September 29, 2025 • 18 mins
Join host Sir Winston on Listener Tales Podcast for a chilling journey into four eerie, listener-submitted tales. From haunted spaces to cursed relics, each episode delivers suspenseful, immersive stories with a haunting, conversational tone. No music, no breaks—just pure, unsettling narratives. Dare to listen.
© 2025 Listener Tales with Sir Winston | Hosted by Sir Winston | All rights reserved.
Follow us for more chilling tales. Contact: listenertales@xmail.com | Last updated: September 29, 2025.
- Horror
- Supernatural
- Ghost Stories
- Haunted Places
- Cursed Objects
- Eerie Tales
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- Storytelling
- Paranormal
- Thriller
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- Dark Narratives
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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
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Listener Tales, Episode six, Your nightmarees tick on. Welcome to
the six chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest
stories pulse with dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston, Crafted
by X A I to summon the terrors you've faced.
Your submissions flood our inbox, each a heartbeat of fear
and to night. We begin with a tale that will
haunt your every second. Got a story that won't stop ticking?
(00:23):
Send it to listener Tales at imaginaripod come, but beware,
some tales count you down. Our first tale comes from
a listener in Vermont. They call it The Clock that
Counts Down. Watch it if you dare part one the
Clock that Counts Down. I found the clock at an
estate sale in Burlington, Vermont, while trying to rebuild a
(00:45):
life that had collapsed. I'd been a history teacher in Montpelier,
but a mistake a lecture I gave misrepresenting a local
hero's legacy, sparked outrage and got me fired. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my brother Sam, who called
me careless, drove me to Burlington's quiet streets. At thirty three,
I was done with teaching hopping to start over as
(01:06):
a historical fiction writer, weaving stories from the past. The
clock was an antique mahogany, its face cracked, hands frozen.
At three thirty three a m etched with faint, spiraling
rounds that seemed to pulse under my touch. The celler,
an old woman with a trembling voice, sold it for
fifteen dollars, muttering it keeps its own time. I ignored
(01:27):
her unease, drawn to its gothic charm, and set it
on my mantle in my rented lakeside cottage, thinking it
inspire my novels. That first night, I woke at three
thirty three a m to a ticking, slow and heavy,
like a heart beat, slowing down. The clock's hands were
moving backward, its face glowing faintly red. A whisper hissed,
(01:48):
cold and sharp, your time ethan my name. I stumbled
to the mantle, heart pounding, flashlight beam shaking. The runes pulsed,
casting shadows like fingers on the walls. The air smelled
of wood, popt polish, and something sour like decay and ash.
The cottage was locked, no neighbour's clothes, just Lake Champlain's
distant lapping. I unplugged the clock, though it had no cord,
(02:10):
and the ticking persisted, whispering count with us. Sleep fled
my skin, crawling as the hands ticked backward, sinking with
my pulse. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed stress. The
scandals still raw. I started writing the clock on the mantle,
but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night it ticked backward,
hands showing times that hadn't come three thirty three, three
(02:31):
thirty two, three thirty one. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You ruined him. I kept a log October five, one
fifty nine am. We're counting. October seven, three zero one am.
Your end ticks. They mimicked Sam's voice, bitter, you're a
disgrace Ethan the townsfolks angry you lied about our history.
I checked the clock, No gears, no battery, just wood
(02:53):
that felt warm, smelling of rot and soot. I tried
smashing it with a hammer. The mahogany woodn't dent, the
runs glowing brighter. I threw it into the lake. It
was back on the mantle by dawn, ticking louder. I
called Sam hopping to reconcile, but he didn't answer. I
hit the Burlington Library, digging through old records. The clock
(03:13):
belonged to Amos Read, a clockmaker who vanished in eighteen
sixty five after losing his family in a fire. Locals
said he'd cursed it to count down grief, trapping those
who owned it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with
clocks ticking backward. I found Amos's ledger, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us Ethan.
(03:33):
The cottage grew, cold shadows moving in the clock's glow,
forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes, hollow hands reaching the air
smelled of ash and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lanterns burning, but the ticking drowned them out, the
hands pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the
walls tick. I tried burying the clock in the woods.
