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 Tales Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once more. To day we ring out
four new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's
rugged wilds, Each a chime of dread from its buried secrets.
No pauses, just the unbroken toll of those who have
heard the unearthly. Brace yourself if you're bold, as we
(00:21):
step into the dark. Part one, The Bell that Rings.
I came to the mountains of Yukon after a life
rung by a chime I couldn't silence. At thirty five,
I'd been a bell ringer, tolling calls in white Horse,
my rope and clapper. My heart shaped by my brother,
a churchwarden, who taught me the bell's voice under the
northern lights, his talies of ringing spirits filling my youth.
(00:42):
We'd ring together, his voice steady over the clang of brass,
until a fall took him at sixty, leaving me his
bell and a promise to hear their call. Soreign my
tolls faltered when a bell I rang cracked during a service,
injuring the congregation, the parish, calling it reckless peal costing
me my My fiancee, Leela left her words sharp, you
(01:03):
rang our ends soreren and I took a job as
a caretaker for an old chapel near Kluane National Park,
its stones cold, its quiet, haunting. In the belfry, I
found a bell, its surface pitted, its rim etched o
gwitchin seventeen hundred locals warning it rang the herd, but
I saw a tone to tune a link to my brother.
(01:25):
First night I struck the bell in the chapel belfry,
the air thick with the scent of moss and aged metal,
the wind whistling through the tower, the floorboards trembling under
my weight. The belfry was stark, a beam with a
frayed rope, a lamp dim, the single window framing the
snowy peaks, the bell's presence a faint echo. At one
forty one pm, the brass glowed a faint bronze light
(01:45):
pulsing from the etchings, and I felt a toll, deep
and unending. A voice followed, warm yet pleading. Listen to me, Soren,
my brother's voice from those ringing days, Urging yet faint.
The glow spread, shadows forming on the walls. Figures in
row hobes, faceless, their hands raised. I checked the bell,
no strike, no sound, but the light held, whispering, ring
(02:06):
for us soreren. I logged it in my journal. One
forty one p m. You're heard now. The air grew colder,
smelling of pine and decay, my breath fogging, as if
the mountains mourned. I blamed the altitude, the guilt of
that cracked service still chiming in me. But the chapel
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a sound meter,
determined to measure the toll. At one forty one pm,
(02:28):
the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a choire, their
robes tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the data, quiet space,
but the voices lingered, Leela's tone cutting you drowned me.
I researched at the Haines Junction Library, my hands aching
from the cold, finding records of olik Qwitchin, a shaman
(02:49):
who vanished in seventeen hundred. His bell found glowing logs
describing ringing of the herd. Locals reported unease, their prayers muted.
My flashlight caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring, dotting the air. The frost thick with
the scent of sap and blood. The whispers grew call
us home. Sleep vanished. I muffled the bell, but the
(03:11):
glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Soren ring. I spent weeks observing the brass,
sweating a dark Resin one dawn, I woke with the
bell in hand. The belf remarked with my prints. The
voices layered with my own Soren stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a chime's echo, Gwitchen's cry, cursing me
to ring. I tried burying it, the ground rejected it.
(03:32):
The bell, laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me
toward the peaks, the cold seeping into my bones. Leela's
voice pleading. I fled to a trapper cabin, but the
bell's glow follows one forty one p m each night,
my logs showing her face. Listener, if you hear bronze tones,
don't strike, Some rings never fade. We are back with
(03:54):
another woven tale. From listener Tale's podcast. This one threads
from a listener in Canada. They call it The Quilt
that Binds. Part two, The Quilt that Binds. I came
to the tundra of Northwest Territories after a life stitched
by a pattern I couldn't unravel, a weave that tangled
my every piece. At thirty four, i'd been a seamstress,
(04:16):
sewing quilts in Yellowknife, my needle and fabric, my art
honed by years of craft, shaped by my grandmother, a
textile keeper, who taught me the threads tie under the
arctic glow that lit the Great Slave Lake, her tailles
of bound spirits, filling my youth with a frosty unease.
We'd sew together on long winter afternoons, her voice soft
(04:36):
over the hum of the loom as she spun tailees
of souls caught in fabric, until a cold and twenty
thirteen took her at sixty two, her sewing box frozen,
leaving me her quilt, a patchwork of caribou hide with
faded edges, and a promise breathed through her shivers, not
their tie ala her last words, a stitch I couldn't
loosen my stitches flourished with intricate patterns, a ribbon from
(04:59):
the No Northwest Territories Arts Council in hand until a
quilt I made for the twenty eighteen Yellowna festival tour
under display seams, splitting cries, rising the market calling it
fragile weave. After an inspection that replayed the rip, costing
me my booth and leaving me with a loss. I
couldn't mend My partner, Jorin left after five years, his
(05:22):
words cold as he packed his parker. You bound our
thread ahler, his departure a second tier, taking our shared
fabrics in the mitten's weed, sown with no cloth to shape.
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
outpost near Great Bear Lake. Its walls icy with the
grip of frost, its quiet oppressive like a held breath.
The outpost a squat structure with ice crusted walls and
(05:43):
a floor that echoed with every shift. In the storage room,
buried under pile of frozen pelts, I found a quilt,
its design faded with age, its hem etched n in
Uvaluet 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 north,
(06:06):
avoided it, their mutters in the seal skin shop hinting
it bound the knotted a tail passed down with a
nervous tug. But I saw a piece to mend a
link to my grandmother, away to not the tie i'd lost.
First night, I stitched the quilt in the outpost storage room,
the air thick with the scent of frozen hide and
brittle thread, the wind howling through the cracks like a
(06:28):
mournful cord, the ice floor shivering under my weight, as
if the outpost trembled with my presence. The room was tight,
a crate with a cracked side, tilting under frost, A
lamp dim and casting long shadows, the single window framing
the snowy expanse where the tundras stretched into white. The
quilt's presence a faint pull that seemed to tighten the air.
