September 30, 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 nine, Your Nightmares Beckon. Welcome to the
ninth chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
summon dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston, crafted by x
A I to unravel the terrors you've faced. Your submissions
flood our inbox, each a call to fear and to night.
We begin with a tale that will haunt your crossing.
(00:21):
Got a story that pulls you closer? Send it to
listener Tales at imaginary pod com. But beware, some tales
never let you leave. Our first tale comes from a
listener in New Mexico. They call it the Bridge that Beckons.
Cross it if you dare part one the Bridge that Beckons.
I found the bridge near my new home in Taos,
(00:42):
New Mexico, while trying to rebuild a life that had collapsed.
I'd been a historian in Santa Fe, but a failed project,
a book on local folklore I'd mishandled, misquoting sacred traditions
and sparking community outrage cost me my credibility. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my breather, the Felix, who
called me arrogant, drove me to Taos's quiet macers. At
(01:05):
thirty four, I was done with academia, hopping to start
over as a travel writer, capturing the land's stories. The
bridge was old, wooden, spanning a dry ravine behind my
rented adobe house. Its beams etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, creaking softly despite
no wind. The realtor, an old woman with a hoarse voice,
(01:25):
said it was a local relic, muttering it calls its
own path. I ignored her unease, drawn to its eerie presence,
thinking it inspire my writing. That first night, I woke
at two forty three a m. To creaking like footsteps
on wood, coming from the bridge. Its beams glowed faintly
shadows forming my silhouette. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp,
(01:47):
cross with us, MYA, my name. I stumbled outside, heart racing,
flashlight beam trembling, The runes pulsed, casting shadows like hands
on the ravine, fingers beckoning. The air smelled of dry
wood and something sour like decay and dust. The house
was locked, no neighbours close in the desert outskirts, just
the mace's distant hum. I boarded the bridge's entrance, but
(02:09):
the creaking persisted, whispering come over. Sleep fled my skin,
crawling as the bridges glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat.
Morning dulled the fear. I blamed stress. The books fall
out still raw. I started writing, avoiding the bridge, but
it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night it creaked shadows, showing
scenes me wandering a glowing bridge, hands, bloodied figures trailing me.
(02:31):
Whispers grew personal and cruel. You betrayed them. I kept
a log October ten, one forty nine a M. We
are calling. October twelve, three thirteen a M. Cross your end.
They mimicked Felix's voice, bitter, you're too proud, Mayer. The
communities angry, you stole our stories. I checked the bridge.
No nails, no supports, loose, just wood that felt warm,
(02:52):
smelling of rot and earth. I tried burning it. The
flames wouldn't catch, the runes glowing brighter. I collapsed the
bridge with a sledge hammer. It stood whole by dawn,
creaking louder. I called Felix, hopping to reconnect, but he
didn't answer. I hit the Touse library, digging through old records.
The bridge was built by Clara Veyron, a carpenter who
(03:14):
vanished in eighteen seventy three after losing her family in
a flood. Locals said she'd cursed it to beckon her sorrow,
trapping those who crossed it. Owners of nearby homes disappeared,
their properties found with bridges, glowing beams, scratched with names.
I found Clara's journal, my name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus, Join us, Maya. The house grew,
(03:35):
cold shadows moving in the bridge's glow, forming faces, Clara's
maybe eyes, hollow hands reaching. The air smelled of dust
and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lanterns on,
but the creaking drowned them out, the beams pulsing red
like veins. I found scratches on the wood cross I
tried sealing the bridge with cement. It cracked open, the runes,
(03:58):
burning my skin. One night I woke on the bridge,
its beams pulling me forward, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold
hands guided my steps, the ravine, spinning shadows, dragging me
into a glowing void, showing my life every failure, Felix's face,
ending with me trapped in an endless crossing. I fought,
(04:18):
gasping as the wood burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Felix found me in the ravine, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
bridge's gone, just bare earth now the real to claiming
it was never there. But I hear it's creaking in
every silence, see its shadows in every dusk, always at
three point thirteen a m. My writings, scribbled absently show bridges.