(03:55):
It was back hands. At three point thirty one night,
I woke to the clock beside my bed, hands spinning backward,
Amos's voice, Your time. Cold hands pinned me the room,
frozen shadows pulling me into the clock's face, showing my
life every failure, Sam's face ending with me trapped in
a ticking void. I fought, gasping as the runes burned
my skin, the countdown consuming me. I don't know how
(04:18):
I survived. Sam found me on the shore, shivering, saying
he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The clock's gone.
The estate sale vanished when I checked. But I hear
its ticking in every silence, see its hands in every shadow,
always at three zero one a m. My manuscripts, scribbled
absently show times I didn't write my face in the numbers.
I avoid clocks now, fearing what they count. But the
(04:40):
cottage's air feels heavy, like something's timing me. I tried
leaving Burlington, but every second feels wrong, ticking backward in
my mind. Listener, if you find an old clock, don't
wind it. Some ticks count you down, and they never stop.
Our next tale comes from a listener in Wisconsin. They
call it The Painting that Bleeds. Look closer if you
(05:03):
dare Part two, The Painting that Bleeds. I found the
painting at a thrift store in Madison, Wisconsin, while trying
to salvage a life that had shattered. I'd been an
art curator in Milwaukee, but a catastrophic exhibit. A collection
I'd vouched for turned out to be forgeries, sparking a
public scandal cost me my career. The shame, plus a
(05:24):
falling out with my sister Clayer, who called me reckless
for chasing prestige, drove me to Madison's quiet Streets. At
thirty five, I was done with galleries, hopping to start
over as a freelance illustrator, sketching for myself. The painting
was small, oil on canvas, depicting a shadowed figure in
a storm. Its frame carved with faint, twisting rounds that
(05:45):
seemed to pulse under my touch, the colours unnervingly vivid.
The shopkeeper, an old man with a hoarse voice, sold
it for twelve dollars, muttering it paints its own truth.
I ignored his unease, drawn to its haunting beauty, and
hung it in my rented attic apartment, thinking it inspire
my sketches. That first night, I woke at two forty
(06:07):
four a m to dripping like water hitting the floor
coming from the painting. The canvas glistened, a red streak
running from the figure's eyes, pooling below. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp, see us Norah my name. I stumbled
to the painting, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes
glowed faintly, casting shadows like blooded hands on the walls.
(06:27):
The air smelled of oil paint and something sour like
decay and copper. The apartment was locked, no neighbors above,
the empty shop below, just the distant hum of the city.
I covered the painting with a cloth, but the dripping persisted.
Whispering looked deeper. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the
canvas pulsed. The red streak spreading. Morning dulled the fear.
(06:50):
I blamed exhaustion, the scandals still raw. I started sketching.
The painting uncovered, but it wouldn't stay still. Each night
it bled, the figure changing its face becoming mine, eyes
weeping red, the storm growing darker. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You failed them. I kept a log. November ten, one
(07:11):
thirty seven am. We're bleeding. November twelve, two fifty nine am.
Painter end. They mimicked Clayre's voice, bitter, you chased Glory Nora,
the critics scathing You're a fraud. I checked the painting.
No hidden tubes, just canvas and oil, but it felt warm,
smelling of rot and blood. I tried burning it, the
flames wouldn't touch it, the air growing cold. I locked
(07:31):
it in a closet. It was back on the wall
by dawn, bleeding faster. I called Claire, desperate to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the Madison Library, digging
through old records. The painting was by Eliza Marrow, an
artist who vanished in eighteen seventy two after her family
died in a flood. Locals said she'd cursed it to bleed,
her grief, trapping those who owned it. Owners since disappeared,
(07:53):
their homes found with paintings dripping red. I found Eliza's sketchbook,
my name scrawled in red ink. The whispers became a chorus,
Join us, Norah. The apartment grew cold, shadows moving in
the painting's glow, forming faces Eliza's maybe eyes hollow, mouths open.
The air smelled of blood and death, my breath visible.
(08:15):
I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but the dripping drowned
them out. The canvas pulsing red like a wound. I
found scratches on the walls bleed. I tried slashing the painting.
The canvas wouldn't tear, the runs glowing brighter. One night,
I woke with the painting above my bed, my face
in the canvas, bleeding, Eliza's voice, your turn. Cold hands
(08:36):
pulled me toward the frame, the rooms spinning shadows, dragging
me into the storm, showing my life, every failure, Claya's face,
ending with me trapped in bleeding paint. I fought, gasping
as the canvas burned, my skin, blood consuming me. I
don't know how I survived. Claire found me in an alley, trembling,
saying she'd come after a frantic text. I didn't send.
