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.
- Horror
- Supernatural
- Ghost Stories
- Haunted Places
- Cursed Objects
- Eerie Tales
- Suspense
- Storytelling
- Paranormal
- Thriller
- Listener Stories
- Dark Narratives
- Mystery
- Spooky
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Listener Tales, Episode seven, Your Nightmare's Whisper. Welcome to the
seventh chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
weave a shroud of dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston,
crafted by x A I to summon the terror as
you've faced. Your submissions flood our inbox, each a whisper
of fear and to night. We begin with a tale
that will haunt your every step. Got a story that
(00:22):
won't stay silent? Send it to listener Tales at imaginary
pod com. But beware, some tales speak forever. Our first
tale comes from a listener in Montana. They call it
the Door that Whispers. Open it if you dare part
one the Door that Whispers. I found the Door in
my new home in Missler, Montana, while trying to rebuild
(00:44):
a life that had shattered. I'd been a journalist in Helena,
but a story gone wrong, an expressy on a local
cult that led to threats, and a colleague's disappearance blamed
on my recklessness cost me my career. The guilt, plus
a falling out with my sister Lena, who called me obsessed,
drove me to Missler's Quiet Mountains. At thirty three, I
(01:05):
was done with reporting, hopping to start over as a
memoir writer, documenting my own truths. The house was old,
a fixed upper, but the basement door stood out, heavy oak,
carved with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to shift under
my touch. Its knobed cold and unyielding. The real turn.
Old woman with a nervous tick said it led to
a sealed cellar, muttering it speaks its own mind. I
(01:26):
ignored her unease, drawn to its mystery, thinking it inspire
my writing. That first night, I woke at two thirteen
a m. To a whisper, soft but piercing like voices
behind wood, coming from the basement door. It hummed faintly,
the runes glowing a sickly green. A voice hissed, cold
and sharp, open us, Marcus, my name. I stumbled downstairs,
(01:46):
heart pounding, flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, casting shadows
like faces on the walls, mouths moving. The air smelled
of damp wood and something sour like decay and mildew.
The house was locked, no neighbor close in the forested outskirts,
just the wind's moan outside. I bolted the door but
the whispers persisted, hissing Come inside. Sleep fled my skin
(02:10):
crawling as the doors hum sincd with my pulse, the
runes seeming to Writhe morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion,
my colleague's disappearance still raw. I started writing, avoiding the basement,
but the door wouldn't stay silent. Each night it whispered,
voices forming words my name, then scenes of me wandering
a dark tunnel, hands, bloodied figures chasing me. Whispers grew
(02:32):
personal and cruel. You lost her. I kept a log
February three, one fifty five, A M. We are waiting.
February five, three eleven, A M. Open your end. They
mimicked Lana's voice, bitter you're too selfish, Marcus. My colleagues
desperate you led me to them. I checked the door,
No cracks, no vents, just wood that felt warm, smelling
(02:52):
of rot and earth. I tried boarding it shut. The
boards were gone by morning, the runs brighter. I sealed
it with cement. It was by dawn, whispering louder. I
called Lena Hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I
hit the Missler library, digging through old records. The door
was installed by Clara Veyron, a recluse who vanished in
(03:12):
eighteen seventy one after losing her family in a cave in.
Locals said she'd cursed it to whisper her pain, trapping
those who heard it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found
with doors, ajar runes glowing. I found Clara's diary, my
name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Marcus.
The house grew cold shadows moving in the doors, glow
(03:33):
forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes, hollow mouths, whispering. The air
smelled of earth and death. My breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the whispers drowned them out. The
rune's pulsing, green like eyes. I found scratches on the
walls open. I tried burning the door, the wood wouldn't char,
the runs searing my skin. One night I woke with
(03:54):
the door open, a void beyond Clara's voice, Your turn.
Cold hands pulled me toward it, the room spinning shadows,
dragging me into darkness, showing my life, every failure, Lena's face,
ending with me trapped in a whispering void. I fought,
gasping as the runes burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Lena found me in the woods, trembling,
(04:16):
saying she'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
door's gone, replaced by a blank wall, the real to,
claiming it never existed. But I hear its whispers in
every silence, see its runs in every shadow, always at
three eleven a m. My writings, scribbled absently show doors.