At one forty three p m. As the day warmed
(06:50):
to a pale noon, the fabric glowed a faint white light,
pulsing from the etchings like snow caught in sunlight, and
I felt a knot, 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. Men me Aila,
my grandmother's voice from those sowing days, pleading yet distant,
(07:13):
the same tone she'd used when she last patched to seam,
her breath smelling of seal oil and tallow. The glow
spread across the quilt, casting reflections on the walls, shadows
forming figures in furs, faceless, their hands weaving as if
mending an invisible fabric, their forms swaying with the rhythm
of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
(07:34):
checking the quilt. No needle struck, no thread pulled, The
cloth cool and still despite the glow, but the light held,
whispering bind for us Ala. 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 knotted,
the ice creaking on an unseen strain. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my seamstress days, my hands
(07:54):
trembling as I wrote one forty three p m. You're
knotted now. The shadows liningered, their forms, drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my hands, as
if the quilt drew my stitches into its bind. I
blamed the frost settling over the tundra, the natural play
of light on faded fabric, amplified by my fatigue, the
(08:15):
guilt of that festival tear still threading me, the rip sound,
the vendors scold, the markets, ruling, each a thread in
a weave. I couldn't mend, but the outpost wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a fabric tension gauge its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the knot,
to prove it was a trick of the cold, or
my mind unraveling after months alone. One forty three p m.
(08:38):
The light returned, the white deepening to pale pulse. The
voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. Euphreed 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 Juran's tone
(09:01):
cutting through the hum You tangled me, followed by a
buyer's faint and accusing, why did you check? I researched
at the Norman Wells Library the next day, a long
walk that left my hands aching from the frost. The
elders glance wary as I asked about old weavers. I
found records of Nuca in Uvaluate, an Inuvaluate weaver who
lived near the lake in sixteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard.
(09:23):
Her quilt found glowing white logs describing binding of the
knotted that drew people to freeze. Her family lost. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their outposts found with quilts left folded,
their last sightings marked by a white glow at noon.
My flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the fabric like
(09:46):
knots in thread, the air thickening with the scent of
fur and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant tie us home.
Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the room. The quilts
glow a beacon I couldn't ass I folded it into
a leather pouch, the hide stiff with dryness, but the
white light seeping through the stitches, the voices seeping into
(10:07):
my dreams, the figures chanting ala bind I filled the
journal with observations, the cloth sweating, a dark fiber that
pooled on the crate, its texture thick like yarn, staining
the ice black as it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening,
the tundra hardening with each wind, and one dawn, I
woke with the quilt in my hand, the room floor
(10:28):
marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the voices
layered with my own ala stay. The log showed silence
on playback, but I heard a thread snap in Uvalut's cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to bind with the
knotted I tried burning it in the outpost's oil lamp,
the flames leaping high. They died to embers, the quilt
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls.
(10:50):
Shadows dragged me toward the door. The cold seeping into
my bones. The air thick with the memory of the tears,
sound and cries. Duran's voice, pleading unravel me. I fought
my arms, trembling the weight of the bind 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 one forty three p m each night, my
(11:13):
shadow bending into Joran's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of sowing patterns, now shows, quilts, sketches.
I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks. The
outpost calls me back. It's room glowing from the tundra. Listener,
if you see white knots, don't sow. Some binds never break.
We're back with another breezy tail from listener Taley's podcast.
(11:36):
This one gusts from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Wind That Whispers. Part three, The Wind That Whispers.
I came to the forests of Saskatchewan after a life
carried by a breeze. I couldn't quiet a wind that
carried my every regret. At thirty seven, i'd been a
forester tending trees in Prince Albert. My axe and barometer,
(11:57):
my trade honed by years of trail work, shaped by
my father, a ranger who taught me the wind's murmur
under the pine canopy that shadowed the North Saskatchewan River,
his tailies of whispering spirits, filling my youth with a
rustling dread. We'd walked together on crisp fall mornings, his
voice low over the rustle of leaves as he read
the barometer, recounting stories of hunters lost to sudden gusts,
(12:21):
until a storm in twenty eleven took him at sixty one.