(08:58):
The painting's gone, the thrift store empty when I checked.
But I see bleeding faces in every canvas here, dripping
in every silence, always at two fifty nine a m.
My sketches drawn absently show figures I didn't create, my
face bleeding in the lines. I avoid art now, fearing
what it paints. But the apartment's air feels heavy, like
something's dripping still. I tried leaving Madison, but every image
(09:22):
feels wrong, bleeding my face in my mind. Listener, if
you find an old painting, don't hang it. Some canvases
bleed you, and they never stop. Our next tale comes
from a listener in Minnesota. They call it the Pendant
that Binds. Wear it if you dare Part three, The
Pendant that Binds. I found the pendant at a pawn
(09:44):
shop in Duluth, Minnesota, while trying to rebuild a life
that had fractured. I'd been a social worker in Minneapolis,
but a case gone wrong. A teenager i'd placed in
foster care ran away, later found dead, and the family
blamed me for misjudging the home cost me my job.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my cousin Leo,
who called me naive for trusting the system, drove me
(10:05):
to Duluth's foggy shores. At thirty two. I was done
with social work, hopping to start over as a community organizer,
rebuilding trust in small ways. The pendant was silver, small,
its surface etched with faint coiling rounds that seemed to
writhe under my touch, a single red gem pulsing faintly
at its center. The pawnbroker, an old woman with a
(10:27):
raspy voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering it holds tight.
I ignored her. Unease, drawn to its eerial lure, and
wore it around my neck, thinking it'd be a talisman
for a fresh start. That first night, I woke at
two twenty eight a m. To a tightening like a
chain squeezing my chest, coming from the pendant. It glowed faintly,
(10:48):
its gem casting a red light that danced like vanes
on the walls. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, bind
to us, aver my name. I stumbled out of bed,
heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, the air
thick with the scent of metal and something sour like
decay and blood. The apartment, a rented loft above a
quiet street, was locked. No neighbour's close, just the distant
(11:11):
lapping of Lake Superior. I tore the pendant off, but
the tightening persisted, whispering stay with us. Sleep fled, my
skin crawling as the gems glow sinked with my pulse,
the runes seeming to twist. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed exhaustion, the teenager's death still row. I started planning
community events, the pendant back on my neck, but it
(11:33):
wouldn't stay still. Each night, it tightened the gem, showing
glimpses not my reflection, but scenes me wandering a frozen lake,
bound in chains, faces screaming behind me. Whispers grew personal
and cruel. You failed her. I kept a log December fifteenth,
one forty nine, a M we are holding December seventeen,
three zero five, A M bound to us. They mimicked
(11:55):
Lea's voice, bitter, you're too weak, Ava, The families anguished
you killed her. I checked the pendant, no clasp, just
silver and gem, but it felt warm, smelling of rot
and iron. I tried melting it with a torch. The
metal wouldn't heat, the runes glowing brighter. I threw it
into the lake. It was back around my neck by dawn, tighter.
I called Leo Hopping to reconcile, but he didn't answer.
(12:18):
I hit the Duluth Library, digging through old records. The
pendant belonged to Clara Veyron, a jeweler who vanished in
eighteen sixty three after losing her daughter to illness. Locals
said she'd cursed it to bind her grief, trapping its wearers.
Owners since disappeared, their homes found with chains scratched on walls.
I found Clara's journal, my name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus, Join us, Rvor. The loft grew, cold,
(12:43):
shadows moving in the pendant's glow, forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes,
hollow hands reaching. The air smelled of blood and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but
the tightening drowned them out. The gem pulsing red like
a heart I found on my walls bind. I tried
cutting the chain, it wouldn't break, the runs burning my skin.
(13:05):
One night, I woke with the pendant fuse to my chest,
chains appearing in my room, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold
hands bound me the room, spinning shadows pulling me into
the gem, showing my life, every failure, the teenager's face,
ending with me trapped in chains. I fought, gasping as
the pendant burned, the chains tightening around me. I don't
(13:26):
know how I survived. Leo found me on the shore, shivering,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
Pendant's gone, the pawn shop empty when I checked. But
I feel it's tightening in every silence, see its chains
in every shadow, always at three zero five a m
my plans scribbled absently show chains. I didn't draw my
face in the lynx. I avoid jewelry now, fearing what
(13:47):
binds me. But the loft's air feels heavy, like something
holding me. I tried leaving Duluth, but every step feels wrong.