I didn't draw my face in the carvings. I avoid
basements now, fearing what speaks. But the house's air feels heavy,
(04:38):
like something calling. I tried leaving Missila, but every door
feels wrong, whispering my name. Listener, if you find an
old door, don't open it. Some doors whisper and they
never stop. Next tale comes from a listener in Nebraska.
They call it the Fountain that Weeps. Approach it if
you dare Part two, The Fountain Weeps. I found the
(05:01):
fountain in the backyard of my new home in Lincoln, Nebraska,
while trying to mend a life that had unraveled. I'd
been a botanist in Omaha, but a failed project, a
rare plant. I'd cultivated, died under my care, costing my
research team. A major grant ruined my reputation. The guilt
plus of falling out with my brother, THEO who called
me careless, drove me to Lincoln's quiet suburbs. At thirty one,
(05:26):
I was done with research, hopping to start over as
a garden designer, shaping beauty from the earth. The fountain
was old stone, its basin carved with faint coiling rounds
that seemed to shimmer under my touch, Its water unnaturally
clear despite years of neglect. The realtor, an old man
with a raspy voice, said it came with the house,
muttering it cries its own tears. I ignored his unease,
(05:49):
drawn to its aerial lure, thinking it inspire my designs.
That first night, I woke at two thirty six a m.
To gurgling, like water choking, coming from the backyard. The
fountain was running, its water glowing faintly, red ripples forming
my face. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp drink with us,
clare my name. I stumbled outside, heart pounding, flashlight beam trembling.
(06:11):
The ruins pulsed, casting shadows like hands on the grass.
Fingers reaching. The air smelled of wet stone and something
sour like decay and salt. The house was locked, no
neighbors close in the suburban sprawl, just the plain's distant hum.
I drained the fountain, but the gurgling persisted, whispering taste us.
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the water's glow pulsed,
(06:34):
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed stress. The failed project still raw. I started sketching gardens,
avoiding the fountain, but it wouldn't stay dry. Each night
it flowed water, showing scenes me wandering a drowned field, hands,
bloodied figures floating behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You killed us. I kept a log March eight one
(06:56):
forty seven, A M. We are weeping. March tenth, three
zero three, A M. Drink your end. They mimicked theo's voice.
Bitter you failed every one, Clara, my team's angry. You
ruined our work. I checked the fountain, no pipes, just stone,
but the water felt warm, smelling of rot and brine.
I tried filling it with dirt. The dirt was gone
(07:16):
by morning, water flowing again. I sealed it with concrete.
It cracked open by dawn, weeping red. I called theo,
hopping to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I hit the
Lincoln Library, digging through old records. The fountain was built
by Amos Veyron, a sculptor who vanished in eighteen sixty
nine after losing his family in a flood. Locals said
(07:36):
he'd cursed it to weep his sorrow, trapping those who
saw it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with fountains
running red. I found Amos's sketch book, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us Clara.
The back yard grew cold, shadows moving in the fountain's glow,
forming faces Amos's maybe eyes hollow mouths open. The air
(07:59):
smelled of salt and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the gurgling drowned them out. The
water pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the
stone drink. I tried poisoning the water. It flowed clearer,
the runs burning my skin. One night I woke with
my hand in the fountain, water forcing its way to
(08:19):
my lips. Amos's voice your turn. Cold hands pulled me
toward the basin, the yards spinning shadows, dragging me into
the water, showing my life, every failure, Theo's face, ending
with me trapped in a drowning void. I fought, gasping
as the water burned, ripples, consuming me. I don't know
(08:39):
how I survived. THEO found me in a ditch, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the
fountains dry. The house sold when I checked, But I
hear its gurgling in every silence, see its ripples in
every shadow, always at three zero three a m. My designs,
sketched absently, show fountains. I didn't draw my face in
the water. I avoid garden now, fearing what flows. But
(09:01):
the house's air feels heavy, like something's weeping. I tried
leaving Lincoln, but every liquid feels wrong, rippling my name. Listener,
if you find an old fountain, don't touch it. Some
waters weep you, and they never stop. Our next tale
comes from a listener in North Dakota. They call it
The Journal that Dreams. Right in it if you dare
(09:24):
Part three, The Journal that Dreams. I found the Journal
at a secondhand shop in Fargo, North Dakota, while trying
to rebuild a life that had collapsed. I'd been a
therapist in Bismarck, but a patient's crisis, a young woman, Lily,
spiraled under my care, and her family blamed me for
missing her warning signs cost me my license. The guilt,
(09:44):
plus a falling out with my sister Norah, who called
me distant, drove me to Fargo's windswept planes. At thirty two.
