TWL 1202: "It Stares Back at You", by Vincent Robert-Nicoud

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Welcome to Season 12 episode 1202. Today’s episode features a story by Vincent Robert-Nicoud: “It Stares Back at You”. Performed by Graham Rowat, with a custom score by Nico Vettese of We Talk of Dreams.

Five years after a traumatic incident on the Sea of Ice, one of the largest glaciers in the world, Harry seeks the crevasse into which his climbing companion disappeared. The frozen depths might not be as safe as he believed. In the cold and the dark, Harry will confront his fears, and learn, through a harrowing journey into the bowels of the glacier, that if you gaze long enough into the abyss, it stares right back at you.

Warning: The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created for a mature audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence, blood, betrayal, and inhumanity; monsters win, people die, and hope is often shattered. There is also beauty, heart, catharsis, and raw emotion. Fear may be deeply personal, but we all share it.If at any time a story takes you to a place too dark, turn on the lights, press pause, or press stop. And always remember, that unlike in the real world, these nightmares, and your participation in them, are under your control.

Producers: Daniel Foytik & Meg WilliamsResident Composer & Executive Producer: Nico Vettese, of We Talk of Dreams
Hosted by: Daniel Foytik
Artwork: Greg Shaffer
Score & Incidental Music: Nico Vettese
Main Theme: “The Library Awakens” Nico Vettese
Final Audio Mix: Daniel Foytik, 9th Story Studios LLC

Get your copy of The Wicked Library Presents: 13 Wicked Tales on Kindle, or in print. Visit thewickedlibrary.com/read to get your copy today.

Get your copy of The Lift, 9 Stories of Transformation Volume One on Kindle, or in print. Visit victoriaslift.com/read to get your copy today.

The Wicked Library is created by 9th Story Studios LLC: www.9thstory.comAudio program ©2023 – 9th Story Studios LLC. All Rights Reserved.No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of 9th Story Studios LLC. The copyrights for stories are held by the respective authors.

Episode Transcript

(00:04):
Nice Story Studios giving story a voice. I'm David Alts and you're listening to
The Wicked Library. Warning. TheWicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created

(00:35):
for immature audience. Our stories containgraphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence,
blood, betrayal, and inhumanity.Monsters win, people die, and
hope is often shattered. There isalso beauty, heart, catharsis, and
raw emotion. Fear may be deeplypersonal, but we all share. If

(01:00):
at any time a story takes youto a place too dark, turn on
the lights, press pause, orpress stop, and always remember that,
unlike in the real world, thesenightmares and your participation in them, are
under your control. Welcome to theWicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytech, and

(01:36):
I thank you for listening. Sincere. Thank you to those of you who
are supporting the show. Without you, this show would not be possible.
This season, all episodes are heardfirst by Patreon supporters and later shared with
the full audience. When you supportthe show, you can choose between ad
free episodes, early access to thestories, and at higher levels of support

(01:56):
you'll get premiere access to end FieldDetective Agency currently in production. That's right
Frank is back in coming to yourears soon. You can support the show
at patreon dot com Forward slash WickedLibrary. A lot of hard work and
money goes into making the Wicked Library, and I really do rely on this
support to help us pay the authors, voice actors, composer and artists so

(02:17):
that none of our contributors works forfree. For as little as three dollars
a month, you can help makethe show you love possible at patreon dot
com Forward slash Wicked Library. Now, let's get wicked with today's dark tale,
told by Graham Rowitt with a customscore written by Nico vites of We
Talk of Dreams. It Stares Backat You by Vincent Robert n Account.