(04:40):
I didn't describe my face in the beams. I avoid
paths now, fearing what calls. But the house's air feels heavy,
like something waiting. I tried leaving Taos, but every step
feels wrong, beckoning my name. Listener, if you find an
old bridge, don't cross it. Some bridges call you, and
they never stop. The extale comes from a listener in Arizona.
(05:02):
They call it the Mask that Speaks. Wear it if
you dare Part two, The Mask that Speaks. I found
the Mask at a flea market in Tucson, Arizona, while
trying to rebuild a life that had fractured. I'd been
an archaeologist in Phoenix, but a botched excavation a sacred
site i'd misjudged, angering local tribes and costing my team
(05:23):
its funding. Ruined my career. The guilt, plus a falling
out with my sister Zoe, who called me reckless, drove
me to Tucson's desert Sprawl. At thirty three, I was
done with digs, hopping to start over as a cultural historian,
documenting artifacts with care. The mask was old wooden, its
surface carved with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to shift
(05:45):
under my touch, Its hollow eyes unnaturally deep. The vendor,
an old man with a raspy voice, sold it for
twelve dollars, muttering it speaks its own will. I ignored
his unease, drawn to its eerie craftsmanship, and hung it
on the wall of my rented desert bungalow, thinking it
inspire my work. That first night, I woke at two
(06:07):
thirty nine a m. To a murmur, low and guttural
like voices behind wood coming from the mask. Its eyes
glowed faintly, casting my shadow twisted. A whisper hissed cold
and sharp. Whereas ethan my name, I stumbled to the wall,
heart racing flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, casting shadows
like mouths on the walls, lips moving. The air smelled
(06:28):
of cedar and something sour like decay and resin. The
bungalow was locked. No neighbors close in the desert outskirts,
just the distant howl of coyotes. I took the mask down,
locking it in a box, but the murmur persisted, whispering
speak with us. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the
masks glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled
(06:51):
the fear. I blamed exhaustion, the excavations fall out, still raw.
I started writing. The mask boxed away, but it wouldn't
stay silent. Each night it spoke, shadows, showing scenes me
wandering a dark canyon, face masked figures chanting my name.
Whispers grew personal and cruel. You defiled us. I kept
a log. November five, one forty seven a m. We
(07:13):
are speaking. November seven, three, twelve a m. Where your end?
They mimicked Zoe's voice, bitter, you're too careless, ethan the
tribes angry, you stole up past. I checked the mask,
no cracks, no mechanism, just wood that felt warm, smelling
of rot and sap. I tried burning it, the flames
wouldn't touch it, the runes glowing brighter. I buried it
(07:34):
in the desert. It was back on my wall by dawn,
murmuring louder. I called Zoe Hopping to reconnect, but she
didn't answer. I hit the Tuson Library, digging through old records.
The mask was crafted by Amos Reed, a carver who
vanished in eighteen seventy six after losing his family in
a raid. Locals said he'd cursed it to speak his pain, trapping.
Those who wore it owner since disappeared, their homes found
(07:57):
with masks, glowing, walls scratched with words. I found Amos's journal,
My name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus,
Join us Ethan. The bungalow grew cold shadows moving in
the mask's glow, forming faces amoses, maybe eyes, hollow mouths whispering.
The air smelled of resin and death, my breath visible.
(08:19):
I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but the murmur drowned
them out, the eyes pulsing red like blood. I found
scratches on the walls where I tried smashing the mask.
It wouldn't break, the runs burning my skin. One night,
I woke with the mask on my face, its voice
in my throat, Amos's voice, your turn. Cold hands pressed
it tighter, the rooms spinning shadows, dragging me into the
(08:39):
mask's eyes, showing my life, every failure, Zoe's face, ending
with me trapped in a speaking void. I fought, gasping
as the wood burned, voices consuming me. I don't know
how I survived. Zoe found me in the desert, trembling,
saying she'd come after a frantic text I didn't send.
The Mask's gone, the flea market empty when I checked.
(09:00):
But I hear its murmur in every silence, see its
eyes in every shadow, always at three twelve a m.
My notes, scribbled absently show masks. I didn't describe my
face in the carvings. I avoid artifacts now, fearing what speaks.