I was done with therapy, hopping to start over as
a poet, weaving emotions into words. The journal was old,
leather bound. It it's cover etched with faint, spiraling runds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, pages yellowed but blank.
(10:05):
The shopkeeper, an old woman with a shaky voice, sold
it for ten dollars, muttering it dreams its own tailies.
I ignored her unease, drawn to its weight, thinking it
inspire my poetry. That first night, I woke at two
forty seven a m. To a rustling like pages turning
coming from my desk. The journal was open, its pages
scrawled with words I hadn't written my name in jagged ink,
(10:28):
surrounded by dreamlike scenes. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp.
Dream with us, Isaac my name. I stumbled to the desk,
heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes glowed faintly, casting
shadows like eyes on the walls. The air smelled of
ink and something sour, like decay and dust. The apartment,
a rented loft above a quiet street, was locked. No
(10:49):
neighbour's close, just the plain's distant howl. I slammed the
journal shut, but the rustling persisted, whispering sleep with us.
Sleep fled, my skin, crawling as the page's glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed exhaustion, Lily's crisis still raw. I started writing poems.
(11:09):
The journal nearby, but it wouldn't stay closed. Each night
had opened pages filling with dreams, me wandering, a shadowed plane, hands,
bloodied figures chasing me in sleep. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You failed her, I kept a log April twelve, one
fifty eight, A M. We are dreaming. April fourteen, three
zero nine, A M. Dream your end. They mimicked Nora's voice, bitter,
(11:31):
You're too cold, Isaac Lili's desperate You ignored me. I
checked the journal. No ink, no mechanism, but the leather
felt warm, smelling of rot and ash. I tried burning it,
the flames wouldn't touch it, the air growing cold. I
buried it in the plains. It was back on my
desk by dawn, open pages, scrawling faster. I called Nora
(11:52):
Hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I hit the
Fargo Library, digging through old records. The journal belonged to
Eliza Read, a poet who vanished in eighteen seventy four
after losing her family in a blizzard. Locals said she'd
cursed it to dream her sorrow, trapping. Those who wrote
in it onners since disappeared, their homes found with journals,
open pages, filled with nightmares. I found Eliza's notes, my
(12:14):
name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Isaac.
The loft grew cold, shadows moving in the journal's glow,
forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes, hollow mouths, whispering. The air
smelled of dust and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the rustling drowned them out. The
(12:35):
pages pulsing red like veins. I found scratches on the walls.
Dream I tried tearing the pages, They grew ink, bleeding
my name. One night, I woke with the journal in
my hands, writing dreams. I hadn't dreamed. Eliza's voice, your turn,
cold hands forced my pen, the rooms spinning shadows, pulling
me into the pages, showing my life, every failure, Lily's face,
(12:56):
ending with me trapped in a dreaming void. I fought,
gasping as the ink burned my skin, Nightmares consuming me.
I don't know how I survived. Nora found me in
an alley, trembling, saying she'd come after frantic text. I
didn't send. The Journal's gone, the shop empty when I checked,
But I hear its rustling in every silence, see its
dreams in every shadow, always at three zero nine a m.
(13:19):
My poems, scribbled absently show nightmares. I didn't write my
face in the words. I avoid writing now, fearing what dreams.
But the loft's air feels heavy, like something scrawling me.
I tried leaving Fargo, but every thought feels wrong, dreaming
my name. Listener, if you find an old journal, don't
write in it. Some pages dream you, and they never stop.