(03:23):
By the time I left the refuge, the first streaks of dawn had tinged
the jagged pinnacles and seracs to theeast of the glacier with pink light.
I scanned the frozen expanse beneath me, trying to pick out a potential route
to my destination, and set outto climb down a sheer cliff of exposed
rocks. With a rush of excitement, I stepped onto the airy, metallic

(03:47):
structure and began my descent. Thewind was whistling around me, making the
ladders and narrow ridges seem even moreprecarious. I pressed on, unconcerned by
the precipice. It wasn't my firsttime in the Mont Blanc area. I
was glad to be back, tofeel the cold mountain air on my face,

(04:10):
and to challenge the dizzying heights oncemore. Until five years ago,
I had spent most of my holidayshere either dangling from a rope above the
void or skiing down the powdery slopes. If the early stirrings of my obsession
with this vast, chaotic stretch ofice were lost to my memory, it
was obvious that the trip I madefive years ago had marked a decisive turn.

(04:33):
With my climbing companion, a Britishexpat named Will, we decided to
take advantage of the last days ofcold weather in early spring to attempt the
infamous off track ski descent through theGiant's Glacier and down White Valley to the
town of Chamony. It was tobe our last epic journey through the so

(04:54):
called Sea of Ice, one ofthe largest glaciers in Europe. A proper
send off before I left for theUnited States. I'd accepted a job offer
in a New York office, completelygiving up my dream of becoming a mountain
guide. When the day of thedescent finally came, it brought along tumultuous
clouds sagging over the valley and amean, icy drizzle. The weather was

(05:17):
much warmer than we had anticipated,and it had made the slopes treacherous.
We proceeded slowly, trying to avoidpatches of ice and mounds of wet,
sticky snow. As we were zigzaggingbetween the colossal seracs above the sea of
ice, the fog rolled in,forcing us to slow down even more.

(05:39):
We slogged through a monumental maze ofice pillars, trying not to think about
the low rumble in the heights abovethe valley. This late in the season,
there was always a risk of avalancheall around us. Cyclopean shapes were
emerging from the dull grayness, likeshipwrecks forever trapped in a frozen store.

(06:00):
It wasn't long before I realized thatwe were way off course. There was
no doubt in my mind, butI couldn't bear to admit it openly.
After what seemed an eternity of trudgingalong the moraine debris and looking for an
easier way down, I became distractedby a distant, continuous sound. Will

(06:21):
and I decided to change course andtrack its source. Only a short way
down, and a little while laterwe were standing next to a deep gully
which had been carved by a powerfultorrent of bright blue melt water tumbling down
the middle of the glacier. Thegap was too wide to be crossed,
and since it was that kind ofa day, it soon became evident that

(06:45):
we were on the wrong side ofit. Thankfully, a crust of icy
snow had formed near the edge ofthe torrent, offering us a quick way
down. We couldn't wait for achange of clothes, and a warm cup
of coffee went whizzing away, andI followed a few dozen feet behind him.
Soon the roar of the stream grewlouder, almost to the point of

(07:08):
drowning all other sounds. The reasonfor this became obvious once I reached the
gaping hole into which the water rushedwith much froth and thunder. I braked
hard and steered around the cave moutha perfect circle ten or fifteen feet wide.
I stood near the rim, gaspingand wondering why Will didn't stop to

(07:30):
have a look himself. It tookme a moment to realize that he was
laying on the edge some twenty orthirty feet down the icy shaft, motionless.
All it would have taken was alittle more speed or a misplaced patch
of ice, and I would haveended down there with him. My mind
quickly filled up with what ifs,all leading to catastrophic outcomes. Not that

(07:55):
Will's situation wasn't catastrophic, but atleast I could try to rescue him or
call for help. Looking down,I saw that he was now shouting,
but I couldn't hear anything above thedin. I fumbled through my pack,
looking for something, anything, thatcould help me get him out of there.
But when I glanced back into thechasm, the ledge was gone,

(08:18):
swallowed by the darkness below. Aftera moment of frantic, breathless panic,
I felt the abyss beckoning to meand found myself drawn to the void.
How long did I peer into theoblivion, wondering about its seemingly bottomless depths.
I fought the urge to hurl myselfinto the hole, and to make