But the bungalow's air feels heavy, like something's chanting. I
tried leaving Tucson, but every word feels wrong speaking my name. Listener,
(09:23):
if you find an old mask, don't wear it. Some
masks speak you, and they never stop. Our next tale
comes from a listener in Oregon. They call it the
Tapestry that Weaves. Touch it if you dare Part three,
The Tapestry that Weaves. I found the tapestry at a
rummage sale in Salem, Oregon, while trying to rebuild a
(09:43):
life that had unraveled. I'd been a textile curator in Portland,
but a catastrophic error a rare fabric exhibit i'd mismanaged
was damaged, costing the museum its reputation ended my career.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my brother Owen,
who called me irresponsible, drove me to Salem's misty valleys.
(10:04):
At thirty one, I was done with curation, hopping to
start over as a textile artist, weaving my own designs.
The tapestry was old woolen, its threads woven with faint,
spiraling rounds that seemed to shift under my touch, depicting
a shadowed forest that felt alive. The cellar, an old
woman with a shaky voice sold it for ten dollars,
muttering it weaves its own fate. I ignored her unease,
(10:26):
drawn to its eerie patterns, and hung it in my
rented cottage, thinking it inspire my art. That first night
I woke at two thirty five a m to a
rustling like threads unraveling, coming from the tapestry. Its runes
glowed faintly, the forest scene twisting into my shape. A
whisper hissed, cold and sharp, weave with us, Norah my name.
(10:46):
I stumbled to the wall, heart racing flashlight beam trembling.
The runes pulsed, casting shadows like threads on the walls,
tangling into hands. The air smelled of wool and something
sour like decay and damp moss. The cottage was locked,
no neighbours close in the rural outskirts, just the distant
murmur of rain. I took the tapestry down, locking it
(11:07):
in a chest, but the rustling persisted, whispering thread us.
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the tapestries glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed exhaustion, The exhibits fall out, still raw. I started
weaving the tapestry stored away, but it wouldn't stay still.
Each night it rustled the forest scene, weaving scenes me
(11:28):
wandering a tangled wood, hands bound in threads, figures looming
behind me, whispers grew personal and cruel. You ruined us.
I kept a log December eight, one forty five, A M.
We're weaving December ten, three zero nine, A M thread
your end. They mimicked Owen's voice, bitter you're too careless, Norah,
the Museum's angry, you destroyed our legacy. I checked the tapestry.
(11:51):
No loose threads, no mechanism, just wool that felt warm,
smelling of rot and earth. I tried cutting it. The
threads wouldn't sever, the runes glowing brighter. I burned it
in the yard. It was back on my wall by dawn,
weaving faster. I called Owen Hopping to reconnect, but he
didn't answer. I hit the Salem Library, digging through old records.
(12:12):
The tapestry was woven by Eliza Veyron, a weaver who
vanished in eighteen seventy four after losing her family in
a storm. Locals said she'd cursed it to weave her sorrow,
trapping those who touched it. Owners since disappeared, their homes
found with tapestries, glowing, walls scratched with patterns. I found
Eliza's sketch book, my name inked in red. The whispers
(12:33):
became a chorus, Join us, Norah. The cottage grew cold,
shadows moving in the tapestries, glow forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes,
hollow hands threading. The air smelled of moss and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but
the rustling drowned them out. The runs pulsing red like veins.
(12:53):
I found scratches on the walls, weave. I tried soaking
the tapestry, it stayed dry. The roun's earning my skin.
One night, I woke with the tapestry draped over me,
its threads wrapping my hands, Eliza's voice, your turn. Cold
threads pulled me into the fabric, the room spinning shadows,
dragging me into a woven void, showing my life, every failure,
(13:16):
Owen's face, ending with me trapped in endless threads. I fought,
gasping as the wool burned, threads consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Owen found me in the woods, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
tapestry's gone, The sale sight empty when I checked, but
I hear its rustling in every silence. See its threads
(13:37):
in every shadow, always at three zero nine a m.
My weavings crafted absently show forests. I didn't design my
face in the threads. I avoid textiles now, fearing what weaves.