Chain's pulling in my mind. Listener, if you find an
old pendant, don't wear it. Some jewels bind you and
they never let go. Our final tale comes from a
listener in Idaho. They call it the Lamp that burns shadows.
(14:09):
Lighted if you dare Part four, The Lamp that Burns Shadows.
I found the lamp at a flea market in kur Deleen, Idaho,
while trying to rebuild a life that had crumbled. I'd
been a park ranger in Boise, but a failed rescue
a hiker lost on my watch, found too late, blamed
on my misjudgment, cost me my job. The guilt, plus
(14:31):
a falling out with my brother Finn, who called me irresponsible,
drove me to cur Deleen's quiet lakeside. At thirty four.
I was done with ranger work, hopping to start over
as an environmental writer, documenting nature's stories. The lamp was
old brass, its base etched with faint, spiraling rounds that
seemed to flicker under my touch. Its glass shade cracked
(14:52):
but glowing faintly when unlit. The vendor, an old man
with a shaky voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering
it lights what's hidden. I ignored his unease, drawn to its
eerie charm, and set it on my desk in my
rented lakeside cabin, thinking it inspire my writing. That first night,
I woke at two nineteen a m. To a hum,
low and searing like a flame catching. The lamp was on,
(15:15):
its light, casting shadows that moved, forming shapes, hands, faces
on the walls. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, burn
with us lucas my name. I stumbled to the desk,
heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runs glowed red, the
air thick with the scent of oil and something sour
like ash and decay. The cabin was locked, no neighbor's close,
just the lake's distant murmur. I unplugged the lamp, though
(15:37):
it had no cord, and the light persisted, whispering see
the flame. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the shadows danced,
sinking with my breath. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion,
the hiker's death still roar. I started writing. The lamp
unlit on my desk, but it wouldn't stay dark. Each
night it flared, shadows forming scenes me wandering a burning forest,
(16:00):
my hands, charred figures screaming behind me. Whispers grew personal
and cruel. You failed him. I kept a log January
twenty one, forty five, A M. We're burning. January twenty two,
three zero seven, A M. Light your end. They mimicked
Finn's voice, bitter you let him die, lucas the hikers anguished,
you left me. I checked the lamp, no wick, no bulb,
(16:21):
just brass and glass, but it felt warm, smelling of
rot and soot. I tried smashing it with a hammer.
The brass wooden't dent, the runes glowing brighter. I threw
it into the lake. It was back on my desk
by dawn, burning hotter. I called Finn Hopping to reconcile,
but he didn't answer. I hit the kurd de Lean library,
digging through old records. The lamp belonged to Ezra Holt
(16:44):
a lantern maker who vanished in eighteen sixty seven after
losing his family in a wildfire. Locals said he'd cursed
it to burn, shadows, trapping its owners. Owners since disappeared,
their homes found with lamps glowing, walls scorched. I found
Ezra's journal, my name inked in red. The whish hipers
became a chorus, Join us, lucas the cabin grew cold,
(17:04):
shadows moving in the lamp's light, forming faces, Ezra's maybe eyes,
hollow hands reaching the air smelled of ash and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept candles lit, but
the lamps hummed, drowned them out, its light pulsing red
like a heart. I found scratches on the walls burn.
I tried dousing the lamp with water. It flared brighter,
(17:27):
the rounds searing my skin. One night, I woke with
the lamp in my hands, burning without fuel. Ezra's voice,
your turn, cold hands pulled me toward the flame, the
rooms spinning shadows, dragging me into the light, showing my
life every failure, the hiker's face, ending with me trapped
in a burning void. I fought, gasping as the flame
(17:48):
burned my skin, shadows consuming me. I don't know how
I survived. Finn found me on the shore, shivering, saying
he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the lamps gone,
the flea mark empty when I checked. But I feel
its heat in every silence, see its shadows in every light,
always at three zero seven a m. My writings, scribbled
absently show flames. I didn't draw my face in the embers.