His ranger station wrecked, leaving me his barometer, a brass
dial with cracked glass, and a promise whispered through the
rain catched their breath tear his last words, a breeze
I couldn't hold. My trails thrived with clear paths, a
badge from the Saskatchewan Forestry Association in hand, until a
(12:42):
wind I tracked howled. During a twenty seventeen survey, trees crashing,
crew scattered the service, calling it misread gust after a
review that replayed the fall, costing me my roll and
leaving me with a suspension I couldn't lift. My boyfriend
Rylan left after four years, his words stern as he
packed his camping gear. You whispered our n tayer. His
(13:05):
departure a second gust, taking our trail maps and the
knife we'd carved with no forest attend I took a
job as a caretaker for an old cabin near Prince
Albert National Park. Its logs weathered by the wood's breath,
its quiet, restless like a held sigh. The cabin a
leaning shelter with moss covered walls and a floor that
creaked with every step. In the shed, buried under pile
(13:26):
of rotted branches, I found a barometer, its glass cracked
with age, its face etched el Cree eighteen hundred in
a hand worn by wind, its needles stuck as if
caught in a storm. Locals in the nearest village, a
cluster of homes twelve miles west, avoided it. Their mutters
in the lumber mill, hinting it whispered. The breathed a
tail passed down with a cautious breath. But I saw
(13:47):
a gage to fix a link to my father, away
to catch the breath i'd lost. The first night I
tapped the barometer in the cabin shed, the air thick
with the scent of sap and rusted metal, the wind
sighing through the gaps like a fatting echo, the floorboards
shifting under my weight as if the cabin swayed with
the breeze. The shed was cluttered, a stump with a
(14:08):
split top tilting under debris, A lamp dim and casting
uneven light, the single window framing the misty woods, where
the pines stood like silent guards. The barometer's presence a
faint hush that seemed to still the air. At one
forty five p m. As the day brightened her pale gold,
the glass glowed a faint green light, pulsing from the
(14:28):
etchings like moss in sunlight. And I felt a murmur,
soft and endless, a sound that brushed my ears as
I struck the face. A voice followed, gruff yet pleading,
rising from the brass itself. Hear me teya, my father's
voice from those walking days, urging yet faint, the same
tone he'd used when he last checked the dial, his
breath smelling of pine and sweat. The glow spread across
(14:50):
the barometer, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures
in cloaks, faceless, their hands raised as if catching a wind,
their forms weighing with the rhythm of the breeze. I froze,
my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the barometer. No
shift detected, no reading changed, the needle still under my
gaze despite the glow. But the light held, whispering, whisper
(15:13):
for us taeya. The air grew cooler, a chill that
bit through my jacket, smelling of moss and decay, My
breath fogging, as if the forest's side with the breathed,
the wood creaking under an unseen gust. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my forester days, my hands
trembling as I wrote one forty five p m. Your
breathed now, the shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
(15:35):
I felt a pull, a tug in my throat, as
if the barometer drew my voice into its murmur. I
blamed the damp rising from the woods, the natural play
of light on tarnished glass, amplified by my exhaustion, the
guilt of that toppled survey still blowing in me, the
crash of timber, the rangers shout, the services, rouling each
a gust in a trail I couldn't clear, but the
(15:56):
cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a wind vane,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the murmur, to prove it was a trick of the
mist or my mind unraveling after months alone. One forty
five p m. The light returned, the green deepening to
a leafy pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You silenced us.
(16:19):
The shadows sharpened, forming a line across the shed, their
cloaks tattered and mossy eyes, hollow mouths open in silent breaths,
their hands clutching tools that weren't there. I played back
the vein data, still ere, no movement, but the voices
lingered personal now Ryland's tone cutting through the hum. You
muted me, followed by a worker faint and accusing, why
didn't you warn? I researched at the Waiki Zoo Library
(16:42):
the next day, a long hike that left my hands
aching from the cold, the keeper's glance wary as I
asked about old hunters. I found records of Leco Cree,
a Cree hunter who roamed the forests in eighteen hundred,
vanishing during a windstorm. His barometer found glowing green logs
describing whispering of the breeze that drew people to wander
his camp. Lost locals reported disappearances over centuries, their cabins
(17:07):
found with barometers left silent, their last sightings marked by
a green glow at noon. My flashlight, held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes pale and staring,
dotting the air like leaves in a breeze. The mist
thickening with the scent of bark and blood, a stench
that clung to my hair and clothes. The whispers grew
into a chant, speak us home. Sleep vanished, My nights
(17:30):
spent in the shed, The barometers glow a beacon I
couldn't escape. I covered it with a canvas tarp, the
fabric cold to the touch, but the green light seeping
through the weave, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting, tear whisper. I filled the journal with observations,
the glass sweating, a dark dew that pooled on the stump,
its texture thick like sap, staining the wood black as
(17:52):
it spread it's past, the isolation deepening, the forest thickening
with each rain. And one dawn, I woke with the
barometer in my hand, the shed floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own tear stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a leaf's rustle creise cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to whisper with the breathed. I tried burying
(18:13):
it in the earth behind the cabin. The shovels, sinking
deep the soil pushed it back, the barometer 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 howl's roar
and cries Ryland's voice, pleading call me. I fought my arms, trembling,
(18:35):
the weight of the whisper a chain, the glow leading
me into the woods. I fled to a ranger's hut
eighteen miles east, but the barometer's glow follows one forty
five p m each night, my shadow bending into Ryland's face,
his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of forest trails. Now shows barometer sketches. I didn't draw,
My hands stained with black streaks. The cabin calls me back,
(18:58):
its shed glowing from the woods. Listener, if you hear
green murmurs, don't gauge. Some whispers never cease. We are
back for the final tale from listener Tailie's podcast. This
one cuts from a listener in Canada. They call it
The Axe that Strikes, Part four, The Axe that Strikes.
I came to the Lakes of Ontario after life hewn
(19:19):
by a blade I couldn't dull a cut that severed
my every joy. At thirty six, I'd been a lumberjack,
felling trees in Thunder Bay. My axe and saw my
craft honed by years of toil, shaped by my uncle,
a woodsman who taught me the steel's bite under the
lake's mist that hung over Lake Superior, his tailies of
striking spirits, filling my youth with a woody unease. We
(19:42):
chopped together on crisp spring days, his voice gruff over
the thud of wood as he split a log, recounting
stories of trappers felled by unseen hands, until a fall
in twenty sixteen took him at sixty three, His axe
buried in the stump, leaving me his axe, a sturdy
handle with a chipped edge, and a p promise growled
through his pane cut their mark urin his last words,
(20:04):
and notch. I couldn't carve. My swings thrived with clean falls,
a plaque from the Ontario Lumber Association in hand, until
an axe I wielded slipped during a twenty nineteen cut blade,
glancing crewmate, bleeding the mill, calling it reckless swing. After
an inquiry that replayed the strike, costing me my job
(20:24):
and leaving me with a fine I couldn't pay. My
wife Nadia left after seven years, her words hard as
she packed her coat. You struck our life erin her departure,
a second cut, taking our shared tools and the scarf
we'd knitted with no trees to fell. I took a
job as a caretaker for an old lodge near Lake Superior,
its beams splintered by times where its quiet tents like
(20:48):
a held breath. The lodge as sagging structure with water
stained walls and a floor that groaned with every tread
in the storeroom, buried under pile of warped planks. I
found an axe, its edge chip with age, its handle
etched k Ojibwei seventeen fifty in a hand worn by labor,
its blade dull as if used beyond repair. Locals in
(21:10):
the nearest village, a cluster of homes fourteen miles north,
avoided it, their mutters in the boatyard hinting it struck
the feld. A tail passed down with a wary chop.