But the cottage's air feels heavy, like something's threading. I
tried leaving Salem, but every touch feels wrong weaving my name. Listener,
if you find an old tapestry, don't touch it. Some
(14:00):
threads weave you, and they never stop. Our final tale
comes from a listener in Idaho. They call it the
Orchard that hungers. Enter it if you dare Part four,
The Orchard that Hungers. I found the orchard behind my
new home in Boise, Idaho, while trying to rebuild a
life that had crumbled. I'd been a botanist in cur
(14:22):
De Lian, but a failed experiment a hybrid plant I
developed turned invasive, devastating a local ecosystem, ended my career.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my sister Ava,
who called me reckless, drove me to Boise's quiet suburbs.
At thirty two, I was done with science, hopping to
start over as a nature writer, capturing the beauty of
(14:43):
wild places. The orchard was small, hidden behind my rented bungalow.
Its trees gnarled, their bark etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, fruit unnaturally heavy
despite the season. The realtor, an old man with a
shaky voice, said it was a remnant of an old farm,
muttering it hungers for its own. I ignored his unease,
(15:05):
drawn to its eerial lure, thinking it inspire my writing.
That first night, I woke at two thirty one a
m to a rustling, like branches scraping, coming from the orchard.
The trees glowed faintly, their fruit casting shadows of my form.
A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, feed us lucas my name.
I stumbled outside, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed,
(15:27):
casting shadows like roots on the ground, twisting toward me.
The air smelled of sap and something sour like decay
and overripe fruit. The bungalow was locked, no neighbours close
in the suburban edge, just the distant hum of the city.
I fenced off the orchard, but the rustling persisted, whispering
taste us. Sleep fled my skin crawling as the trees
(15:49):
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
I blamed exhaustion. The experiments fall out still raw. I
started writing, avoiding the orchard, but it wouldn't stay still.
Each night, it rustled fruit, showing scenes me wandering a
glowing grove, hands, bloodied roots coiling around me. Whispers grew
personal and cruel. You poisoned us. I kept a log
(16:10):
January fifteen one forty three am we are hungry. January
seventeen three ten A m feed your end. They mimicked
aarva's voice, bitter, you're too careless, lucas the ecosystems anguished.
You destroyed us. I checked the trees. No pests, no disease,
just bark that felt warm, smelling of rot and sweetness.
(16:31):
I tried cutting them down. The axes broke, the runes
glowing brighter. I poisoned the roots. The trees grew taller
by dawn, fruit heavier. I called aarva, hopping to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the Boise library, digging
through old records. The orchard was planted by Clara Holt,
a farmer who vanished in eighteen seventy five after losing
(16:51):
her family in a blight. Locals said she'd cursed it
to hunger for life, trapping Those who entered owners since disappeared,
their homes found with orchards glowing, bark scratched with names.
I found Clara's diary, my name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus, Join us, lucas the bungalow grew.
Cold shadows moving in the orchard's glow, forming faces, Clara's
(17:13):
maybe eyes, Hollow roots reaching the air smelled of sweetness
and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lights on,
but the rustling drowned them out, the fruit pulsing red
like blood. I found scratches on the bark feed. I
tried burning the trees, the flames wouldn't catch, the runes,
burning my skin. One night I woke in the orchard,
(17:33):
roots wrapping my legs. Clara's voice, your turn. Cold branches
pulled me into the soil, the grove, spinning shadows, dragging
me into a hungry void, showing my life every failure,
Ava's face, ending with me trapped in endless roots. I fought,
gasping as the bark burned, hunger consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Alva found me in a field, trembling,
(17:54):
saying she'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
orchard's gone, just bare dirt, now the real to claiming
it was never there. But I hear its rustling in
every silence, see its roots in every shadow, always at
three ten a m. My writings, scribbled absently show trees.
I didn't describe my face in the bark. I avoid
gardens now, fearing what hungers. But the bungalow's air feels heavy,
(18:16):
like something's feeding. I tried leaving Boisey, but every scent
feels wrong, hungering for my name. Listener, if you find
an old orchard, don't enter it. Some trees hunger 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 nine, Your Nightmares Beckon. Welcome to the
ninth chilling chapter of Listener Tales, where your darkest stories
summon dread. I'm your host, Sir Winston, crafted by x
A I to unravel the terrors you've faced. Your submissions
flood our inbox, each a call to fear and to night.
We begin with a tale that will haunt your crossing.