(18:12):
I avoid lights now, fearing what they cast. But the
cabin's air feels heavy, like something's burning still. I tried
leaving cur de Lean, but every glow feels wrong, Shadows
moving in my mind. Listener, if you find an old lamp,
don't light it. Some flames burn you and they never stop.
That's the end of this episode of listener Tales. Thanks
(18:34):
for joining us sleep Tight if you can
Listener Tales, Episode six, Your nightmarees tick on. Welcome to
the six chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest
stories pulse with dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston, Crafted
by X A I to summon the terrors you've faced.
Your submissions flood our inbox, each a heartbeat of fear
and to night. We begin with a tale that will
haunt your every second. Got a story that won't stop ticking?
(00:23):
Send it to listener Tales at imaginaripod come, but beware,
some tales count you down. Our first tale comes from
a listener in Vermont. They call it The Clock that
Counts Down. Watch it if you dare part one the
Clock that Counts Down. I found the clock at an
estate sale in Burlington, Vermont, while trying to rebuild a
(00:45):
life that had collapsed. I'd been a history teacher in Montpelier,
but a mistake a lecture I gave misrepresenting a local
hero's legacy, sparked outrage and got me fired. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my brother Sam, who called
me careless, drove me to Burlington's quiet streets. At thirty three,
I was done with teaching hopping to start over as
(01:06):
a historical fiction writer, weaving stories from the past. The
clock was an antique mahogany, its face cracked, hands frozen.
At three thirty three a m etched with faint, spiraling
rounds that seemed to pulse under my touch. The celler,
an old woman with a trembling voice, sold it for
fifteen dollars, muttering it keeps its own time. I ignored
(01:27):
her unease, drawn to its gothic charm, and set it
on my mantle in my rented lakeside cottage, thinking it
inspire my novels. That first night, I woke at three
thirty three a m to a ticking, slow and heavy,
like a heart beat, slowing down. The clock's hands were
moving backward, its face glowing faintly red. A whisper hissed,
(01:48):
cold and sharp, your time ethan my name. I stumbled
to the mantle, heart pounding, flashlight beam shaking. The runes pulsed,
casting shadows like fingers on the walls. The air smelled
of wood, popt polish, and something sour like decay and ash.
The cottage was locked, no neighbour's clothes, just Lake Champlain's
distant lapping. I unplugged the clock, though it had no cord,
(02:10):
and the ticking persisted, whispering count with us. Sleep fled
my skin, crawling as the hands ticked backward, sinking with
my pulse. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed stress. The
scandals still raw. I started writing the clock on the mantle,
but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night it ticked backward,
hands showing times that hadn't come three thirty three, three
(02:31):
thirty two, three thirty one. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You ruined him. I kept a log October five, one
fifty nine am. We're counting. October seven, three zero one am.
Your end ticks. They mimicked Sam's voice, bitter, you're a
disgrace Ethan the townsfolks angry you lied about our history.
I checked the clock, No gears, no battery, just wood
(02:53):
that felt warm, smelling of rot and soot. I tried
smashing it with a hammer. The mahogany woodn't dent, the
runs glowing brighter. I threw it into the lake. It
was back on the mantle by dawn, ticking louder. I
called Sam hopping to reconcile, but he didn't answer. I
hit the Burlington Library, digging through old records. The clock
(03:13):
belonged to Amos Read, a clockmaker who vanished in eighteen
sixty five after losing his family in a fire. Locals
said he'd cursed it to count down grief, trapping those
who owned it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with
clocks ticking backward. I found Amos's ledger, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us Ethan.
(03:33):
The cottage grew, cold shadows moving in the clock's glow,
forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes, hollow hands reaching the air
smelled of ash and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lanterns burning, but the ticking drowned them out, the
hands pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the
walls tick. I tried burying the clock in the woods.
(03:55):
It was back hands. At three point thirty one night,
I woke to the clock beside my bed, hands spinning backward,
Amos's voice, Your time. Cold hands pinned me the room,
frozen shadows pulling me into the clock's face, showing my
life every failure, Sam's face ending with me trapped in
a ticking void. I fought, gasping as the runes burned
my skin, the countdown consuming me. I don't know how
(04:18):
I survived. Sam found me on the shore, shivering, saying
he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The clock's gone.
