coat, smelling of seaweed
and decay, my breath fogging, as if the shore wept
(15:15):
with the veiled, the wood creaking under an unseen tide.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my sailor days,
my hands trembling as I wrote four forty four, A M.
You're veiled now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my eyes,
as if the sextant drew my sight into its shroud.
I blamed the tide rolling in from the shore, the
(15:37):
natural play of light on clouded glass, amplified by my exhaustion,
the guilt of that stranded trip still shrouding me, the
ship's groan, the crew's call, the ports ruling, each a
wave in a course I couldn't steer, but the boat
house wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a humidity censer,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the shroud to prove it was a trick of the
(15:58):
damp or my mind unraveling after months alone. At four
forty four a m. The light returned, the gray deepening
to a thick pulse, the voice joined by others, a
chorus of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You
exposed us. The shadows sharpened, forming a crew across the loft,
their cloaks sodden and frayed, eyes hollow, mouths open in
silent pleas, their hands clutching ropes that weren't there. I
(16:21):
played back the censor data, dry air, no rise, but
the voices lingered personal now Fin's tone cutting through the
hum You lost me, followed by a sailor's faint and accusing,
why didn't you guide? I researched at the North Rustico
Library the next day, a long trek that left my
hands aching from the cold, the keeper's glance wary as
I asked about old mariners. I found records of Sicu Migma,
(16:45):
a Migma mariner who fished the coast in sixteen fifty,
vanishing during a fog. His sextant found glowing gray logs
describing hiding of the veiled that drew people to wander
his canoe. Abandoned locals reported disappearances over centuries, their boat
houses found with sextants, left idle, their last sightings marked
by a gray glow. At dawn, my flashlight held high
(17:07):
that night, caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring, dotting the air like drops in mist.
The fog thickening with the scent of salt and blood,
a stench that clung to my hair and clothes. The
whispers grew into a chant, cover us home. Sleep vanished,
my nights spent in the loft, The sextants glow a
beacon I couldn't escape. I boxed it in a metal case,
(17:29):
the steel cold to the touch, but the gray light
seeping through the seams, the voices seeping into my dreams,
the figures chanting Mara hide. I filled the journal with observations,
the glass sweating, a dark mist that pooled on the crate,
its texture thick like fog, staining the wood black as
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the shore eroding
(17:50):
with each tide, and one dawn I woke with the
sexton in my hand, the loft floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Mara stay. The long showed silence on playback, but
I heard a wave's hush, Migma's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to hide with the veiled I tried burying
it in the sand behind the boat house, the shovels
sinking deep the sand rejected it. The sextant, laughing a
(18:13):
hollow your hours that echoed across the water. Shadows dragged
me toward the window, the cold seeping into my bones.
The air thick with the memory of the FOG's silence,
and cries Finn's voice, pleading find me. I fought, my arms,
trembling the weight of the shroud a chain, the glow
leading me into the shore. I fled to a fisherman's
(18:34):
shack nineteen miles north, but the Sextant's glow follows four
forty four a m each night, my shadow bending into
Finn's face, his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal
wants a record of navigation charts now shows sextant sketches.
I didn't draw, my hands stained with black streaks. The
boat house calls me back. It's loft, glowing from the
shore listener. If you see gray veils, don't seek. Some
(18:58):
mists never lift. We're back for the final tale from
listener Tailee's podcast. This one ticks from a listener in Canada.
They call it The Clock That Stops. Part four, The
Clock That Stops. I came to the plains of Manitoba
after a life timed by a tick. I couldn't restart,
a rhythm that halted my every hope. At thirty six,
(19:19):
I'd been a clockmaker, building time pieces in Winnipeg. My
gears and hands, my craft honed by years of precision,
shaped by my grandfather, a horologist, who taught me the
clock's pulse under the prairie sky that stretched over the
Acinaboine River, his tailies of stopped spirits, filling my youth
with a steady unease. We'd assembled together on quiet winter nights,
(19:40):
his voice steady over the click of tools as he
said a pendulum, recounting stories of travelers frozen in time,
until a heart attack in twenty fourteen took him at
sixty five. His work bent still, leaving me his clock,
a mahogany case with a cracked face and a promise
murmured through his last breath mark their time, Eli, his
final ticker duty. I couldn't fulfill my creations thrived with
(20:04):
accurate chimes, A plaque from the Manitoba Horological Society in
hand until a clock I made for the twenty nineteen
Winnipeg Festival froze at midnight, hands stuck, guests confused, the guild,
calling it faulty mechanism. After an examination that replayed the stall,
costing me my shop and leaving me with a repair cost,
(20:24):
I couldn't meet my husband. THEO left after six years,
his words blunt as he packed his suitcase. You stopped
our rhythm, Eli his departure a second frieze, taking our
shared calenders and the watch we'd engraved. With no time
to keep, I took a job as a caretaker for
an old farmhouse near Riding Mountain National Park. Its timbers
(20:45):
weathered by the plains breath, its quiet unsettling like a
held silence. The farmhouse a sagging structure with peeling walls
and a floor that groaned with every tread. In the attic,
buried under a pile of brittle ledgers, I found a clockck,
its face cracked with age, its base etched t mats
seventeen fifty in a hand worn by dust, its pendulum
(21:08):
still as if time had ceased. Locals in the nearest settlement,
a cluster of homes sixteen miles east, avoided it, their
mutters in the grain store hinting it stopped. The timed
A tail passed down with a hesitant tap. But I
saw a piece to repair a link to my grandfather,
away to mark the time I'd lost. The first night,
(21:29):
I wound the clock in the farmhouse attic, the air
thick with the scent of dust and oiled wood, the
wind rattling the shutters like a distant chime, the floorboards
creaking under my step, as if the farm house settled
into stillness. The attic was cluttered, a chest with a
warped lid, sagging under weight, a lamp dim and casting
jagged shadows, the single window framing the dark plains where
(21:50):
the horizon faded. The clock's presence of faint paws that
seemed to still the air. At four forty six a m.