(08:41):
a long story short, managed toget back to town. I learned later
that these shafts were called moulon.They were known to be fickle and unpredictable
features of the glacier's ever changing landscape, often collapsing and reforming elsewhere. I'll
rescue it, tempts failed. Willwas considered lost, his body trapped in

(09:03):
a crystal blue coffin, or morelikely crushed under gigantic ice blocks. In
the years that followed, I oftendreamt about the Moulan's gaping maw and deep,
unexplored hollows. After a period ofinitial reluctance, I went back to
Chamony a few times and even scouredthe glacier. My repeated failures to find

(09:28):
anything even remotely like the Moulan inwhich Will had disappeared became frustrating. My
love for the mountains waned. Icouldn't set foot on the ice without imagining
vast caves and dark tunnels plunging toimmeasurable depths just beneath me. The interval
between my visits lengthened until I stoppedcoming altogether. What compelled me to come

(09:52):
back for the fifth anniversary of Will'sdisappearance, I couldn't say I hadn't,
and on going back to the glacier, but as chance would have it,
I overheard a group of mountaineers talkingabout a deep, circular chasm that had
appeared in the northernmost part of theSea of Ice. It was already late

(10:13):
in the morning when I reached thebottom of the latter section. A strange
feeling overtook me, as if I'dset foot on a fixed path laid with
the mutable rails. A voice whisperedin my mind, barely audible above my
eagerness to press on. There wasstill time to turn back and return to

(10:35):
warmth, to safety, and tosanity, but this itch of mine needed
to be scratched. After a shorthike, I stumbled upon a deep channel
etched into the glacier. Something musthave blocked or diverted the torrent of meltwater
responsible for carving it, because thegully was nearly empty. The next hour

(10:58):
or so I spent under a blazesun following the dried up river bed.
Hard snow crunched under my crampons asI reviewed my equipment. Two hundred and
fifty feet of rope, a harness, a pair of ice axes, a
helmet with a powerful head lamp,some climbing gears, and two dozen ice
screws. Although my preparation was impeccable, I still felt that my motive did

(11:24):
I even know what I was lookingfor in the glacier's bowels, was questionable,
if not downright irrational. Such athought, it struck me, was
something straight out of the mouth ofCaptain Ahab. Before long, I was
staring blankly into my white whale's single, inscrutable eye. I knew it couldn't

(11:46):
be the same Moulon as five yearsago. Not only was it in a
different location, but it also seemedlarger and was shaped like a lopsided crater.
No matter, I thought, therewasn't going to be another opportunity like
this. Yet standing next to itmade my skin prickle. I had to

(12:07):
fight off the overwhelming impulse to leave. On some deep level, I knew
that such places weren't meant for usto visit. Survival instinct, ancient attavistic
fear, altitude sickness, call itwhat you will. I also knew that
once missed, this chance wouldn't presentitself again. It seemed silly to have

(12:28):
gone all this way just to backaway. Now, just a quick peek,
I promised myself while setting up ananchor. Then, with a surge
of trepidation and awe, I slowlyleaned over the edge there, almost suspended
between the sky and the abyss.All fear left me for a short while,

(12:52):
and I felt the pull of thevoid once more. I knew how
dangerous it could be. Hadn't Iwitnessed it first hand? Will's fall,
or rather the moment when there wasnothing where he had been seconds before,
was imprinted in my mind. Yet, despite my gut instinct, screaming and

(13:13):
rebelling against each nerve and fiber ofmy body, I lowered myself down,
inch by inch, moved by someprimeval force beyond my understanding. It wasn't
as if I had lost my mind, I told myself, trying my best
to sound confident. After all,I had warned the refuge keeper that I

(13:35):
was going on a solo truck onthe glacier. My rope anchor was as
sturdy as one could hope for,and I was confident in my experience in
ice climbing. I didn't trust myascender to work in such conditions that I
had planned to set up anchors withice crews at regular intervals to help me
on my way up. See,I said out loud, the sound of

