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
- Suspense
- Storytelling
- Paranormal
- Thriller
- Listener Stories
- Dark Narratives
- Mystery
- Spooky
© 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):
Listener Tales, Episode eight, Your Nightmares Reflect. Welcome to the
eighth chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
shimmer 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 reflection of fear and
to night. We begin with a tale that will haunt
(00:20):
your gaze. Got a story that won't stop staring? Send
it to listener Tales at imaginary pod com. But beware
some tales look back. Our first tale comes from a
listener in Wyoming. They call it the Mirror that Swallows.
Look in if you dare part one the Mirror that Swallows.
I found the mirror at an auction in shee Ane, Wyoming,
(00:43):
while trying to rebuild a life that had fractured. I'd
been a private investigator in Casper, but a case gone
wrong a missing person i'd tracked ended in a violent
confrontation with the family blaming me for pushing too hard,
cost me my license. The guilt, plus a falling out
with my brother calib who called me obsessed, drove me
to Cheyenne's Open Plains at thirty four I was done
(01:06):
with investigations, hopping to start over as a true crime writer,
documenting cases without interference. The mirror was tall, its silver
frame etched with faint, coiling rounds that seemed to writhe
under my touch, Its glass unnaturally dark like liquid shadow.
The auctioneer, an old man with a hoarse voice, sold
it for fifteen dollars, muttering it takes what it sees.
(01:29):
I ignored his unease, drawn to its eerie depth, and
hung it in my rented ranch house, thinking it inspire
my writing. That first night, I woke at two forty
one a m. To a hum, low and throbbing like
a heart beat, eching in glass coming from the mirror.
Its surface rippled, showing not my room, but avoid my face.
Sinking into it. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, Join us,
(01:50):
alenat my name. I stumbled to the mirror, heart racing,
flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed faintly, casting shadows like
hands on the walls, fingers clawing. The air smelled of
silver polish and something sour like decay and ozen. The
house was locked, no neighbors close in the rural sprawl,
just the plain's distant wind. I covered the mirror with
(02:11):
a tarp, but the hum persisted, whispering Look closer. Sleep fled,
my skin crawling as the glasses glow pulsed, sinking with
my breath. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion. The
cases fall out still raw. I started writing. The mirror uncovered,
but it wouldn't stay still. Each night it hummed, the glass,
showing scenes me wandering, a dark abyss, hands bloodied, my face,
(02:33):
dissolving into shadow. Whispers grew personal and cruel. You destroyed them.
I kept a log June seven, one fifty two, A
M with swallowing June nine, three fourteen, A M. Lose yourself.
They mimicked Kaleb's voice, bitter you're too reckless, Elena. The
families anguished you killed him. I checked the mirror. No cracks,
no wiring, just glass that felt warm, smelling of rot
(02:56):
and static. I tried smashing it with a crowbar. The
glass wouldn't break, the runes glowing brighter. I dragged it
to the plains. It was back on my wall by dawn, humming.
Louder I called calib Hopping to reconcile, but he didn't answer.
I hit the Cheyenne Library, digging through old records. The
mirror belonged to Amos Vron, a glassmaker who vanished in
(03:18):
eighteen sixty eight after losing his family in a storm.
Locals said he'd cursed it to swallow the soul, trapping
those who looked too long. Owners since disappeared, their homes
found with mirrors, dark walls, scratched with names. I found
Amos's ledger, my name inked in red. The whispers became
a chorus, Join us, Elena. The house grew, cold, shadows
(03:38):
moving in the mirror's glow, forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes,
hollow mouths gaping. The air smelled of ozon and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lamps on, but
the hum drowned them out. The glass pulsing red like blood.
I found scratches on the walls. Look. I tried painting
over the mirror. The paint dissolved, the runes burning my seek.
(04:00):
One night I woke with my face pressed to the glass,
my reflection gone, Amos's voice, your turn. Cold hands pulled
me into the mirror, the room spinning shadows, dragging me
into darkness. Showing my life, every failure, Calb's face ending
with me trapped in a swallowing void. I fought, gasping
as the glass burned, shadows consuming me. I don't know
(04:21):
how I survived. Calib found me in a field, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
mirror's gone, the auction house empty when I checked. But
I hear its hum in every silence, see my face
fadding in every reflection, always at three fourteen a m.