The estate sale vanished when I checked. But I hear
its ticking in every silence, see its hands in every shadow,
always at three zero one a m. My manuscripts, scribbled
absently show times I didn't write my face in the numbers.
I avoid clocks now, fearing what they count. But the
(04:40):
cottage's air feels heavy, like something's timing me. I tried
leaving Burlington, but every second feels wrong, ticking backward in
my mind. Listener, if you find an old clock, don't
wind it. Some ticks count you down, and they never stop.
Our next tale comes from a listener in Wisconsin. They
call it The Painting that Bleeds. Look closer if you
(05:03):
dare Part two, The Painting that Bleeds. I found the
painting at a thrift store in Madison, Wisconsin, while trying
to salvage a life that had shattered. I'd been an
art curator in Milwaukee, but a catastrophic exhibit. A collection
I'd vouched for turned out to be forgeries, sparking a
public scandal cost me my career. The shame, plus a
(05:24):
falling out with my sister Clayer, who called me reckless
for chasing prestige, drove me to Madison's quiet Streets. At
thirty five, I was done with galleries, hopping to start
over as a freelance illustrator, sketching for myself. The painting
was small, oil on canvas, depicting a shadowed figure in
a storm. Its frame carved with faint, twisting rounds that
(05:45):
seemed to pulse under my touch, the colours unnervingly vivid.
The shopkeeper, an old man with a hoarse voice, sold
it for twelve dollars, muttering it paints its own truth.
I ignored his unease, drawn to its haunting beauty, and
hung it in my rented attic apartment, thinking it inspire
my sketches. That first night, I woke at two forty
(06:07):
four a m to dripping like water hitting the floor
coming from the painting. The canvas glistened, a red streak
running from the figure's eyes, pooling below. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp, see us Norah my name. I stumbled
to the painting, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes
glowed faintly, casting shadows like blooded hands on the walls.
(06:27):
The air smelled of oil paint and something sour like
decay and copper. The apartment was locked, no neighbors above,
the empty shop below, just the distant hum of the city.
I covered the painting with a cloth, but the dripping persisted.
Whispering looked deeper. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the
canvas pulsed. The red streak spreading. Morning dulled the fear.
(06:50):
I blamed exhaustion, the scandals still raw. I started sketching.
The painting uncovered, but it wouldn't stay still. Each night
it bled, the figure changing its face becoming mine, eyes
weeping red, the storm growing darker. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You failed them. I kept a log. November ten, one
(07:11):
thirty seven am. We're bleeding. November twelve, two fifty nine am.
Painter end. They mimicked Clayre's voice, bitter, you chased Glory Nora,
the critics scathing You're a fraud. I checked the painting.
No hidden tubes, just canvas and oil, but it felt warm,
smelling of rot and blood. I tried burning it, the
flames wouldn't touch it, the air growing cold. I locked
(07:31):
it in a closet. It was back on the wall
by dawn, bleeding faster. I called Claire, desperate to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the Madison Library, digging
through old records. The painting was by Eliza Marrow, an
artist who vanished in eighteen seventy two after her family
died in a flood. Locals said she'd cursed it to bleed,
her grief, trapping those who owned it. Owners since disappeared,
(07:53):
their homes found with paintings dripping red. I found Eliza's sketchbook,
my name scrawled in red ink. The whispers became a chorus,
Join us, Norah. The apartment grew cold, shadows moving in
the painting's glow, forming faces Eliza's maybe eyes hollow, mouths open.
The air smelled of blood and death, my breath visible.
(08:15):
I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but the dripping drowned
them out. The canvas pulsing red like a wound. I
found scratches on the walls bleed. I tried slashing the painting.
The canvas wouldn't tear, the runs glowing brighter. One night,
I woke with the painting above my bed, my face
in the canvas, bleeding, Eliza's voice, your turn. Cold hands
(08:36):
pulled me toward the frame, the rooms spinning shadows, dragging
me into the storm, showing my life, every failure, Claya's face,
ending with me trapped in bleeding paint. I fought, gasping
as the canvas burned, my skin, blood consuming me. I
don't know how I survived. Claire found me in an alley, trembling,
saying she'd come after a frantic text. I didn't send.
(08:58):
The painting's gone, the thrift store empty when I checked.
But I see bleeding faces in every canvas here, dripping
in every silence, always at two fifty nine a m.