(13:58):
my voice echoing down in the Moulan'sfunnel. You've nothing to worry about.
Just slow down, breathe, relax, and enjoy the views. I'd assumed
the inside of the hole to bedull and gray, but nothing could have
been further from the truth. Itwas as if I had stepped into another
world. All around me, thewalls were alive with light and colors,

(14:24):
shimmering blue, dark, purple,tinged with orange and pink everywhere, the
bright sheen of crystals glimmering in thehalf light. I was so mesmerized that
I hardly realized how small the bluecircle of the Moulan's mouth was becoming.
By my estimate, I was aboutthirty feet deep when I next glanced to

(14:46):
the surface. Reaching for the wall, I managed to grab hold of a
protruding ice boulder and set up arope anchor with two screws and carabineers.
It would make the ascent easier andhelped maintain the rope in place to prevent
it from scraping against sharp edges.Not that I expected to descend all the
way to the bottom, just asafety measure, nothing else. With my

(15:11):
back to the empty void, Iabsailed further down. The colors grew dimmer,
more subtle, dark grays with hintsof blue. The silence, which
so far had only been broken bythe clanks of my crampons and the squeaking
of my rope, seemed heavier,more palpable. Noises closest to me were

(15:31):
muffled and faint, while far offsounds reverberated amplified to the point that I
could hear the trickle of a fewdrops. Hundreds of feet down. Auxiliary
tunnels branched out from the main shaftin every direction. Mulon's inside structure was
complex, beyond my imagination. Ibegan to wonder about these narrow, meandering

(15:56):
spaces. They seemed to be tauntingme to explore them. Everywhere I turned
my head lamp made the black wallsglitter with specks of golden light. After
rigging the force anchor about ninety feetdown, I took a break and listened.
The void gaped below me, steepedin stidgion gloom. I shifted in

(16:19):
my harness, trying to find amore comfortable position. My skin crawled cold
and clammy. I wriggled again,annoyed by an itch under my helmet.
Was probably the dark wearing on mynerves, I assumed, letting out a
nervous laugh. It was strange noticinghow much of an effect the situation had

(16:41):
on my mind. I couldn't tellwhether it was the black emptiness below or
the immensity of the glacier pressing allaround me that was more unsettling. Breathing
became hard as my chest grew tighter. One moment, I felt the walls
closing in and imagined what would happenshould the moulan collapse. In the next

(17:03):
I was losing all sense of theworld above, and my own being was
becoming insubstantial, just another shadow lostin the inky blackness. Time to head
back out, I thought, andslammed my axe against the wall. It
bounced against the ice with a resoundingthud and sent needles down my forearm.

(17:26):
I tried to gain a foothold,but my crampons barely scratched the wall.
I took a deep breath, hopingto slow down the pounding in my chest.
A few attempts later, My lungswere wheezing, my mouth was dry,
and I only had made minimal progress. My arms were shaking and burning

(17:47):
with exhaustion. With a cry ofdesperation, I let go of my hold
and dropped back down, hanging fromthe rope, shivering and limp I began
to lose the sense of time.Who knew how long I had been underground?
It could have been ours. Iwas about to give up when something

(18:08):
brushed against my leg. I twitchedand fumbled in a vain attempt to turn
around, but only managed to tanglethe rope. Impossible. I thought nothing
could survive down there. I wouldhave ascribed it to fatigue and sense deprivation
had I not felt it again,more distinctly, this time like a firm

(18:29):
hand pulling me downward. Terror swelled, chasing the air out of my lungs.
It was at this point that anabsurd thought crossed my mind, not
simply absurd, but utterly insane.I tried my best to push it aside
and ignore it. The thought cameback more insistent, until I cried out,

(18:55):
well is that you? My voicecracked. It's me, It's your
friend, Harry. I remained asmotionless as possible, and listened intently.
At first, there was nothing butthe sound of my chaotic breathing. Then
from the depth came the distorted echoof my voice. Shrill and foreign,