My writings, scribbled absently show voids. I didn't describe my
face in the shadows. I avoid mirrors now, fearing what
(04:42):
they take. But the house's air feels heavy, like something watching.
I tried leaving she Anne, but every glance feels wrong,
swallowing my name. Listener, if you find an old mirror,
don't look in it. Some mirrors take you, and they
never let go. Our next tale comes from a listener
in Utah. They call it the Statue that Stares. Face
(05:04):
it if you dare Part two, The Statue that Stares.
I found the statue at a roadside antique shop in
Saint George, Utah, while trying to rebuild a life that
had crumbled. I'd been a sculptor in Salt Lake City,
but a failed commission, a public monument that collapsed due
to my miscalculations injuring a bystander ruined my career. The guilt,
(05:25):
plus a falling out with my sister Mia, who called
me careless, drove me to Saint George's desert heat. At
thirty two. I was done with sculpting, hopping to start
over as a seramicist, crafting smaller, safer works. The statue
was small marble, a featureless figure with hollow eyes, Its
base etched with faint, spiraling runds that seemed to pulse
(05:47):
under my touch. The shopkeeper, an old woman with a
hoarse voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering it sees
what it wants. I ignored her unease, drawn to its
eerie presence, and set it on my work bench in
my rented desert bungalow, thinking it inspire my ceramics. That
first night, I woke at two thirty three a m
(06:08):
to a scraping, like stone grinding, coming from the workbench.
The statue's eyes glowed faintly red, its head turned toward
me a whisper hissed, cold and sharp, watch us, Noah
my name. I stumbled to the work bench, heart racing,
flashlight beam trembling, the runes pulsed, casting shadows like eyes
on the walls, unblinking. The air smelled of marble, dust
(06:28):
and something sour like decay and sand. The bungalow was locked.
No neighbours close in the desert outskirts, just the wind's
howl outside. I covered the statue with a cloth, but
the scraping persisted, whispering, look at us. Sleep fled, my
skin crawling as the statues glowed, pulsed, sinking with my
heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion, the
(06:52):
accident still raw. I started crafting ceramics the statue nearby,
but it wouldn't stay still. Each night it turned its eyes,
showing scenes me wandering a barren desert, hands bloodied, eyeless figures, staring.
Whispers grew personal and cruel. You broke them. I kept
a log. July twelve, one forty six a m. We're
(07:12):
watching July fourteen, three zero eight a m. See your end.
They mimicked me as voice bitter. You're a failure, Noah.
The bystander's pained, you hurt me. I checked the statue.
No joints, no mechanism, just marble that felt warm, smelling
of rot and dust. I tried smashing it with a mallet.
The stone wouldn't crack, the runes glowing brighter. I buried
(07:33):
it in the desert. It was back on my work
bench by dawn, eyes fixed on me. I called me
a hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I hit
the Saint George Library, digging through old records. The statue
was carved by Eliza Halt, an artist who vanished in
eighteen seventy after losing her family in a sandstorm. Locals
said she'd cursed it to stare through souls, trapping those
(07:54):
it watched. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with statues, turned,
walls scratched with eyes. I found Eliza's sketch book, my
name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Noah.
The bungalow grew, cold, shadows moving in the statue's glow,
forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes hollow, staring. The air smelled
(08:15):
of sand and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the scraping drowned them out, the
eyes pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the walls. See.
I tried melting the statue, it wouldn't soften, the rounds
burning my skin. One night, I woke with the statue
inches from my face, its eyes boring into mine. Eliza's voice,
your turn. Cold hands held my gaze, the room spinning shadows,
(08:39):
dragging me into the statue's eyes, showing my life, every failure,
Mere's face, ending with me trapped in a staring void.
I fought, gasping as the marble burned eyes consuming me.
I don't know how I survived. Mia found me in
the desert, trembling, saying she'd come after frantic text. I
didn't send the statues, gone, the shop empty when I checked,
(09:00):
But I hear it scraping in every silence, See its eyes,
in every shadow, always at three zero eight a m.