My sketches drawn absently show figures I didn't create, my
face bleeding in the lines. I avoid art now, fearing
what it paints. But the apartment's air feels heavy, like
something's dripping still. I tried leaving Madison, but every image
(09:22):
feels wrong, bleeding my face in my mind. Listener, if
you find an old painting, don't hang it. Some canvases
bleed you, and they never stop. Our next tale comes
from a listener in Minnesota. They call it the Pendant
that Binds. Wear it if you dare Part three, The
Pendant that Binds. I found the pendant at a pawn
(09:44):
shop in Duluth, Minnesota, while trying to rebuild a life
that had fractured. I'd been a social worker in Minneapolis,
but a case gone wrong. A teenager i'd placed in
foster care ran away, later found dead, and the family
blamed me for misjudging the home cost me my job.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my cousin Leo,
who called me naive for trusting the system, drove me
(10:05):
to Duluth's foggy shores. At thirty two. I was done
with social work, hopping to start over as a community organizer,
rebuilding trust in small ways. The pendant was silver, small,
its surface etched with faint coiling rounds that seemed to
writhe under my touch, a single red gem pulsing faintly
at its center. The pawnbroker, an old woman with a
(10:27):
raspy voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering it holds tight.
I ignored her. Unease, drawn to its eerial lure, and
wore it around my neck, thinking it'd be a talisman
for a fresh start. That first night, I woke at
two twenty eight a m. To a tightening like a
chain squeezing my chest, coming from the pendant. It glowed faintly,
(10:48):
its gem casting a red light that danced like vanes
on the walls. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, bind
to us, aver my name. I stumbled out of bed,
heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, the air
thick with the scent of metal and something sour like
decay and blood. The apartment, a rented loft above a
quiet street, was locked. No neighbour's close, just the distant
(11:11):
lapping of Lake Superior. I tore the pendant off, but
the tightening persisted, whispering stay with us. Sleep fled, my
skin crawling as the gems glow sinked with my pulse,
the runes seeming to twist. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed exhaustion, the teenager's death still row. I started planning
community events, the pendant back on my neck, but it
(11:33):
wouldn't stay still. Each night, it tightened the gem, showing
glimpses not my reflection, but scenes me wandering a frozen lake,
bound in chains, faces screaming behind me. Whispers grew personal
and cruel. You failed her. I kept a log December fifteenth,
one forty nine, a M we are holding December seventeen,
three zero five, A M bound to us. They mimicked
(11:55):
Lea's voice, bitter, you're too weak, Ava, The families anguished
you killed her. I checked the pendant, no clasp, just
silver and gem, but it felt warm, smelling of rot
and iron. I tried melting it with a torch. The
metal wouldn't heat, the runes glowing brighter. I threw it
into the lake. It was back around my neck by dawn, tighter.
I called Leo Hopping to reconcile, but he didn't answer.
(12:18):
I hit the Duluth Library, digging through old records. The
pendant belonged to Clara Veyron, a jeweler who vanished in
eighteen sixty three after losing her daughter to illness. Locals
said she'd cursed it to bind her grief, trapping its wearers.
Owners since disappeared, their homes found with chains scratched on walls.
I found Clara's journal, my name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus, Join us, Rvor. The loft grew, cold,
(12:43):
shadows moving in the pendant's glow, forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes,
hollow hands reaching. The air smelled of blood and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but
the tightening drowned them out. The gem pulsing red like
a heart I found on my walls bind. I tried
cutting the chain, it wouldn't break, the runs burning my skin.
(13:05):
One night, I woke with the pendant fuse to my chest,
chains appearing in my room, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold
hands bound me the room, spinning shadows pulling me into
the gem, showing my life, every failure, the teenager's face,
ending with me trapped in chains. I fought, gasping as
the pendant burned, the chains tightening around me. I don't
(13:26):
know how I survived. Leo found me on the shore, shivering,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
Pendant's gone, the pawn shop empty when I checked. But
I feel it's tightening in every silence, see its chains
in every shadow, always at three zero five a m
my plans scribbled absently show chains. I didn't draw my
face in the lynx. I avoid jewelry now, fearing what
(13:47):
binds me. But the loft's air feels heavy, like something
holding me. I tried leaving Duluth, but every step feels wrong.