But I saw a tool to sharpen, a link to
my uncle, away to cut the mark I'd lost. The
first night, I honed the axe in the lodge storeroom,
the air thick with the scent of pine and rusted steel,
(21:32):
the wind groaning through the walls like a distant fall,
the floorboards creaking under my weight, as if the lodge
leaned with the work. The storeroom was cluttered, a barrel
with a split side rolling under pressure, a lamp dim
and casting jagged shadows. The single window framing the foggy
lake where the waves lapped. The axe's presence, a faint
thud that seemed to pulse the air. At one forty
(21:53):
six p m. As the day warmed to a pale afternoon.
The blade glowed a faint silver light, pulsing from the etchings,
like steel in moonlight, and I felt a strike, sharp
and unyielding, a jolt that strung my palm. As I
ran the whetstone. A voice followed, rough yet pleading, rising
from the handle itself. Shape me urin my uncle's voice
from those chopping days, urging yet faint, the same tone
(22:15):
he'd used when he last sharpened the edge, his breath
smelling of cedar and sweat. The glow spread across the axe,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in vests, faceless,
their hands gripping as if holding a felled tree, their
forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze,
my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the axe. No
(22:36):
swing made, no cut taken, the blade still under my
gaze despite the glow, but the light held, whispering strike
for us urin. The air grew cooler, a chill that
bit through my shirt, smelling of sap and decay, my
breath fogging as if the lake mourned with the feld,
the wood creaking under an unseen chop. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my lumberjack days, my hands
(22:58):
trembling as I wrote, one forty six p m. You're
feld now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my arms, as
if the axe drew my strength into its strike. I
blamed the damp rising from the lake, the natural play
of light on worn steel, amplified by my fatigue, the
guilt of that slipped cut, still cutting me. The crewmates groan,
(23:20):
the foreman's yell, the mills ruling, each a splinter in
a swing I couldn't perfect, but the lodge wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a force gauge its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the strike,
to prove it was a trick of the mist, or
my mind unraveling after months alone. At one forty six
p m. The light returned, the silver deepening to a
(23:41):
metallic pulse. The voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves, You spared us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a crew around the axe, their vests torn and splintered,
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent cries, their hands clutching
sores that weren't there. I played back the gauge data,
(24:01):
light pressure, no force, but the voices lingered personal, now
Nadia's tone cutting through the hum You wounded me, followed
by a worker faint and accusing, why didn't you steady?
I researched at the Nippigan Library the next day, a
long trek that left my hands aching from the cold,
the keeper's glance weary as I asked about old trappers.
(24:22):
I found records of qui Odjibwe, an Odjibwei trapper who
hunted the shores in seventeen fifty, vanishing during a freeze.
His axe found glowing silver logs describing striking of the
feld that drew people to fall his camp. Abandoned locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their lodges found with axes left stuck,
(24:42):
their last sightings marked by a silver glow. At noon.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air like
chips in wood, the mist thickening with the scent of
sap and blood, a stench that clung to my fingers
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant. Hewe us home,
(25:04):
sleep vanished, my nights spent in the storeroom. The axes
glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I sheathed it in
a leather case, the hide stiff with dryness, but the
silver lights seeping through the seams, the voices seeping into
my dreams, the figures chanting urin strike. I filled the
journal with observations, the blade sweating a dark resin that
pooled on the barrel, its texture thick like pitch, staining
(25:27):
the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening,
the lake freezing with each wind, and one dawn, I
woke with the axe in my hand, the storeroom floor
marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the voices
layered with my own urin stay. The log showed silence
on playback, but I heard a woods crack, Ojibwa's cry
rising over the wind, cursing me to strike with the feld.
(25:48):
I tried sinking it in the lake behind the lodge,
the water rippling around it. The surface pushed it back,
the axe 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 slip's thud, and cries Nardia's voice, pleading heal me.
I fought, my legs trembling the weight of the striker chain,
(26:12):
the glow leading me into the shore. I fled to
a fisherman's shack twenty four miles east. But the axe's
glow follows one forty six p m each night, my
shadow bending into Nardia's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of cutting patterns. Now shows
axe sketches. I didn't draw, My hand stained with black streaks.
The lodge calls me back. It's store room glowing from
(26:34):
the lake. Listener, if you see silver cuts, don't chop.
Some strikes never heal. Thank you for joining me, Sir Winston,
on this journey through four dark tales. Until next time,
stay out of the swing.
Welcome to Listener Tales Podcast. I'm Sir Winston, your guide
into the shadows once more. To day we ring out
four new tales from listeners on the edges of Canada's
rugged wilds, Each a chime of dread from its buried secrets.
No pauses, just the unbroken toll of those who have
heard the unearthly. Brace yourself if you're bold, as we
(00:21):
step into the dark. Part one, The Bell that Rings.
I came to the mountains of Yukon after a life
rung by a chime I couldn't silence. At thirty five,
I'd been a bell ringer, tolling calls in white Horse,
my rope and clapper. My heart shaped by my brother,
a churchwarden, who taught me the bell's voice under the
northern lights, his talies of ringing spirits filling my youth.