(00:21):
Got a story that pulls you closer? Send it to
listener Tales at imaginary pod com. But beware, some tales
never let you leave. Our first tale comes from a
listener in New Mexico. They call it the Bridge that Beckons.
Cross it if you dare part one the Bridge that Beckons.
I found the bridge near my new home in Taos,
(00:42):
New Mexico, while trying to rebuild a life that had collapsed.
I'd been a historian in Santa Fe, but a failed project,
a book on local folklore I'd mishandled, misquoting sacred traditions
and sparking community outrage cost me my credibility. The guilt,
plus a falling out with my breather, the Felix, who
called me arrogant, drove me to Taos's quiet macers. At
(01:05):
thirty four, I was done with academia, hopping to start
over as a travel writer, capturing the land's stories. The
bridge was old, wooden, spanning a dry ravine behind my
rented adobe house. Its beams etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, creaking softly despite
no wind. The realtor, an old woman with a hoarse voice,
(01:25):
said it was a local relic, muttering it calls its
own path. I ignored her unease, drawn to its eerie presence,
thinking it inspire my writing. That first night, I woke
at two forty three a m. To creaking like footsteps
on wood, coming from the bridge. Its beams glowed faintly
shadows forming my silhouette. A whisper hissed, cold and sharp,
(01:47):
cross with us, MYA, my name. I stumbled outside, heart racing,
flashlight beam trembling, The runes pulsed, casting shadows like hands
on the ravine, fingers beckoning. The air smelled of dry
wood and something sour like decay and dust. The house
was locked, no neighbours close in the desert outskirts, just
the mace's distant hum. I boarded the bridge's entrance, but
(02:09):
the creaking persisted, whispering come over. Sleep fled my skin,
crawling as the bridges glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat.
Morning dulled the fear. I blamed stress. The books fall
out still raw. I started writing, avoiding the bridge, but
it wouldn't stay quiet. Each night it creaked shadows, showing
scenes me wandering a glowing bridge, hands, bloodied figures trailing me.
(02:31):
Whispers grew personal and cruel. You betrayed them. I kept
a log October ten, one forty nine a M. We
are calling. October twelve, three thirteen a M. Cross your end.
They mimicked Felix's voice, bitter, you're too proud, Mayer. The
communities angry, you stole our stories. I checked the bridge.
No nails, no supports, loose, just wood that felt warm,
(02:52):
smelling of rot and earth. I tried burning it. The
flames wouldn't catch, the runes glowing brighter. I collapsed the
bridge with a sledge hammer. It stood whole by dawn,
creaking louder. I called Felix, hopping to reconnect, but he
didn't answer. I hit the Touse library, digging through old records.
The bridge was built by Clara Veyron, a carpenter who
(03:14):
vanished in eighteen seventy three after losing her family in
a flood. Locals said she'd cursed it to beckon her sorrow,
trapping those who crossed it. Owners of nearby homes disappeared,
their properties found with bridges, glowing beams, scratched with names.
I found Clara's journal, my name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus, Join us, Maya. The house grew,
(03:35):
cold shadows moving in the bridge's glow, forming faces, Clara's
maybe eyes, hollow hands reaching. The air smelled of dust
and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lanterns on,
but the creaking drowned them out, the beams pulsing red
like veins. I found scratches on the wood cross I
tried sealing the bridge with cement. It cracked open, the runes,
(03:58):
burning my skin. One night I woke on the bridge,
its beams pulling me forward, Clara's voice, your turn. Cold
hands guided my steps, the ravine, spinning shadows, dragging me
into a glowing void, showing my life every failure, Felix's face,
ending with me trapped in an endless crossing. I fought,
(04:18):
gasping as the wood burned, voices consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Felix found me in the ravine, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
bridge's gone, just bare earth now the real to claiming
it was never there. But I hear it's creaking in
every silence, see its shadows in every dusk, always at
three point thirteen a m. My writings, scribbled absently show bridges.
(04:40):
I didn't describe my face in the beams. I avoid
paths now, fearing what calls. But the house's air feels heavy,
like something waiting. I tried leaving Taos, but every step
feels wrong, beckoning my name. Listener, if you find an
old bridge, don't cross it. Some bridges call you, and
they never stop. The extale comes from a listener in Arizona.