(13:41):
Our final tale comes from a listener in South Dakota.
They call it the Meadow that calls. Step in if
you dare Part four, The Meadow that Calls. I found
the meadow behind my new home in Rapid City, South Dakota,
while trying to rebuild a life that had shattered. I'd
been a geologist in Sioux Falls, but a failed expedition,
(14:03):
a cave collapse i'd miscalculated, trapping a colleague who barely survived,
cost me my job. The guilt, plus a falling out
with my sister Elise, who called me reckless, drove me
to Rapid City's rugged hills. At thirty three, I was
done with field work, hopping to start over as a
nature writer, capturing the wild secrets. The meadow was hidden
(14:25):
a small clearing behind my rented cabin, ringed by pines,
Its grass marked with faint, spiraling patterns that seemed to
shift under my touch, the air unnaturally still. The realtor,
an old man with a trembling voice, warned it was
private land, muttering it calls its own. I ignored his unease,
drawn to its eerie beauty, thinking it inspire my writing.
(14:48):
That first night, I woke at two fifty five a m.
To a hum, low and pulsing, like voices carried on
the wind, coming from the meadow. The grass glowed faintly,
patterns swirling forming my face, A whisper list cold and sharp,
walk with us owen my name. I stumbled outside, heart racing, flashlight,
beam trembling. The patterns pulsed, casting shadows like hands on
(15:09):
the trees, fingers reaching. The air smelled of earth and
something sour like decay and sap. The cabin was locked,
No neighbors close in the wooded hills, just the black hills,
distant rustle. I fenced off the meadow, but the hum persisted, whispering,
come closer. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the grass's
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
(15:33):
I blamed stress, the collapse still raw. I started writing,
avoiding the meadow, but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night
it hummed, grass showing scenes me wandering a glowing field, hands,
bloodied figures trailing me. Whispers grew personal and cruel. You
trapped him. I kept a log. May eighteen, one fifty
a m. We're calling. May twenty three, twelve. A m
walk your end. They mimicked de Leze's voice. Bitter, you're
(15:55):
too selfish, Owen, my colleague anguished, you buried me. I
checked the meadow. No plants, no lights, just grass that
felt warm, smelling of rot and pine. I tried burning it.
The flames wouldn't catch, the air growing cold. I paved
it over. The concrete cracked by dawn, grass glowing brighter.
I called Alies Hopping to reconcile, but she didn't answer.
(16:18):
I hit the Rapid City Library, Digging through old records.
The meadow was sacred to a settler, Clara Holt, who
vanished in eighteen seventy three after losing her family in
a raid. Locals said she'd cursed it to call her
grief trapping. Those who entered owner since disappeared, their homes
found with meadows, glowing grass marked with names. I found
Clara's diary, my name inked in red. The whispers became
(16:39):
a chorus, Join us, Owen. The cabin grew cold, shadows
moving in the meadows, glow forming faces. Clara's maybe eyes hollow,
mouths open. The air smelled of sap and death, my
breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lantern's lit, but the
hum drowned them out. The grass pulsing red like vanes.
(17:00):
I found scratches in the dirt walk. I tried salting
the meadow. It grew luscier, the patterns burning my skin.
One night, I woke in the meadow, grass wrapping my legs.
Clara's voice, your turn, cold hands pulled me into the earth,
the clearing, spinning shadows, dragging me into a glowing void,
showing my life, every failure, Elise's face ending with me
trapped in endless grass. I fought, gasping as the patterns burned,
(17:24):
voices consuming me. I don't know how I survived. Elise
found me in a field, trembling, saying she'd come after
frantic text I didn't send. The meadow's gone, just bare dirt,
now the real to claiming it was never there. But
I hear its hum in every silence, see its patterns
in every shadow, always At three twelve a m. My writings,
scribbled absently show meadows. I didn't describe my face in
(17:46):
the grass. I avoid fields now, fearing what calls. But
the cabin's air feels heavy, like something waiting. I tried
leaving Rapid City, but every step feels wrong. Grass whispering
my name. Listener. If you find an old, old meadow,
don't walk it. Some fields call you and they never stop.