(00:42):
We'd ring together, his voice steady over the clang of brass,
until a fall took him at sixty, leaving me his
bell and a promise to hear their call. Soreign my
tolls faltered when a bell I rang cracked during a service,
injuring the congregation, the parish, calling it reckless peal costing
me my My fiancee, Leela left her words sharp, you
(01:03):
rang our ends soreren and I took a job as
a caretaker for an old chapel near Kluane National Park,
its stones cold, its quiet, haunting. In the belfry, I
found a bell, its surface pitted, its rim etched o
gwitchin seventeen hundred locals warning it rang the herd, but
I saw a tone to tune a link to my brother.
(01:25):
First night I struck the bell in the chapel belfry,
the air thick with the scent of moss and aged metal,
the wind whistling through the tower, the floorboards trembling under
my weight. The belfry was stark, a beam with a
frayed rope, a lamp dim, the single window framing the
snowy peaks, the bell's presence a faint echo. At one
forty one pm, the brass glowed a faint bronze light
(01:45):
pulsing from the etchings, and I felt a toll, deep
and unending. A voice followed, warm yet pleading. Listen to me, Soren,
my brother's voice from those ringing days, Urging yet faint.
The glow spread, shadows forming on the walls. Figures in
row hobes, faceless, their hands raised. I checked the bell,
no strike, no sound, but the light held, whispering, ring
(02:06):
for us soreren. I logged it in my journal. One
forty one p m. You're heard now. The air grew colder,
smelling of pine and decay, my breath fogging, as if
the mountains mourned. I blamed the altitude, the guilt of
that cracked service still chiming in me. But the chapel
wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a sound meter,
determined to measure the toll. At one forty one pm,
(02:28):
the glow returned, joined by others, men, women, children, murmuring
you silenced us. The shadows sharpened, forming a choire, their
robes tattered, eyes hollow. I played back the data, quiet space,
but the voices lingered, Leela's tone cutting you drowned me.
I researched at the Haines Junction Library, my hands aching
from the cold, finding records of olik Qwitchin, a shaman
(02:49):
who vanished in seventeen hundred. His bell found glowing logs
describing ringing of the herd. Locals reported unease, their prayers muted.
My flashlight caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes
pale and staring, dotting the air. The frost thick with
the scent of sap and blood. The whispers grew call
us home. Sleep vanished. I muffled the bell, but the
(03:11):
glow seeped through, the voices, seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting Soren ring. I spent weeks observing the brass,
sweating a dark Resin one dawn, I woke with the
bell in hand. The belf remarked with my prints. The
voices layered with my own Soren stay. The log showed silence,
but I heard a chime's echo, Gwitchen's cry, cursing me
to ring. I tried burying it, the ground rejected it.
(03:32):
The bell, laughing a hollow your hours shadows dragged me
toward the peaks, the cold seeping into my bones. Leela's
voice pleading. I fled to a trapper cabin, but the
bell's glow follows one forty one p m each night,
my logs showing her face. Listener, if you hear bronze tones,
don't strike, Some rings never fade. We are back with
(03:54):
another woven tale. From listener Tale's podcast. This one threads
from a listener in Canada. They call it The Quilt
that Binds. Part two, The Quilt that Binds. I came
to the tundra of Northwest Territories after a life stitched
by a pattern I couldn't unravel, a weave that tangled
my every piece. At thirty four, i'd been a seamstress,
(04:16):
sewing quilts in Yellowknife, my needle and fabric, my art
honed by years of craft, shaped by my grandmother, a
textile keeper, who taught me the threads tie under the
arctic glow that lit the Great Slave Lake, her tailles
of bound spirits, filling my youth with a frosty unease.
We'd sew together on long winter afternoons, her voice soft
(04:36):
over the hum of the loom as she spun tailees
of souls caught in fabric, until a cold and twenty
thirteen took her at sixty two, her sewing box frozen,
leaving me her quilt, a patchwork of caribou hide with
faded edges, and a promise breathed through her shivers, not
their tie ala her last words, a stitch I couldn't
loosen my stitches flourished with intricate patterns, a ribbon from
(04:59):
the No Northwest Territories Arts Council in hand until a
quilt I made for the twenty eighteen Yellowna festival tour
under display seams, splitting cries, rising the market calling it
fragile weave. After an inspection that replayed the rip, costing
me my booth and leaving me with a loss. I
couldn't mend My partner, Jorin left after five years, his
(05:22):
words cold as he packed his parker. You bound our
thread ahler, his departure a second tier, taking our shared
fabrics in the mitten's weed, sown with no cloth to shape.
I took a job as a caretaker for an old
outpost near Great Bear Lake. Its walls icy with the
grip of frost, its quiet oppressive like a held breath.
The outpost a squat structure with ice crusted walls and
(05:43):
a floor that echoed with every shift. In the storage room,
buried under pile of frozen pelts, I found a quilt,
its design faded with age, its hem etched n in
Uvaluet 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 north,
(06:06):
avoided it, their mutters in the seal skin shop hinting
it bound the knotted a tail passed down with a
nervous tug. But I saw a piece to mend a
link to my grandmother, away to not the tie i'd lost.
First night, I stitched the quilt in the outpost storage room,
the air thick with the scent of frozen hide and
brittle thread, the wind howling through the cracks like a
(06:28):
mournful cord, the ice floor shivering under my weight, as
if the outpost trembled with my presence. The room was tight,
a crate with a cracked side, tilting under frost, A
lamp dim and casting long shadows, the single window framing
the snowy expanse where the tundras stretched into white. The
quilt's presence a faint pull that seemed to tighten the air.