My ceramics shaped absently show figures. I didn't craft my
face in their eyes. I avoid sculpting now, fearing what watches.
But the bungalow's air feels heavy, like something staring. I
tried leaving Saint George, but every glance feels wrong, eyes
(09:21):
following my name. Listener, if you find an old statue,
don't meet its gaze. Some stone stare and they never stop.
Our next tale comes from a listener in Nevada. They
call it the River that Sings. Listen to it if
you dare Part three, The River that Sings. I found
the river behind my new home in Reno, Nevada, while
(09:43):
trying to rebuild a life that had unraveled. I'd been
a music teacher in Las Vegas, but a failed recital
a student's performance went disastrously wrong, sparking public outrage and
blamming my teaching cost me my job. The guilt, plus
a falling out with my brother Liam, who called me
the irresponsible, drove me to Reno's desert edges. At thirty three,
(10:04):
I was done with teaching, hopping to start over as
a composer, crafting melodies from silence. The river was small,
hidden in a ravine behind my rented cabin, Its banks
etched with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to shimmer under
my touch. Its water unnaturally clear, singing softly. The real
turn old woman with a raspy voice said it was
a local oddity, muttering, it sings its own song. I
(10:26):
ignored her unease, drawn to its haunting melody, thinking it
inspire my music. That first night, I woke at two
twenty nine a m. To a song, eerie and low,
like voices harmonizing, coming from the river. Its water glowed faintly,
ripples forming my face. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp,
sing with us, Sofia my name. I stumbled outside, heart racing,
(10:47):
flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, casting shadows like hands
on the rocks, fingers reaching. The air smelled of water
and something sour like decay and silt. The cabin was locked,
no name, Baba's close in the desert hills, just the
distant hum of the city. I blocked the river's path
with stones, but the singing persisted, whispering hear us. Sleep fled,
(11:10):
my skin crawling as the water's glow pulsed, sinking with
my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed stress.
The recitals fall out, still raw. I started composing, avoiding
the river, but it wouldn't stay silent. Each night, it
sang ripples, showing scenes me wandering a glowing stream, hands,
bloodied figures chanting behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
(11:31):
You failed them. I kept a log August fifteen, one
forty four A M. We're singing. August seventeen three ten
A M. Sing your end. They mimicked Liam's voice, bitter.
You're a disgrace, Sofia the student's anguished. You ruined me.
I checked the river. No source, just water that felt warm,
smelling of rot and mud. I tried damning it. The
(11:52):
water flowed through the runes, glowing brighter. I diverted it
with trenches. It was back by dawn, singing louder. I
called Liam, hopping to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I
hit the Reno library, digging through old records. The river
was tied to Clara Reed, a singer who vanished in
eighteen seventy five after losing her family in a flood.
(12:12):
Locals said she'd cursed it to sing her grief, trapping
those who heard it. Owners of nearby homes disappeared, their
properties found with rivers, glowing, banks, scratched with names. I
found Clara's song book, My name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus. Join us, Sophia. The cabin grew cold,
shadows moving in the river's glow, forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes,
(12:35):
hollow mouths, singing. The air smelled of silt and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept speakers on, but
the river's song drowned them out, the water pulsing red
like blood. I found scratches on the banks, sing. I
tried poisoning the water. It flowed clearer, the ruins burning
my skin. One night, I woke knee deep in the river,
its song forcing my voice, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold
(12:58):
hands pulled me under the ravine, spinning shadows, dragging me
into a glowing stream, showing my life, every failure, Liam's face,
ending with me trapped in a singing void. I fought,
gasping as the water burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Liam found me on the bank, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the
(13:19):
rivers dry. Now, the ravine empty one I checked, But
I hear its song in every silence, see its ripples
in every shadow. Always at three ten a m. My
compositions written absently show melodies. I didn't create my face
in the notes. I avoid music now, fearing what sings.