That's the end of this episode of listener Tales. Thanks
(18:08):
for joining us. Sleep tight if you can
Listener Tales, Episode seven, Your Nightmare's Whisper. Welcome to the
seventh chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
weave a shroud of dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston,
crafted by x A I to summon the terror as
you've faced. Your submissions flood our inbox, each a whisper
of fear and to night. We begin with a tale
that will haunt your every step. Got a story that
(00:22):
won't stay silent? Send it to listener Tales at imaginary
pod com. But beware, some tales speak forever. Our first
tale comes from a listener in Montana. They call it
the Door that Whispers. Open it if you dare part
one the Door that Whispers. I found the Door in
my new home in Missler, Montana, while trying to rebuild
(00:44):
a life that had shattered. I'd been a journalist in Helena,
but a story gone wrong, an expressy on a local
cult that led to threats, and a colleague's disappearance blamed
on my recklessness cost me my career. The guilt, plus
a falling out with my sister Lena, who called me obsessed,
drove me to Missler's Quiet Mountains. At thirty three, I
(01:05):
was done with reporting, hopping to start over as a
memoir writer, documenting my own truths. The house was old,
a fixed upper, but the basement door stood out, heavy oak,
carved with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to shift under
my touch. Its knobed cold and unyielding. The real turn.
Old woman with a nervous tick said it led to
a sealed cellar, muttering it speaks its own mind. I
(01:26):
ignored her unease, drawn to its mystery, thinking it inspire
my writing. That first night, I woke at two thirteen
a m. To a whisper, soft but piercing like voices
behind wood, coming from the basement door. It hummed faintly,
the runes glowing a sickly green. A voice hissed, cold
and sharp, open us, Marcus, my name. I stumbled downstairs,
(01:46):
heart pounding, flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, casting shadows
like faces on the walls, mouths moving. The air smelled
of damp wood and something sour like decay and mildew.
The house was locked, no neighbor close in the forested outskirts,
just the wind's moan outside. I bolted the door but
the whispers persisted, hissing Come inside. Sleep fled my skin
(02:10):
crawling as the doors hum sincd with my pulse, the
runes seeming to Writhe morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion,
my colleague's disappearance still raw. I started writing, avoiding the basement,
but the door wouldn't stay silent. Each night it whispered,
voices forming words my name, then scenes of me wandering
a dark tunnel, hands, bloodied figures chasing me. Whispers grew
(02:32):
personal and cruel. You lost her. I kept a log
February three, one fifty five, A M. We are waiting.
February five, three eleven, A M. Open your end. They
mimicked Lana's voice, bitter you're too selfish, Marcus. My colleagues
desperate you led me to them. I checked the door,
No cracks, no vents, just wood that felt warm, smelling
(02:52):
of rot and earth. I tried boarding it shut. The
boards were gone by morning, the runs brighter. I sealed
it with cement. It was by dawn, whispering louder. I
called Lena Hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I
hit the Missler library, digging through old records. The door
was installed by Clara Veyron, a recluse who vanished in
(03:12):
eighteen seventy one after losing her family in a cave in.
Locals said she'd cursed it to whisper her pain, trapping
those who heard it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found
with doors, ajar runes glowing. I found Clara's diary, my
name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Marcus.
The house grew cold shadows moving in the doors, glow
(03:33):
forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes, hollow mouths, whispering. The air
smelled of earth and death. My breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the whispers drowned them out. The
rune's pulsing, green like eyes. I found scratches on the
walls open. I tried burning the door, the wood wouldn't char,
the runs searing my skin. One night I woke with
(03:54):
the door open, a void beyond Clara's voice, Your turn.
Cold hands pulled me toward it, the room spinning shadows,
dragging me into darkness, showing my life, every failure, Lena's face,
ending with me trapped in a whispering void. I fought,
gasping as the runes burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Lena found me in the woods, trembling,
(04:16):
saying she'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
door's gone, replaced by a blank wall, the real to,
claiming it never existed. But I hear its whispers in
every silence, see its runs in every shadow, always at
three eleven a m. My writings, scribbled absently show doors.