At one forty three p m. As the day warmed
(06:50):
to a pale noon, the fabric glowed a faint white light,
pulsing from the etchings like snow caught in sunlight, and
I felt a knot, 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. Men me Aila,
my grandmother's voice from those sowing days, pleading yet distant,
(07:13):
the same tone she'd used when she last patched to seam,
her breath smelling of seal oil and tallow. The glow
spread across the quilt, casting reflections on the walls, shadows
forming figures in furs, faceless, their hands weaving as if
mending an invisible fabric, their forms swaying with the rhythm
of the wind. I froze, my heart thudding against my ribs,
(07:34):
checking the quilt. No needle struck, no thread pulled, The
cloth cool and still despite the glow, but the light held,
whispering bind for us Ala. 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 knotted,
the ice creaking on an unseen strain. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my seamstress days, my hands
(07:54):
trembling as I wrote one forty three p m. You're
knotted now. The shadows liningered, their forms, drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my hands, as
if the quilt drew my stitches into its bind. I
blamed the frost settling over the tundra, the natural play
of light on faded fabric, amplified by my fatigue, the
(08:15):
guilt of that festival tear still threading me, the rip sound,
the vendors scold, the markets, ruling, each a thread in
a weave. I couldn't mend, but the outpost wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a fabric tension gauge its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the knot,
to prove it was a trick of the cold, or
my mind unraveling after months alone. One forty three p m.
(08:38):
The light returned, the white deepening to pale pulse. The
voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves. Euphreed 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 Juran's tone
(09:01):
cutting through the hum You tangled me, followed by a
buyer's faint and accusing, why did you check? I researched
at the Norman Wells Library the next day, a long
walk that left my hands aching from the frost. The
elders glance wary as I asked about old weavers. I
found records of Nuca in Uvaluate, an Inuvaluate weaver who
lived near the lake in sixteen hundred, vanishing during a blizzard.
(09:23):
Her quilt found glowing white logs describing binding of the
knotted that drew people to freeze. Her family lost. Locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their outposts found with quilts left folded,
their last sightings marked by a white glow at noon.
My flashlight held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the fabric like
(09:46):
knots in thread, the air thickening with the scent of
fur and blood, a stench that clung to my skin
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant tie us home.
Sleep vanished, my nights spent in the room. The quilts
glow a beacon I couldn't ass I folded it into
a leather pouch, the hide stiff with dryness, but the
white light seeping through the stitches, the voices seeping into
(10:07):
my dreams, the figures chanting ala bind I filled the
journal with observations, the cloth sweating, a dark fiber that
pooled on the crate, its texture thick like yarn, staining
the ice black as it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening,
the tundra hardening with each wind, and one dawn, I
woke with the quilt in my hand, the room floor
(10:28):
marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the voices
layered with my own ala stay. The log showed silence
on playback, but I heard a thread snap in Uvalut's cry,
rising over the wind, cursing me to bind with the
knotted I tried burning it in the outpost's oil lamp,
the flames leaping high. They died to embers, the quilt
laughing a hollow your hours that echoed off the walls.
(10:50):
Shadows dragged me toward the door. The cold seeping into
my bones. The air thick with the memory of the tears,
sound and cries. Duran's voice, pleading unravel me. I fought
my arms, trembling the weight of the bind 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 one forty three p m each night, my
(11:13):
shadow bending into Joran's face, his eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of sowing patterns, now shows, quilts, sketches.
I didn't draw, My hands stained with black streaks. The
outpost calls me back. It's room glowing from the tundra. Listener,
if you see white knots, don't sow. Some binds never break.
We're back with another breezy tail from listener Taley's podcast.
(11:36):
This one gusts from a listener in Canada. They call
it The Wind That Whispers. Part three, The Wind That Whispers.
I came to the forests of Saskatchewan after a life
carried by a breeze. I couldn't quiet a wind that
carried my every regret. At thirty seven, i'd been a
forester tending trees in Prince Albert. My axe and barometer,
(11:57):
my trade honed by years of trail work, shaped by
my father, a ranger who taught me the wind's murmur
under the pine canopy that shadowed the North Saskatchewan River,
his tailies of whispering spirits, filling my youth with a
rustling dread. We'd walked together on crisp fall mornings, his
voice low over the rustle of leaves as he read
the barometer, recounting stories of hunters lost to sudden gusts,
(12:21):
until a storm in twenty eleven took him at sixty one.
His ranger station wrecked, leaving me his barometer, a brass
dial with cracked glass, and a promise whispered through the
rain catched their breath tear his last words, a breeze
I couldn't hold. My trails thrived with clear paths, a
badge from the Saskatchewan Forestry Association in hand, until a
(12:42):
wind I tracked howled. During a twenty seventeen survey, trees crashing,
crew scattered the service, calling it misread gust after a
review that replayed the fall, costing me my roll and
leaving me with a suspension I couldn't lift. My boyfriend
Rylan left after four years, his words stern as he
packed his camping gear. You whispered our n tayer. His
(13:05):
departure a second gust, taking our trail maps and the
knife we'd carved with no forest attend I took a
job as a caretaker for an old cabin near Prince
Albert National Park. Its logs weathered by the wood's breath,
its quiet, restless like a held sigh. The cabin a
leaning shelter with moss covered walls and a floor that
creaked with every step. In the shed, buried under pile
(13:26):
of rotted branches, I found a barometer, its glass cracked
with age, its face etched el Cree eighteen hundred in
a hand worn by wind, its needles stuck as if
caught in a storm. Locals in the nearest village, a
cluster of homes twelve miles west, avoided it. Their mutters
in the lumber mill, hinting it whispered. The breathed a
tail passed down with a cautious breath. But I saw
(13:47):
a gage to fix a link to my father, away
to catch the breath i'd lost. The first night I
tapped the barometer in the cabin shed, the air thick
with the scent of sap and rusted metal, the wind
sighing through the gaps like a fatting echo, the floorboards
shifting under my weight as if the cabin swayed with
the breeze. The shed was cluttered, a stump with a
(14:08):
split top tilting under debris, A lamp dim and casting