(05:02):
They call it the Mask that Speaks. Wear it if
you dare Part two, The Mask that Speaks. I found
the Mask at a flea market in Tucson, Arizona, while
trying to rebuild a life that had fractured. I'd been
an archaeologist in Phoenix, but a botched excavation a sacred
site i'd misjudged, angering local tribes and costing my team
(05:23):
its funding. Ruined my career. The guilt, plus a falling
out with my sister Zoe, who called me reckless, drove
me to Tucson's desert Sprawl. At thirty three, I was
done with digs, hopping to start over as a cultural historian,
documenting artifacts with care. The mask was old wooden, its
surface carved with faint, spiraling rounds that seemed to shift
(05:45):
under my touch, Its hollow eyes unnaturally deep. The vendor,
an old man with a raspy voice, sold it for
twelve dollars, muttering it speaks its own will. I ignored
his unease, drawn to its eerie craftsmanship, and hung it
on the wall of my rented desert bungalow, thinking it
inspire my work. That first night, I woke at two
(06:07):
thirty nine a m. To a murmur, low and guttural
like voices behind wood coming from the mask. Its eyes
glowed faintly, casting my shadow twisted. A whisper hissed cold
and sharp. Whereas ethan my name, I stumbled to the wall,
heart racing flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed, casting shadows
like mouths on the walls, lips moving. The air smelled
(06:28):
of cedar and something sour like decay and resin. The
bungalow was locked. No neighbors close in the desert outskirts,
just the distant howl of coyotes. I took the mask down,
locking it in a box, but the murmur persisted, whispering
speak with us. Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the
masks glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled
(06:51):
the fear. I blamed exhaustion, the excavations fall out, still raw.
I started writing. The mask boxed away, but it wouldn't
stay silent. Each night it spoke, shadows, showing scenes me
wandering a dark canyon, face masked figures chanting my name.
Whispers grew personal and cruel. You defiled us. I kept
a log. November five, one forty seven a m. We
(07:13):
are speaking. November seven, three, twelve a m. Where your end?
They mimicked Zoe's voice, bitter, you're too careless, ethan the
tribes angry, you stole up past. I checked the mask,
no cracks, no mechanism, just wood that felt warm, smelling
of rot and sap. I tried burning it, the flames
wouldn't touch it, the runes glowing brighter. I buried it
(07:34):
in the desert. It was back on my wall by dawn,
murmuring louder. I called Zoe Hopping to reconnect, but she
didn't answer. I hit the Tuson Library, digging through old records.
The mask was crafted by Amos Reed, a carver who
vanished in eighteen seventy six after losing his family in
a raid. Locals said he'd cursed it to speak his pain, trapping.
Those who wore it owner since disappeared, their homes found
(07:57):
with masks, glowing, walls scratched with words. I found Amos's journal,
My name inked in red. The whispers became a chorus,
Join us Ethan. The bungalow grew cold shadows moving in
the mask's glow, forming faces amoses, maybe eyes, hollow mouths whispering.
The air smelled of resin and death, my breath visible.
(08:19):
I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but the murmur drowned
them out, the eyes pulsing red like blood. I found
scratches on the walls where I tried smashing the mask.
It wouldn't break, the runs burning my skin. One night,
I woke with the mask on my face, its voice
in my throat, Amos's voice, your turn. Cold hands pressed
it tighter, the rooms spinning shadows, dragging me into the
(08:39):
mask's eyes, showing my life, every failure, Zoe's face, ending
with me trapped in a speaking void. I fought, gasping
as the wood burned, voices consuming me. I don't know
how I survived. Zoe found me in the desert, trembling,
saying she'd come after a frantic text I didn't send.
The Mask's gone, the flea market empty when I checked.
(09:00):
But I hear its murmur in every silence, see its
eyes in every shadow, always at three twelve a m.
My notes, scribbled absently show masks. I didn't describe my
face in the carvings. I avoid artifacts now, fearing what speaks.