As the night deepened to a stark black, the face
glowed a faint gold light pulsing from the etchings like
pollen in sunlight, and I felt a halt, heavy and final,
a weight that pressed my chest. As I turned the key.
A voice followed, deep yet pleading, rising from the mahogany itself,
(22:13):
count me Eli, my grandfather's voice from those assembling days,
urging yet faint, the same tone he'd used when he
last adjusted a gear, his breath smelling of linseed and earth.
The glow spread across the clock, casting reflections on the walls,
shadows forming figures in coats, faceless, their hands poised as
if holding a moment, their forms swaying with the rhythm
(22:34):
of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
checking the clock. No movement detected, no tick heard, the
pendulum still under my gaze despite the glow, but the
light held, whispering stopped for us Eli. The air grew cooler,
a chill that bit through my sweater, smelling of grain
and decay, my breath fogging as if the planes mourned
(22:54):
with the timed, the beams creaking under an unseen pause.
I stumbled to my journal, a log from my clockmaker days,
my hands trembling as I wrote four forty six a
m Your time now, the shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer,
and I felt a pull, a tug in my pulse,
as if the clock drew my heart beat into its halt.
(23:14):
I blamed the cold seeping across the plains, the natural
play of light on aged wood, amplified by my fatigue,
the guilt of that frozen event still ticking in me,
The clock's silence, the client's complaint, the guilds ruling each
a gear in a time I couldn't fix, but the
farm house wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a chronometer,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
(23:36):
the halt, to prove it was a trick of the frost,
or my mind unraveling after months alone. At four forty
six a m. The light returned, the gold deepening to
a rich pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You rushed us.
The shadows sharpened, forming a line across the attic, Their
coats faded and dusted, eyes hollow, mouths open in silent size,
(23:59):
their hands clasing tools that weren't there. I played back
the chronometer data, steady beat, no stop, but the voices
lingered personal now, theo's tone cutting through the hum. You
stalled me, followed by a guest's faint and accusing, why
didn't you check? I researched at the washergaming library the
next day, a long walk that left my hands aching
from the cold. The keepers glanced cautious as I asked
(24:21):
about old traders. I found records of Teary Matis, a
Matis trader who traveled the planes in seventeen fifty, vanishing
during a blizzard. His clock found glowing gold logs describing
stopping of the timed that drew people to linger. His
wagon lost. Locals reported disappearances over centuries, their farmhouses found
(24:41):
with clocks left silent, their last sightings marked by a
gold glow at dawn. My flashlight, held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes, pale and staring,
dotting the air like grains in a field, 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 hold us home. Sleep vanished, my nights
(25:04):
spent in the attic, the clock's glow a beacon I
couldn't escape. I stilled it with a cloth cover, the
fabric cold to the touch, but the gold light seeping
through the weave, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Eli stop. I filled the journal with observations,
the face sweating, a dark oil that pooled on the chest,
its texture thick like grease, staining the wood black as
(25:26):
it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening, the planes hardening
with each frost, and one dawn, I woke with the
clock in my hand, the attic floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own Eli stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a gears grind Matis's cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to stop with the timed I tried smashing
(25:49):
it with a hammer from the attic, the head dulling
against the mahogany. The clock laughed, a hollow your hours
that echoed off the rafters. Shadows dragged me toward the window,
the cold seeping into my bones, the air thick with
the memory of the frieze's click and murmurs, theo's voice
pleading move with me. I fought, my legs trembling the
(26:09):
weight of the halt a chain, the glow leading me
into the plains. I fled to a farmer's shed twenty
one miles west, but the clock's glow follows four forty
six a m each night, my shadow bending into theo's face,
his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of clock designs. Now shows clock sketches. I didn't draw,
my hand stained with black streaks. The farmhouse calls me back.
(26:32):
It's attic glowing from the plains. Listener, if you see
gold pauses, don't wind, sometimes never move. Thank you for
joining me, Sir Winston, on this journey through four dark tailies.
Until next time, stay out of the tick.
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My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder is a true crime comedy podcast hosted by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark. Each week, Karen and Georgia share compelling true crimes and hometown stories from friends and listeners. Since MFM launched in January of 2016, Karen and Georgia have shared their lifelong interest in true crime and have covered stories of infamous serial killers like the Night Stalker, mysterious cold cases, captivating cults, incredible survivor stories and important events from history like the Tulsa race massacre of 1921. My Favorite Murder is part of the Exactly Right podcast network that provides a platform for bold, creative voices to bring to life provocative, entertaining and relatable stories for audiences everywhere. The Exactly Right roster of podcasts covers a variety of topics including historic true crime, comedic interviews and news, science, pop culture and more. Podcasts on the network include Buried Bones with Kate Winkler Dawson and Paul Holes, That's Messed Up: An SVU Podcast, This Podcast Will Kill You, Bananas and more.