uneven light, the single window framing the misty woods, where
the pines stood like silent guards. The barometer's presence a
faint hush that seemed to still the air. At one
forty five p m. As the day brightened her pale gold,
the glass glowed a faint green light, pulsing from the
(14:28):
etchings like moss in sunlight. And I felt a murmur,
soft and endless, a sound that brushed my ears as
I struck the face. A voice followed, gruff yet pleading,
rising from the brass itself. Hear me teya, my father's
voice from those walking days, urging yet faint, the same
tone he'd used when he last checked the dial, his
breath smelling of pine and sweat. The glow spread across
(14:50):
the barometer, casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures
in cloaks, faceless, their hands raised as if catching a wind,
their forms weighing with the rhythm of the breeze. I froze,
my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the barometer. No
shift detected, no reading changed, the needle still under my
gaze despite the glow. But the light held, whispering, whisper
(15:13):
for us taeya. The air grew cooler, a chill that
bit through my jacket, smelling of moss and decay, My
breath fogging, as if the forest's side with the breathed,
the wood creaking under an unseen gust. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my forester days, my hands
trembling as I wrote one forty five p m. Your
breathed now, the shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
(15:35):
I felt a pull, a tug in my throat, as
if the barometer drew my voice into its murmur. I
blamed the damp rising from the woods, the natural play
of light on tarnished glass, amplified by my exhaustion, the
guilt of that toppled survey still blowing in me, the
crash of timber, the rangers shout, the services, rouling each
a gust in a trail I couldn't clear, but the
(15:56):
cabin wouldn't rest. The next night, I brought a wind vane,
its readings, a tool from my trade, determined to measure
the murmur, to prove it was a trick of the
mist or my mind unraveling after months alone. One forty
five p m. The light returned, the green deepening to
a leafy pulse, the voice joined by others, a chorus
of men, women, children, murmuring in overlapping waves. You silenced us.
(16:19):
The shadows sharpened, forming a line across the shed, their
cloaks tattered and mossy eyes, hollow mouths open in silent breaths,
their hands clutching tools that weren't there. I played back
the vein data, still ere, no movement, but the voices
lingered personal now Ryland's tone cutting through the hum. You
muted me, followed by a worker faint and accusing, why
didn't you warn? I researched at the Waiki Zoo Library
(16:42):
the next day, a long hike that left my hands
aching from the cold, the keeper's glance wary as I
asked about old hunters. I found records of Leco Cree,
a Cree hunter who roamed the forests in eighteen hundred,
vanishing during a windstorm. His barometer found glowing green logs
describing whispering of the breeze that drew people to wander
his camp. Lost locals reported disappearances over centuries, their cabins
(17:07):
found with barometers left silent, their last sightings marked by
a green glow at noon. My flashlight, held high that night,
caught glints in the dark, Dozens of eyes pale and staring,
dotting the air like leaves in a breeze. The mist
thickening with the scent of bark and blood, a stench
that clung to my hair and clothes. The whispers grew
into a chant, speak us home. Sleep vanished, My nights
(17:30):
spent in the shed, The barometers glow a beacon I
couldn't escape. I covered it with a canvas tarp, the
fabric cold to the touch, but the green light seeping
through the weave, the voices seeping into my dreams, the
figures chanting, tear whisper. I filled the journal with observations,
the glass sweating, a dark dew that pooled on the stump,
its texture thick like sap, staining the wood black as
(17:52):
it spread it's past, the isolation deepening, the forest thickening
with each rain. And one dawn, I woke with the
barometer in my hand, the shed floor marked with my
boot prints circling the spot, the voices layered with my
own tear stay. The log showed silence on playback, but
I heard a leaf's rustle creise cry rising over the wind,
cursing me to whisper with the breathed. I tried burying
(18:13):
it in the earth behind the cabin. The shovels, sinking
deep the soil pushed it back, the barometer 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 howl's roar
and cries Ryland's voice, pleading call me. I fought my arms, trembling,
(18:35):
the weight of the whisper a chain, the glow leading
me into the woods. I fled to a ranger's hut
eighteen miles east, but the barometer's glow follows one forty
five p m each night, my shadow bending into Ryland's face,
his eyes accusing from the dark. My journal wants a
record of forest trails. Now shows barometer sketches. I didn't draw,
My hands stained with black streaks. The cabin calls me back,
(18:58):
its shed glowing from the woods. Listener, if you hear
green murmurs, don't gauge. Some whispers never cease. We are
back for the final tale from listener Tailie's podcast. This
one cuts from a listener in Canada. They call it
The Axe that Strikes, Part four, The Axe that Strikes.
I came to the Lakes of Ontario after life hewn
(19:19):
by a blade I couldn't dull a cut that severed
my every joy. At thirty six, I'd been a lumberjack,
felling trees in Thunder Bay. My axe and saw my
craft honed by years of toil, shaped by my uncle,
a woodsman who taught me the steel's bite under the
lake's mist that hung over Lake Superior, his tailies of
striking spirits, filling my youth with a woody unease. We
(19:42):
chopped together on crisp spring days, his voice gruff over
the thud of wood as he split a log, recounting
stories of trappers felled by unseen hands, until a fall
in twenty sixteen took him at sixty three, His axe
buried in the stump, leaving me his axe, a sturdy
handle with a chipped edge, and a p promise growled
through his pane cut their mark urin his last words,
(20:04):
and notch. I couldn't carve. My swings thrived with clean falls,
a plaque from the Ontario Lumber Association in hand, until
an axe I wielded slipped during a twenty nineteen cut blade,
glancing crewmate, bleeding the mill, calling it reckless swing. After
an inquiry that replayed the strike, costing me my job
(20:24):
and leaving me with a fine I couldn't pay. My
wife Nadia left after seven years, her words hard as
she packed her coat. You struck our life erin her departure,
a second cut, taking our shared tools and the scarf
we'd knitted with no trees to fell. I took a
job as a caretaker for an old lodge near Lake Superior,
its beams splintered by times where its quiet tents like
(20:48):
a held breath. The lodge as sagging structure with water
stained walls and a floor that groaned with every tread
in the storeroom, buried under pile of warped planks. I
found an axe, its edge chip with age, its handle
etched k Ojibwei seventeen fifty in a hand worn by labor,
its blade dull as if used beyond repair. Locals in
(21:10):
the nearest village, a cluster of homes fourteen miles north,
avoided it, their mutters in the boatyard hinting it struck
the feld. A tail passed down with a wary chop.