I didn't draw my face in the carvings. I avoid
basements now, fearing what speaks. But the house's air feels heavy,
(04:38):
like something calling. I tried leaving Missila, but every door
feels wrong, whispering my name. Listener, if you find an
old door, don't open it. Some doors whisper and they
never stop. Next tale comes from a listener in Nebraska.
They call it the Fountain that Weeps. Approach it if
you dare Part two, The Fountain Weeps. I found the
(05:01):
fountain in the backyard of my new home in Lincoln, Nebraska,
while trying to mend a life that had unraveled. I'd
been a botanist in Omaha, but a failed project, a
rare plant. I'd cultivated, died under my care, costing my
research team. A major grant ruined my reputation. The guilt
plus of falling out with my brother, THEO who called
me careless, drove me to Lincoln's quiet suburbs. At thirty one,
(05:26):
I was done with research, hopping to start over as
a garden designer, shaping beauty from the earth. The fountain
was old stone, its basin carved with faint coiling rounds
that seemed to shimmer under my touch, Its water unnaturally
clear despite years of neglect. The realtor, an old man
with a raspy voice, said it came with the house,
muttering it cries its own tears. I ignored his unease,
(05:49):
drawn to its aerial lure, thinking it inspire my designs.
That first night, I woke at two thirty six a m.
To gurgling, like water choking, coming from the backyard. The
fountain was running, its water glowing faintly, red ripples forming
my face. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp drink with us,
clare my name. I stumbled outside, heart pounding, flashlight beam trembling.
(06:11):
The ruins pulsed, casting shadows like hands on the grass.
Fingers reaching. The air smelled of wet stone and something
sour like decay and salt. The house was locked, no
neighbors close in the suburban sprawl, just the plain's distant hum.
I drained the fountain, but the gurgling persisted, whispering taste us.
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the water's glow pulsed,
(06:34):
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed stress. The failed project still raw. I started sketching gardens,
avoiding the fountain, but it wouldn't stay dry. Each night
it flowed water, showing scenes me wandering a drowned field, hands,
bloodied figures floating behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You killed us. I kept a log March eight one
(06:56):
forty seven, A M. We are weeping. March tenth, three
zero three, A M. Drink your end. They mimicked theo's voice.
Bitter you failed every one, Clara, my team's angry. You
ruined our work. I checked the fountain, no pipes, just stone,
but the water felt warm, smelling of rot and brine.
I tried filling it with dirt. The dirt was gone
(07:16):
by morning, water flowing again. I sealed it with concrete.
It cracked open by dawn, weeping red. I called theo,
hopping to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I hit the
Lincoln Library, digging through old records. The fountain was built
by Amos Veyron, a sculptor who vanished in eighteen sixty
nine after losing his family in a flood. Locals said
(07:36):
he'd cursed it to weep his sorrow, trapping those who
saw it. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with fountains
running red. I found Amos's sketch book, my name inked
in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us Clara.
The back yard grew cold, shadows moving in the fountain's glow,
forming faces Amos's maybe eyes hollow mouths open. The air
(07:59):
smelled of salt and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the gurgling drowned them out. The
water pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the
stone drink. I tried poisoning the water. It flowed clearer,
the runs burning my skin. One night I woke with
my hand in the fountain, water forcing its way to
(08:19):
my lips. Amos's voice your turn. Cold hands pulled me
toward the basin, the yards spinning shadows, dragging me into
the water, showing my life, every failure, Theo's face, ending
with me trapped in a drowning void. I fought, gasping
as the water burned, ripples, consuming me. I don't know
(08:39):
how I survived. THEO found me in a ditch, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the
fountains dry. The house sold when I checked, But I
hear its gurgling in every silence, see its ripples in
every shadow, always at three zero three a m. My designs,
sketched absently, show fountains. I didn't draw my face in
the water. I avoid garden now, fearing what flows. But
(09:01):
the house's air feels heavy, like something's weeping. I tried
leaving Lincoln, but every liquid feels wrong, rippling my name. Listener,
if you find an old fountain, don't touch it. Some
waters weep you, and they never stop. Our next tale
comes from a listener in North Dakota. They call it
The Journal that Dreams. Right in it if you dare
(09:24):
Part three, The Journal that Dreams. I found the Journal
at a secondhand shop in Fargo, North Dakota, while trying
to rebuild a life that had collapsed. I'd been a
therapist in Bismarck, but a patient's crisis, a young woman, Lily,
spiraled under my care, and her family blamed me for
missing her warning signs cost me my license. The guilt,
(09:44):
plus a falling out with my sister Norah, who called
me distant, drove me to Fargo's windswept planes. At thirty two.