But the cabin's air feels heavy, like something's chanting. I
tried leaving Reno, but every sound feels wrong. Singing my name, Listener,
(13:44):
if you find an old river, don't listen. Some waters
sing you, and they never stop. Our final tale comes
from a listener in Colorado. They call it the Candle
that Binds. Lighted if you dare Part four, The Candle
that Binds. I found the candle at a thrift shop
in Boulder, Colorado, while trying to rebuild a life that
(14:06):
had shattered. I'd been a librarian in Denver, but a
disastrous oversight a rare manuscript i'd mishandled was stolen, sparking
outrage and costing me my job, ruined my reputation. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my sister Ivy, who called
me negligent, drove me to Boulder's Quiet Mountains. At thirty two,
(14:27):
I was done with libraries, hopping to start over as
a folklore writer, preserving old tailies. The candle was old, wax, blackened,
its holder, etched with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to
flicker under my touch, the wick unburned yet warm. The shopkeeper,
an old man with a trembling voice, sold it for
eight dollars, muttering it binds what it lights. I ignored
(14:49):
his unease, drawn to its eerie glow, and set it
on my desk in my rented mountain cabin, thinking it
inspire my stories. That first night, I woke at two
thirty seven an am to crackling like a flame flaring
coming from the desk. The candle was lit, its flame
casting shadows that twisted into my shape. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp, burn with us Leela my name. I
(15:11):
stumbled to the desk, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The
ruins pulsed faintly, casting shadows like chains on the walls,
links tightening. The air smelled of wax and something sour
like decay and smoke. The cabin was locked, no neighbours
close in the forested hills, just the distant howl of wind.
I blew out the candle, but the flame reignited, whispering
(15:33):
stay lit. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the flames
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
I blamed exhaustion. The manuscript theft still raw. I started
writing the candle unlit, but it wouldn't stay dark. Each
night it flared, shadows showing scenes me wandering a burning forest,
hands bound, figures chained behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
(15:56):
You lost it. I kept a log September twenty one,
four forty eight, A M. We are binding. September twenty two,
three eleven, A M. Burn your end. They mimicked Ivy's voice, bitter,
you're too careless, Leela the library's angry you betrayed us.
I checked the candle. No fuel, just wax, but it
felt warm, smelling of rot and ash. I tried melting it.
(16:19):
The wax wouldn't soften, the runes glowing brighter. I threw
it into the woods. It was back on my desk
by dawn, burning hotter. I called Ivy hopping to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the bolder library. Digging
through old records, the candle was made by Amos Holt,
a chandler who vanished in eighteen seventy two after losing
his family in a fire. Locals said he'd cursed it
(16:40):
to bind with flame, trapping those who lit it. Owner
since disappeared, their homes found with candles, burning, walls scratched
with chains. I found Amos's ledger, my name inked in red.
The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Leela. The cabin
grew cold, shadows moving in the candle's glow, forming faces Amos, mosses,
maybe eyes, hollow, hands chained. The air smelled of smoke
(17:04):
and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lamps on,
but the crackling drowned them out. The flame pulsing red
like blood. I found scratches on the walls burn. I
tried dousing the candle, The water evaporated, the runs, burning
my skin. One night, I woke with the candle in
my hands, its flame binding my wrists with shadowy chains,
(17:25):
Amos's voice, your turn, cold hands pulled me into the fire,
the rooms spinning shadows, dragging me into a burning void,
showing my life every failure, Ivy's face, ending with me
trapped in chained flames. I fought, gasping as the wax burned,
chains consuming me. I don't know how I survived. Ivey
(17:46):
found me in the woods trembling, saying she'd come after
frantic text I didn't send. The candle's gone, the shop
empty when I checked. But I hear its crackling in
every silence, see its chains in every shadow, always at
three eleven a m. My stories written absently show flames.
I didn't describe my face in the chains. I avoid
candles now, fearing what they bind. But the cabin's air
(18:08):
feels heavy, like something's burning. I tried leaving bolder, but
every light feels wrong, chaining my name. Listener, if you
find an old candle, don't light it. Some flames bind
you and they never stop. That's the end of this
episode of Listener Tales. Thanks for joining us sleep Tight
if you can
Listener Tales, Episode eight, Your Nightmares Reflect. Welcome to the
eighth chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
shimmer 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 reflection of fear and
to night. We begin with a tale that will haunt
(00:20):
your gaze. Got a story that won't stop staring? Send
it to listener Tales at imaginary pod com. But beware
some tales look back. Our first tale comes from a
listener in Wyoming. They call it the Mirror that Swallows.