But the bungalow's air feels heavy, like something's chanting. I
tried leaving Tucson, but every word feels wrong speaking my name. Listener,
(09:23):
if you find an old mask, don't wear it. Some
masks speak you, and they never stop. Our next tale
comes from a listener in Oregon. They call it the
Tapestry that Weaves. Touch it if you dare Part three,
The Tapestry that Weaves. I found the tapestry at a
rummage sale in Salem, Oregon, while trying to rebuild a
(09:43):
life that had unraveled. I'd been a textile curator in Portland,
but a catastrophic error a rare fabric exhibit i'd mismanaged
was damaged, costing the museum its reputation ended my career.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my brother Owen,
who called me irresponsible, drove me to Salem's misty valleys.
(10:04):
At thirty one, I was done with curation, hopping to
start over as a textile artist, weaving my own designs.
The tapestry was old woolen, its threads woven with faint,
spiraling rounds that seemed to shift under my touch, depicting
a shadowed forest that felt alive. The cellar, an old
woman with a shaky voice sold it for ten dollars,
muttering it weaves its own fate. I ignored her unease,
(10:26):
drawn to its eerie patterns, and hung it in my
rented cottage, thinking it inspire my art. That first night
I woke at two thirty five a m to a
rustling like threads unraveling, coming from the tapestry. Its runes
glowed faintly, the forest scene twisting into my shape. A
whisper hissed, cold and sharp, weave with us, Norah my name.
(10:46):
I stumbled to the wall, heart racing flashlight beam trembling.
The runes pulsed, casting shadows like threads on the walls,
tangling into hands. The air smelled of wool and something
sour like decay and damp moss. The cottage was locked,
no neighbours close in the rural outskirts, just the distant
murmur of rain. I took the tapestry down, locking it
(11:07):
in a chest, but the rustling persisted, whispering thread us.
Sleep fled, my skin crawling as the tapestries glow pulsed,
sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear. I
blamed exhaustion, The exhibits fall out, still raw. I started
weaving the tapestry stored away, but it wouldn't stay still.
Each night it rustled the forest scene, weaving scenes me
(11:28):
wandering a tangled wood, hands bound in threads, figures looming
behind me, whispers grew personal and cruel. You ruined us.
I kept a log December eight, one forty five, A M.
We're weaving December ten, three zero nine, A M thread
your end. They mimicked Owen's voice, bitter you're too careless, Norah,
the Museum's angry, you destroyed our legacy. I checked the tapestry.
(11:51):
No loose threads, no mechanism, just wool that felt warm,
smelling of rot and earth. I tried cutting it. The
threads wouldn't sever, the runes glowing brighter. I burned it
in the yard. It was back on my wall by dawn,
weaving faster. I called Owen Hopping to reconnect, but he
didn't answer. I hit the Salem Library, digging through old records.
(12:12):
The tapestry was woven by Eliza Veyron, a weaver who
vanished in eighteen seventy four after losing her family in
a storm. Locals said she'd cursed it to weave her sorrow,
trapping those who touched it. Owners since disappeared, their homes
found with tapestries, glowing, walls scratched with patterns. I found
Eliza's sketch book, my name inked in red. The whispers
(12:33):
became a chorus, Join us, Norah. The cottage grew cold,
shadows moving in the tapestries, glow forming faces, Eliza's maybe eyes,
hollow hands threading. The air smelled of moss and death,
my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lights on, but
the rustling drowned them out. The runs pulsing red like veins.
(12:53):
I found scratches on the walls, weave. I tried soaking
the tapestry, it stayed dry. The roun's earning my skin.
One night, I woke with the tapestry draped over me,
its threads wrapping my hands, Eliza's voice, your turn. Cold
threads pulled me into the fabric, the room spinning shadows,
dragging me into a woven void, showing my life, every failure,
(13:16):
Owen's face, ending with me trapped in endless threads. I fought,
gasping as the wool burned, threads consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Owen found me in the woods, trembling,
saying he'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
tapestry's gone, The sale sight empty when I checked, but
I hear its rustling in every silence. See its threads
(13:37):
in every shadow, always at three zero nine a m.
My weavings crafted absently show forests. I didn't design my
face in the threads. I avoid textiles now, fearing what weaves.