I was done with therapy, hopping to start over as
a poet, weaving emotions into words. The journal was old,
leather bound. It it's cover etched with faint, spiraling runds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, pages yellowed but blank.
(10:05):
The shopkeeper, an old woman with a shaky voice, sold
it for ten dollars, muttering it dreams its own tailies.
I ignored her unease, drawn to its weight, thinking it
inspire my poetry. That first night, I woke at two
forty seven a m. To a rustling like pages turning
coming from my desk. The journal was open, its pages
scrawled with words I hadn't written my name in jagged ink,
(10:28):
surrounded by dreamlike scenes. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp.
Dream with us, Isaac my name. I stumbled to the desk,
heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes glowed faintly, casting
shadows like eyes on the walls. The air smelled of
ink and something sour, like decay and dust. The apartment,
a rented loft above a quiet street, was locked. No
(10:49):
neighbour's close, just the plain's distant howl. I slammed the
journal shut, but the rustling persisted, whispering sleep with us.
Sleep fled, my skin, crawling as the page's glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed exhaustion, Lily's crisis still raw. I started writing poems.
(11:09):
The journal nearby, but it wouldn't stay closed. Each night
had opened pages filling with dreams, me wandering, a shadowed plane, hands,
bloodied figures chasing me in sleep. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
You failed her, I kept a log April twelve, one
fifty eight, A M. We are dreaming. April fourteen, three
zero nine, A M. Dream your end. They mimicked Nora's voice, bitter,
(11:31):
You're too cold, Isaac Lili's desperate You ignored me. I
checked the journal. No ink, no mechanism, but the leather
felt warm, smelling of rot and ash. I tried burning it,
the flames wouldn't touch it, the air growing cold. I
buried it in the plains. It was back on my
desk by dawn, open pages, scrawling faster. I called Nora
(11:52):
Hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I hit the
Fargo Library, digging through old records. The journal belonged to
Eliza Read, a poet who vanished in eighteen seventy four
after losing her family in a blizzard. Locals said she'd
cursed it to dream her sorrow, trapping. Those who wrote
in it onners since disappeared, their homes found with journals,
open pages, filled with nightmares. I found Eliza's notes, my
(12:14):
name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Isaac.
The loft grew cold, shadows moving in the journal's glow,
forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes, hollow mouths, whispering. The air
smelled of dust and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the rustling drowned them out. The
(12:35):
pages pulsing red like veins. I found scratches on the walls.
Dream I tried tearing the pages, They grew ink, bleeding
my name. One night, I woke with the journal in
my hands, writing dreams. I hadn't dreamed. Eliza's voice, your turn,
cold hands forced my pen, the rooms spinning shadows, pulling
me into the pages, showing my life, every failure, Lily's face,
(12:56):
ending with me trapped in a dreaming void. I fought,
gasping as the ink burned my skin, Nightmares consuming me.
I don't know how I survived. Nora found me in
an alley, trembling, saying she'd come after frantic text. I
didn't send. The Journal's gone, the shop empty when I checked,
But I hear its rustling in every silence, see its
dreams in every shadow, always at three zero nine a m.
(13:19):
My poems, scribbled absently show nightmares. I didn't write my
face in the words. I avoid writing now, fearing what dreams.
But the loft's air feels heavy, like something scrawling me.
I tried leaving Fargo, but every thought feels wrong, dreaming
my name. Listener, if you find an old journal, don't
write in it. Some pages dream you, and they never stop.
(13:41):
Our final tale comes from a listener in South Dakota.