Look in if you dare part one the Mirror that Swallows.
I found the mirror at an auction in shee Ane, Wyoming,
(00:43):
while trying to rebuild a life that had fractured. I'd
been a private investigator in Casper, but a case gone
wrong a missing person i'd tracked ended in a violent
confrontation with the family blaming me for pushing too hard,
cost me my license. The guilt, plus a falling out
with my brother calib who called me obsessed, drove me
to Cheyenne's Open Plains at thirty four I was done
(01:06):
with investigations, hopping to start over as a true crime writer,
documenting cases without interference. The mirror was tall, its silver
frame etched with faint, coiling rounds that seemed to writhe
under my touch, Its glass unnaturally dark like liquid shadow.
The auctioneer, an old man with a hoarse voice, sold
it for fifteen dollars, muttering it takes what it sees.
(01:29):
I ignored his unease, drawn to its eerie depth, and
hung it in my rented ranch house, thinking it inspire
my writing. That first night, I woke at two forty
one a m. To a hum, low and throbbing like
a heart beat, eching in glass coming from the mirror.
Its surface rippled, showing not my room, but avoid my face.
Sinking into it. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, Join us,
(01:50):
alenat my name. I stumbled to the mirror, heart racing,
flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed faintly, casting shadows like
hands on the walls, fingers clawing. The air smelled of
silver polish and something sour like decay and ozen. The
house was locked, no neighbors close in the rural sprawl,
just the plain's distant wind. I covered the mirror with
(02:11):
a tarp, but the hum persisted, whispering Look closer. Sleep fled,
my skin crawling as the glasses glow pulsed, sinking with
my breath. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion. The
cases fall out still raw. I started writing. The mirror uncovered,
but it wouldn't stay still. Each night it hummed, the glass,
showing scenes me wandering, a dark abyss, hands bloodied, my face,
(02:33):
dissolving into shadow. Whispers grew personal and cruel. You destroyed them.
I kept a log June seven, one fifty two, A
M with swallowing June nine, three fourteen, A M. Lose yourself.
They mimicked Kaleb's voice, bitter you're too reckless, Elena. The
families anguished you killed him. I checked the mirror. No cracks,
no wiring, just glass that felt warm, smelling of rot
(02:56):
and static. I tried smashing it with a crowbar. The
glass wouldn't break, the runes glowing brighter. I dragged it
to the plains. It was back on my wall by dawn, humming.
Louder I called calib Hopping to reconcile, but he didn't answer.
I hit the Cheyenne Library, digging through old records. The
mirror belonged to Amos Vron, a glassmaker who vanished in
(03:18):
eighteen sixty eight after losing his family in a storm.
Locals said he'd cursed it to swallow the soul, trapping
those who looked too long. Owners since disappeared, their homes
found with mirrors, dark walls, scratched with names. I found
Amos's ledger, my name inked in red. The whispers became
a chorus, Join us, Elena. The house grew, cold, shadows
(03:38):
moving in the mirror's glow, forming faces, Amos's maybe eyes,
hollow mouths gaping. The air smelled of ozon and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lamps on, but
the hum drowned them out. The glass pulsing red like blood.
I found scratches on the walls. Look. I tried painting
over the mirror. The paint dissolved, the runes burning my seek.
(04:00):
One night I woke with my face pressed to the glass,
my reflection gone, Amos's voice, your turn. Cold hands pulled
me into the mirror, the room spinning shadows, dragging me
into darkness. Showing my life, every failure, Calb's face ending
with me trapped in a swallowing void. I fought, gasping
as the glass burned, shadows consuming me. I don't know
(04:21):
how I survived. Calib found me in a field, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
mirror's gone, the auction house empty when I checked. But
I hear its hum in every silence, see my face
fadding in every reflection, always at three fourteen a m.