But I saw a tool to sharpen, a link to
my uncle, away to cut the mark I'd lost. The
first night, I honed the axe in the lodge storeroom,
the air thick with the scent of pine and rusted steel,
(21:32):
the wind groaning through the walls like a distant fall,
the floorboards creaking under my weight, as if the lodge
leaned with the work. The storeroom was cluttered, a barrel
with a split side rolling under pressure, a lamp dim
and casting jagged shadows. The single window framing the foggy
lake where the waves lapped. The axe's presence, a faint
thud that seemed to pulse the air. At one forty
(21:53):
six p m. As the day warmed to a pale afternoon.
The blade glowed a faint silver light, pulsing from the etchings,
like steel in moonlight, and I felt a strike, sharp
and unyielding, a jolt that strung my palm. As I
ran the whetstone. A voice followed, rough yet pleading, rising
from the handle itself. Shape me urin my uncle's voice
from those chopping days, urging yet faint, the same tone
(22:15):
he'd used when he last sharpened the edge, his breath
smelling of cedar and sweat. The glow spread across the axe,
casting reflections on the walls, shadows forming figures in vests, faceless,
their hands gripping as if holding a felled tree, their
forms swaying with the rhythm of the wind. I froze,
my heart thudding against my ribs, checking the axe. No
(22:36):
swing made, no cut taken, the blade still under my
gaze despite the glow, but the light held, whispering strike
for us urin. The air grew cooler, a chill that
bit through my shirt, smelling of sap and decay, my
breath fogging as if the lake mourned with the feld,
the wood creaking under an unseen chop. I stumbled to
my journal, a log from my lumberjack days, my hands
(22:58):
trembling as I wrote, one forty six p m. You're
feld now. The shadows lingered, their forms drifting closer, and
I felt a pull, a tug in my arms, as
if the axe drew my strength into its strike. I
blamed the damp rising from the lake, the natural play
of light on worn steel, amplified by my fatigue, the
guilt of that slipped cut, still cutting me. The crewmates groan,
(23:20):
the foreman's yell, the mills ruling, each a splinter in
a swing I couldn't perfect, but the lodge wouldn't rest.
The next night, I brought a force gauge its readings,
a tool from my trade, determined to measure the strike,
to prove it was a trick of the mist, or
my mind unraveling after months alone. At one forty six
p m. The light returned, the silver deepening to a
(23:41):
metallic pulse. The voice joined by others, a chorus of men, women, children,
murmuring in overlapping waves, You spared us. The shadows sharpened,
forming a crew around the axe, their vests torn and splintered,
eyes hollow, mouths open in silent cries, their hands clutching
sores that weren't there. I played back the gauge data,
(24:01):
light pressure, no force, but the voices lingered personal, now
Nadia's tone cutting through the hum You wounded me, followed
by a worker faint and accusing, why didn't you steady?
I researched at the Nippigan Library the next day, a
long trek that left my hands aching from the cold,
the keeper's glance weary as I asked about old trappers.
(24:22):
I found records of qui Odjibwe, an Odjibwei trapper who
hunted the shores in seventeen fifty, vanishing during a freeze.
His axe found glowing silver logs describing striking of the
feld that drew people to fall his camp. Abandoned locals
reported disappearances over centuries, their lodges found with axes left stuck,
(24:42):
their last sightings marked by a silver glow. At noon.
My flashlight, held high that night, caught glints in the dark,
dozens of eyes, pale and staring, dotting the air like
chips in wood, the mist thickening with the scent of
sap and blood, a stench that clung to my fingers
and clothes. The whispers grew into a chant. Hewe us home,
(25:04):
sleep vanished, my nights spent in the storeroom. The axes
glow a beacon I couldn't escape. I sheathed it in
a leather case, the hide stiff with dryness, but the
silver lights seeping through the seams, the voices seeping into
my dreams, the figures chanting urin strike. I filled the
journal with observations, the blade sweating a dark resin that
pooled on the barrel, its texture thick like pitch, staining
(25:27):
the wood black as it spread. Weeks passed, the isolation deepening,
the lake freezing with each wind, and one dawn, I
woke with the axe in my hand, the storeroom floor
marked with my boot prints circling the spot, the voices
layered with my own urin stay. The log showed silence
on playback, but I heard a woods crack, Ojibwa's cry
rising over the wind, cursing me to strike with the feld.
(25:48):
I tried sinking it in the lake behind the lodge,
the water rippling around it. The surface pushed it back,
the axe 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 slip's thud, and cries Nardia's voice, pleading heal me.
I fought, my legs trembling the weight of the striker chain,
(26:12):
the glow leading me into the shore. I fled to
a fisherman's shack twenty four miles east. But the axe's
glow follows one forty six p m each night, my
shadow bending into Nardia's face, her eyes accusing from the dark.
My journal wants a record of cutting patterns. Now shows
axe sketches. I didn't draw, My hand stained with black streaks.
The lodge calls me back. It's store room glowing from
(26:34):
the lake. Listener, if you see silver cuts, don't chop.
Some strikes never heal. Thank you for joining me, Sir Winston,
on this journey through four dark tales. Until next time,
stay out of the swing.
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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.