Chain's pulling in my mind. Listener, if you find an
old pendant, don't wear it. Some jewels bind you and
they never let go. Our final tale comes from a
listener in Idaho. They call it the Lamp that burns shadows.
(14:09):
Lighted if you dare Part four, The Lamp that Burns Shadows.
I found the lamp at a flea market in kur Deleen, Idaho,
while trying to rebuild a life that had crumbled. I'd
been a park ranger in Boise, but a failed rescue
a hiker lost on my watch, found too late, blamed
on my misjudgment, cost me my job. The guilt, plus
(14:31):
a falling out with my brother Finn, who called me irresponsible,
drove me to cur Deleen's quiet lakeside. At thirty four.
I was done with ranger work, hopping to start over
as an environmental writer, documenting nature's stories. The lamp was
old brass, its base etched with faint, spiraling rounds that
seemed to flicker under my touch. Its glass shade cracked
(14:52):
but glowing faintly when unlit. The vendor, an old man
with a shaky voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering
it lights what's hidden. I ignored his unease, drawn to its
eerie charm, and set it on my desk in my
rented lakeside cabin, thinking it inspire my writing. That first night,
I woke at two nineteen a m. To a hum,
low and searing like a flame catching. The lamp was on,
(15:15):
its light, casting shadows that moved, forming shapes, hands, faces
on the walls. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, burn
with us lucas my name. I stumbled to the desk,
heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runs glowed red, the
air thick with the scent of oil and something sour
like ash and decay. The cabin was locked, no neighbor's close,
just the lake's distant murmur. I unplugged the lamp, though
(15:37):
it had no cord, and the light persisted, whispering see
the flame. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the shadows danced,
sinking with my breath. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion,
the hiker's death still roar. I started writing. The lamp
unlit on my desk, but it wouldn't stay dark. Each
night it flared, shadows forming scenes me wandering a burning forest,
(16:00):
my hands, charred figures screaming behind me. Whispers grew personal
and cruel. You failed him. I kept a log January
twenty one, forty five, A M. We're burning. January twenty two,
three zero seven, A M. Light your end. They mimicked
Finn's voice, bitter you let him die, lucas the hikers anguished,
you left me. I checked the lamp, no wick, no bulb,
(16:21):
just brass and glass, but it felt warm, smelling of
rot and soot. I tried smashing it with a hammer.
The brass wooden't dent, the runes glowing brighter. I threw
it into the lake. It was back on my desk
by dawn, burning hotter. I called Finn Hopping to reconcile,
but he didn't answer. I hit the kurd de Lean library,
digging through old records. The lamp belonged to Ezra Holt
(16:44):
a lantern maker who vanished in eighteen sixty seven after
losing his family in a wildfire. Locals said he'd cursed
it to burn, shadows, trapping its owners. Owners since disappeared,
their homes found with lamps glowing, walls scorched. I found
Ezra's journal, my name inked in red. The whish hipers
became a chorus, Join us, lucas the cabin grew cold,
(17:04):
shadows moving in the lamp's light, forming faces, Ezra's maybe eyes,
hollow hands reaching the air smelled of ash and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept candles lit, but
the lamps hummed, drowned them out, its light pulsing red
like a heart. I found scratches on the walls burn.
I tried dousing the lamp with water. It flared brighter,
(17:27):
the rounds searing my skin. One night, I woke with
the lamp in my hands, burning without fuel. Ezra's voice,
your turn, cold hands pulled me toward the flame, the
rooms spinning shadows, dragging me into the light, showing my
life every failure, the hiker's face, ending with me trapped
in a burning void. I fought, gasping as the flame
(17:48):
burned my skin, shadows consuming me. I don't know how
I survived. Finn found me on the shore, shivering, saying
he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the lamps gone,
the flea mark empty when I checked. But I feel
its heat in every silence, see its shadows in every light,
always at three zero seven a m. My writings, scribbled
absently show flames. I didn't draw my face in the embers.
(18:12):
I avoid lights now, fearing what they cast. But the
cabin's air feels heavy, like something's burning still. I tried
leaving cur de Lean, but every glow feels wrong, Shadows
moving in my mind. Listener, if you find an old lamp,
don't light it. Some flames burn you and they never stop.
That's the end of this episode of listener Tales. Thanks
(18:34):
for joining us sleep Tight if you can
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