My writings, scribbled absently show voids. I didn't describe my
face in the shadows. I avoid mirrors now, fearing what
(04:42):
they take. But the house's air feels heavy, like something watching.
I tried leaving she Anne, but every glance feels wrong,
swallowing my name. Listener, if you find an old mirror,
don't look in it. Some mirrors take you, and they
never let go. Our next tale comes from a listener
in Utah. They call it the Statue that Stares. Face
(05:04):
it if you dare Part two, The Statue that Stares.
I found the statue at a roadside antique shop in
Saint George, Utah, while trying to rebuild a life that
had crumbled. I'd been a sculptor in Salt Lake City,
but a failed commission, a public monument that collapsed due
to my miscalculations injuring a bystander ruined my career. The guilt,
(05:25):
plus a falling out with my sister Mia, who called
me careless, drove me to Saint George's desert heat. At
thirty two. I was done with sculpting, hopping to start
over as a seramicist, crafting smaller, safer works. The statue
was small marble, a featureless figure with hollow eyes, Its
base etched with faint, spiraling runds that seemed to pulse
(05:47):
under my touch. The shopkeeper, an old woman with a
hoarse voice, sold it for ten dollars, muttering it sees
what it wants. I ignored her unease, drawn to its
eerie presence, and set it on my work bench in
my rented desert bungalow, thinking it inspire my ceramics. That
first night, I woke at two thirty three a m
(06:08):
to a scraping, like stone grinding, coming from the workbench.
The statue's eyes glowed faintly red, its head turned toward
me a whisper hissed, cold and sharp, watch us, Noah
my name. I stumbled to the work bench, heart racing,
flashlight beam trembling, the runes pulsed, casting shadows like eyes
on the walls, unblinking. The air smelled of marble, dust
(06:28):
and something sour like decay and sand. The bungalow was locked.
No neighbours close in the desert outskirts, just the wind's
howl outside. I covered the statue with a cloth, but
the scraping persisted, whispering, look at us. Sleep fled, my
skin crawling as the statues glowed, pulsed, sinking with my
heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed exhaustion, the
(06:52):
accident still raw. I started crafting ceramics the statue nearby,
but it wouldn't stay still. Each night it turned its eyes,
showing scenes me wandering a barren desert, hands bloodied, eyeless figures, staring.
Whispers grew personal and cruel. You broke them. I kept
a log. July twelve, one forty six a m. We're
(07:12):
watching July fourteen, three zero eight a m. See your end.
They mimicked me as voice bitter. You're a failure, Noah.
The bystander's pained, you hurt me. I checked the statue.
No joints, no mechanism, just marble that felt warm, smelling
of rot and dust. I tried smashing it with a mallet.
The stone wouldn't crack, the runes glowing brighter. I buried
(07:33):
it in the desert. It was back on my work
bench by dawn, eyes fixed on me. I called me
a hopping to reconnect, but she didn't answer. I hit
the Saint George Library, digging through old records. The statue
was carved by Eliza Halt, an artist who vanished in
eighteen seventy after losing her family in a sandstorm. Locals
said she'd cursed it to stare through souls, trapping those
(07:54):
it watched. Owners since disappeared, their homes found with statues, turned,
walls scratched with eyes. I found Eliza's sketch book, my
name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Noah.
The bungalow grew, cold, shadows moving in the statue's glow,
forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes hollow, staring. The air smelled
(08:15):
of sand and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping,
kept lights on, but the scraping drowned them out, the
eyes pulsing red like blood. I found scratches on the walls. See.
I tried melting the statue, it wouldn't soften, the rounds
burning my skin. One night, I woke with the statue
inches from my face, its eyes boring into mine. Eliza's voice,
your turn. Cold hands held my gaze, the room spinning shadows,
(08:39):
dragging me into the statue's eyes, showing my life, every failure,
Mere's face, ending with me trapped in a staring void.
I fought, gasping as the marble burned eyes consuming me.
I don't know how I survived. Mia found me in
the desert, trembling, saying she'd come after frantic text. I
didn't send the statues, gone, the shop empty when I checked,
(09:00):
But I hear it scraping in every silence, See its eyes,
in every shadow, always at three zero eight a m.