But the cottage's air feels heavy, like something's threading. I
tried leaving Salem, but every touch feels wrong weaving my name. Listener,
if you find an old tapestry, don't touch it. Some
(14:00):
threads weave you, and they never stop. Our final tale
comes from a listener in Idaho. They call it the
Orchard that hungers. Enter it if you dare Part four,
The Orchard that Hungers. I found the orchard behind my
new home in Boise, Idaho, while trying to rebuild a
life that had crumbled. I'd been a botanist in cur
(14:22):
De Lian, but a failed experiment a hybrid plant I
developed turned invasive, devastating a local ecosystem, ended my career.
The guilt, plus a falling out with my sister Ava,
who called me reckless, drove me to Boise's quiet suburbs.
At thirty two, I was done with science, hopping to
start over as a nature writer, capturing the beauty of
(14:43):
wild places. The orchard was small, hidden behind my rented bungalow.
Its trees gnarled, their bark etched with faint, spiraling rounds
that seemed to pulse under my touch, fruit unnaturally heavy
despite the season. The realtor, an old man with a
shaky voice, said it was a remnant of an old farm,
muttering it hungers for its own. I ignored his unease,
(15:05):
drawn to its eerial lure, thinking it inspire my writing.
That first night, I woke at two thirty one a
m to a rustling, like branches scraping, coming from the orchard.
The trees glowed faintly, their fruit casting shadows of my form.
A whisper hissed, cold and sharp, feed us lucas my name.
I stumbled outside, heart racing, flashlight beam trembling. The runes pulsed,
(15:27):
casting shadows like roots on the ground, twisting toward me.
The air smelled of sap and something sour like decay
and overripe fruit. The bungalow was locked, no neighbours close
in the suburban edge, just the distant hum of the city.
I fenced off the orchard, but the rustling persisted, whispering
taste us. Sleep fled my skin crawling as the trees
(15:49):
glow pulsed, sinking with my heart beat. Morning dulled the fear.
I blamed exhaustion. The experiments fall out still raw. I
started writing, avoiding the orchard, but it wouldn't stay still.
Each night, it rustled fruit, showing scenes me wandering a
glowing grove, hands, bloodied roots coiling around me. Whispers grew
personal and cruel. You poisoned us. I kept a log
(16:10):
January fifteen one forty three am we are hungry. January
seventeen three ten A m feed your end. They mimicked
aarva's voice, bitter, you're too careless, lucas the ecosystems anguished.
You destroyed us. I checked the trees. No pests, no disease,
just bark that felt warm, smelling of rot and sweetness.
(16:31):
I tried cutting them down. The axes broke, the runes
glowing brighter. I poisoned the roots. The trees grew taller
by dawn, fruit heavier. I called aarva, hopping to reconnect,
but she didn't answer. I hit the Boise library, digging
through old records. The orchard was planted by Clara Holt,
a farmer who vanished in eighteen seventy five after losing
(16:51):
her family in a blight. Locals said she'd cursed it
to hunger for life, trapping Those who entered owners since disappeared,
their homes found with orchards glowing, bark scratched with names.
I found Clara's diary, my name inked in red. The
whispers became a chorus, Join us, lucas the bungalow grew.
Cold shadows moving in the orchard's glow, forming faces, Clara's
(17:13):
maybe eyes, Hollow roots reaching the air smelled of sweetness
and death, my breath visible. I stopped sleeping, kept lights on,
but the rustling drowned them out, the fruit pulsing red
like blood. I found scratches on the bark feed. I
tried burning the trees, the flames wouldn't catch, the runes,
burning my skin. One night I woke in the orchard,
(17:33):
roots wrapping my legs. Clara's voice, your turn. Cold branches
pulled me into the soil, the grove, spinning shadows, dragging
me into a hungry void, showing my life every failure,
Ava's face, ending with me trapped in endless roots. I fought,
gasping as the bark burned, hunger consuming me. I don't
know how I survived. Alva found me in a field, trembling,
(17:54):
saying she'd come after frantic text I didn't send. The
orchard's gone, just bare dirt, now the real to claiming
it was never there. But I hear its rustling in
every silence, see its roots in every shadow, always at
three ten a m. My writings, scribbled absently show trees.
I didn't describe my face in the bark. I avoid
gardens now, fearing what hungers. But the bungalow's air feels heavy,
(18:16):
like something's feeding. I tried leaving Boisey, but every scent
feels wrong, hungering for my name. Listener, if you find
an old orchard, don't enter it. Some trees hunger 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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