(19:19):
Harry, it said, barely louderthan a whisper, Harry. The voice
resounded in the black void, Harry. The echo grew louder, more inquisitive,
filling me with dread. Twisting andturning like a fish hooked at the

(19:41):
end of a line, I caughta glimpse of a pool of crystalline water
bleeding into another crevasse. I thoughtI saw darker shadows creeping out of the
pit, but it could have beenmy imagination. Something stirred below steps.
The air shivered around me. Alow rumble echoed in the distance, shaking

(20:07):
me to my core, the roarof some unseen monstrosity, or the sound
of crumbling ice blocks. Sheer,bloody panic squeezed my throat and nearly overtook
me. I wriggled and prised,kicking and screaming, clawing at the rock
hard wall. In the confusion,my helmet came off, Gasping with horror,

(20:30):
I watched it fall. It bouncedagainst some boulders dropped near the edge
of the pool and fell further downin a large cleft, until it was
only a tiny, distant speck oflight, lost in an notion of obscurity.
Once my eyes were accustomed to thedark, I looked up, hoping

(20:52):
to see the light of the surface. I had little notion of how long
I had spent in the moulon couldhave been night outside, or some clouds
could be blocking out the sun.I grabbed hold of the rope anchor.
There it was, I thought,sturdy and reassuring. I let my finger
run across the rope, a lifeline, a guide through the night,

(21:17):
with a strength I didn't know Ihad. I thrust my axes in the
ice and began carving my way up. Soon my whole body was sore,
but I found that I had moreendurance than I could ever imagine. I
carried on, determined to reach thesurface at any cost. The thought of
the outside spurred me. I couldalmost feel the warmth of the sun and

(21:41):
the kiss of a light breeze onmy skin. The muscles in my forearms
seized up. When I reached thenext anchor, only two more to go.
Two more anchors, and I wouldbreathe fresh air. No time to
rest, I climbed further up.I couldn't feel my hands and feet.

(22:02):
The tip of my nose seemed aboutto fall off. No matter, there
would be people looking for me helicopters, even if I only could make it
to the surface. I got tothe third anchor, exhausted and shivering,
almost there only one more. Whowas I kidding? The only thing that

(22:23):
was waiting for me outside was acold, lonely death. But it didn't
matter to me. All I wantedwas to emerge from this crevass, to
see the moon and stars, tofeel the earth beneath my feet. The
walls seemed to enclose as I slitheredmy way up the shaft like a cockroach,
hardly paying attention to the cold andthe dark anymore. From time to

(22:48):
time, a low rumble came fromthe moulon's entrails, like a distant thunderclap.
I closed my ears and pressed on, anxious to escape from the horrors
lurking in the depths far below.The shaft seemed to grow tighter and tighter.
Out of breath, I kept clawingmy way up as quickly as I

(23:10):
could, in my hurry, Ipassed two more anchors without stopping number nine
perhaps or was it number ten?All I needed to do was to hold
on and climb further up below me. The abyss beckoned. I refused to
listen and tightened my precarious grip aroundthe rope. Thank you for listening to

(23:52):
episode number twelve zero two. Today'sauthor was Vincent Robert Nicowed with his tale
It Stares Back at You. Today'sstory was told by Graham Rowitt. I'm
Daniel Foytech and I've been your hosttoday. Our resident composer and executive producer
is Nico Vetes of We Talk ofDreams. Artwork for today's episode was created
by Greg Schaefer. Our producers areMeg Williams and Daniel Foytech. To find

(24:15):
out more about The Wicked Library andour other shows, visit the Wicked Library
dot com and Ninth Story dot com. If you'd like to help us continue
to bring you our collection of darktales, please consider supporting us on Patreon
at Patreon dot com forward slash WickedLibrary. You can also help us by
leaving a five star rating in shortreview in Apple Podcasts. These ratings and

(24:37):
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