My ceramics shaped absently show figures. I didn't craft my
face in their eyes. I avoid sculpting now, fearing what watches.
But the bungalow's air feels heavy, like something staring. I
tried leaving Saint George, but every glance feels wrong, eyes
(09:21):
following my name. Listener, if you find an old statue,
don't meet its gaze. Some stone stare and they never stop.
Our next tale comes from a listener in Nevada. They
call it the River that Sings. Listen to it if
you dare Part three, The River that Sings. I found
the river behind my new home in Reno, Nevada, while
(09:43):
trying to rebuild a life that had unraveled. I'd been
a music teacher in Las Vegas, but a failed recital
a student's performance went disastrously wrong, sparking public outrage and
blamming my teaching cost me my job. The guilt, plus
a falling out with my brother Liam, who called me
the irresponsible, drove me to Reno's desert edges. At thirty three,
(10:04):
I was done with teaching, hopping to start over as
a composer, crafting melodies from silence. The river was small,
hidden in a ravine behind my rented cabin, Its banks
etched with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to shimmer under
my touch. Its water unnaturally clear, singing softly. The real
turn old woman with a raspy voice said it was
a local oddity, muttering, it sings its own song. I
(10:26):
ignored her unease, drawn to its haunting melody, thinking it
inspire my music. That first night, I woke at two
twenty nine a m. To a song, eerie and low,
like voices harmonizing, coming from the river. Its water glowed faintly,
ripples forming my face. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp,
sing with us, Sofia my name. I stumbled outside, heart racing,
(10:47):
flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, casting shadows like hands
on the rocks, fingers reaching. The air smelled of water
and something sour like decay and silt. The cabin was locked,
no name, Baba's close in the desert hills, just the
distant hum of the city. I blocked the river's path
with stones, but the singing persisted, whispering hear us. Sleep fled,
(11:10):
my skin crawling as the water's glow pulsed, sinking with
my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I blamed stress.
The recitals fall out, still raw. I started composing, avoiding
the river, but it wouldn't stay silent. Each night, it
sang ripples, showing scenes me wandering a glowing stream, hands,
bloodied figures chanting behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
(11:31):
You failed them. I kept a log August fifteen, one
forty four A M. We're singing. August seventeen three ten
A M. Sing your end. They mimicked Liam's voice, bitter.
You're a disgrace, Sofia the student's anguished. You ruined me.
I checked the river. No source, just water that felt warm,
smelling of rot and mud. I tried damning it. The
(11:52):
water flowed through the runes, glowing brighter. I diverted it
with trenches. It was back by dawn, singing louder. I
called Liam, hopping to reconnect, but he didn't answer. I
hit the Reno library, digging through old records. The river
was tied to Clara Reed, a singer who vanished in
eighteen seventy five after losing her family in a flood.
(12:12):
Locals said she'd cursed it to sing her grief, trapping
those who heard it. Owners of nearby homes disappeared, their
properties found with rivers, glowing, banks, scratched with names. I
found Clara's song book, My name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus. Join us, Sophia. The cabin grew cold,
shadows moving in the river's glow, forming faces, Clara's maybe eyes,
(12:35):
hollow mouths, singing. The air smelled of silt and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept speakers on, but
the river's song drowned them out, the water pulsing red
like blood. I found scratches on the banks, sing. I
tried poisoning the water. It flowed clearer, the ruins burning
my skin. One night, I woke knee deep in the river,
its song forcing my voice, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold
(12:58):
hands pulled me under the ravine, spinning shadows, dragging me
into a glowing stream, showing my life, every failure, Liam's face,
ending with me trapped in a singing void. I fought,
gasping as the water burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Liam found me on the bank, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text. I didn't send the
(13:19):
rivers dry. Now, the ravine empty one I checked, But
I hear its song in every silence, see its ripples
in every shadow. Always at three ten a m. My
compositions written absently show melodies. I didn't create my face
in the notes. I avoid music now, fearing what sings.