They call it the Meadow that calls. Step in if
you dare Part four, The Meadow that Calls. I found
the meadow behind my new home in Rapid City, South Dakota,
while trying to rebuild a life that had shattered. I'd
been a geologist in Sioux Falls, but a failed expedition,
(14:03):
a cave collapse i'd miscalculated, trapping a colleague who barely survived,
cost me my job. The guilt, plus a falling out
with my sister Elise, who called me reckless, drove me
to Rapid City's rugged hills. At thirty three, I was
done with field work, hopping to start over as a
nature writer, capturing the wild secrets. The meadow was hidden
(14:25):
a small clearing behind my rented cabin, ringed by pines,
Its grass marked with faint, spiraling patterns that seemed to
shift under my touch, the air unnaturally still. The realtor,
an old man with a trembling voice, warned it was
private land, muttering it calls its own. I ignored his unease,
drawn to its eerie beauty, thinking it inspire my writing.
(14:48):
That first night, I woke at two fifty five a m.
To a hum, low and pulsing, like voices carried on
the wind, coming from the meadow. The grass glowed faintly,
patterns swirling forming my face, A whisper list cold and sharp,
walk with us owen my name. I stumbled outside, heart racing, flashlight,
beam trembling. The patterns pulsed, casting shadows like hands on
(15:09):
the trees, fingers reaching. The air smelled of earth and
something sour like decay and sap. The cabin was locked,
No neighbors close in the wooded hills, just the black hills,
distant rustle. I fenced off the meadow, but the hum persisted, whispering,
come closer. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the grass's
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
(15:33):
I blamed stress, the collapse still raw. I started writing,
avoiding the meadow, but it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night
it hummed, grass showing scenes me wandering a glowing field, hands,
bloodied figures trailing me. Whispers grew personal and cruel. You
trapped him. I kept a log. May eighteen, one fifty
a m. We're calling. May twenty three, twelve. A m
walk your end. They mimicked de Leze's voice. Bitter, you're
(15:55):
too selfish, Owen, my colleague anguished, you buried me. I
checked the meadow. No plants, no lights, just grass that
felt warm, smelling of rot and pine. I tried burning it.
The flames wouldn't catch, the air growing cold. I paved
it over. The concrete cracked by dawn, grass glowing brighter.
I called Alies Hopping to reconcile, but she didn't answer.
(16:18):
I hit the Rapid City Library, Digging through old records.
The meadow was sacred to a settler, Clara Holt, who
vanished in eighteen seventy three after losing her family in
a raid. Locals said she'd cursed it to call her
grief trapping. Those who entered owner since disappeared, their homes
found with meadows, glowing grass marked with names. I found
Clara's diary, my name inked in red. The whispers became
(16:39):
a chorus, Join us, Owen. The cabin grew cold, shadows
moving in the meadows, glow forming faces. Clara's maybe eyes hollow,
mouths open. The air smelled of sap and death, my
breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lantern's lit, but the
hum drowned them out. The grass pulsing red like vanes.
(17:00):
I found scratches in the dirt walk. I tried salting
the meadow. It grew luscier, the patterns burning my skin.
One night, I woke in the meadow, grass wrapping my legs.
Clara's voice, your turn, cold hands pulled me into the earth,
the clearing, spinning shadows, dragging me into a glowing void,
showing my life, every failure, Elise's face ending with me
trapped in endless grass. I fought, gasping as the patterns burned,
(17:24):
voices consuming me. I don't know how I survived. Elise
found me in a field, trembling, saying she'd come after
frantic text I didn't send. The meadow's gone, just bare dirt,
now the real to claiming it was never there. But
I hear its hum in every silence, see its patterns
in every shadow, always At three twelve a m. My writings,
scribbled absently show meadows. I didn't describe my face in
(17:46):
the grass. I avoid fields now, fearing what calls. But
the cabin's air feels heavy, like something waiting. I tried
leaving Rapid City, but every step feels wrong. Grass whispering
my name. Listener. If you find an old, old meadow,
don't walk it. Some fields call you and they never stop.
That's the end of this episode of listener Tales. Thanks
(18:08):
for joining us. Sleep tight if you can
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