But the cabin's air feels heavy, like something's chanting. I
tried leaving Reno, but every sound feels wrong. Singing my name, Listener,
(13:44):
if you find an old river, don't listen. Some waters
sing you, and they never stop. Our final tale comes
from a listener in Colorado. They call it the Candle
that Binds. Lighted if you dare Part four, The Candle
that Binds. I found the candle at a thrift shop
in Boulder, Colorado, while trying to rebuild a life that
(14:06):
had shattered. I'd been a librarian in Denver, but a
disastrous oversight a rare manuscript i'd mishandled was stolen, sparking
outrage and costing me my job, ruined my reputation. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my sister Ivy, who called
me negligent, drove me to Boulder's Quiet Mountains. At thirty two,
(14:27):
I was done with libraries, hopping to start over as
a folklore writer, preserving old tailies. The candle was old, wax, blackened,
its holder, etched with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to
flicker under my touch, the wick unburned yet warm. The shopkeeper,
an old man with a trembling voice, sold it for
eight dollars, muttering it binds what it lights. I ignored
(14:49):
his unease, drawn to its eerie glow, and set it
on my desk in my rented mountain cabin, thinking it
inspire my stories. That first night, I woke at two
thirty seven an am to crackling like a flame flaring
coming from the desk. The candle was lit, its flame
casting shadows that twisted into my shape. A whisper hissed,
cold and sharp, burn with us Leela my name. I
(15:11):
stumbled to the desk, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The
ruins pulsed faintly, casting shadows like chains on the walls,
links tightening. The air smelled of wax and something sour
like decay and smoke. The cabin was locked, no neighbours
close in the forested hills, just the distant howl of wind.
I blew out the candle, but the flame reignited, whispering
(15:33):
stay lit. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the flames
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
I blamed exhaustion. The manuscript theft still raw. I started
writing the candle unlit, but it wouldn't stay dark. Each
night it flared, shadows showing scenes me wandering a burning forest,
hands bound, figures chained behind me. Whispers grew personal and cruel.
(15:56):
You lost it. I kept a log September twenty one,
four forty eight, A M. We are binding. September twenty two,
three eleven, A M. Burn your end. They mimicked Ivy's voice, bitter,
you're too careless, Leela the library's angry you betrayed us.
I checked the candle. No fuel, just wax, but it
felt warm, smelling of rot and ash. I tried melting it.
(16:19):
The wax wouldn't soften, the runes glowing brighter. I threw
it into the woods. It was back on my desk
by dawn, burning hotter. I called Ivy hopping to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the bolder library. Digging
through old records, the candle was made by Amos Holt,
a chandler who vanished in eighteen seventy two after losing
his family in a fire. Locals said he'd cursed it
(16:40):
to bind with flame, trapping those who lit it. Owner
since disappeared, their homes found with candles, burning, walls scratched
with chains. I found Amos's ledger, my name inked in red.
The whispers became a chorus, Join us, Leela. The cabin
grew cold, shadows moving in the candle's glow, forming faces Amos, mosses,
maybe eyes, hollow, hands chained. The air smelled of smoke
(17:04):
and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lamps on,
but the crackling drowned them out. The flame pulsing red
like blood. I found scratches on the walls burn. I
tried dousing the candle, The water evaporated, the runs, burning
my skin. One night, I woke with the candle in
my hands, its flame binding my wrists with shadowy chains,
(17:25):
Amos's voice, your turn, cold hands pulled me into the fire,
the rooms spinning shadows, dragging me into a burning void,
showing my life every failure, Ivy's face, ending with me
trapped in chained flames. I fought, gasping as the wax burned,
chains consuming me. I don't know how I survived. Ivey
(17:46):
found me in the woods trembling, saying she'd come after
frantic text I didn't send. The candle's gone, the shop
empty when I checked. But I hear its crackling in
every silence, see its chains in every shadow, always at
three eleven a m. My stories written absently show flames.
I didn't describe my face in the chains. I avoid
candles now, fearing what they bind. But the cabin's air
(18:08):
feels heavy, like something's burning. I tried leaving bolder, but
every light feels wrong, chaining my name. Listener, if you
find an old candle, don't light it. Some flames bind
you and they never stop. That's the end of this
episode of Listener Tales. Thanks for joining us sleep Tight
if you can
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