Nine Story Studios, King Story a Voice, Believe nothing you hear, and
only one half that you see. Edgar Allan Poe. This is Jessica macavoy
and you're listening to The Wicked Library. 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. Welcome back to The Wicked
Library. I'm Daniel Foytek, and I thank you for listening. A sincere
thank you to those of you who are supporting the show. Without you,
this show would not be possible. When you support the show, you can
choose between ad free episodes, early access to the stories, and at higher
levels of support you'll get premiere access to end Field Detective Agency currently in production.
That's right, Frank is back in to your ears soon. You can
support the show at Patreon dot com forward slash Wicked Library. Today we present
the first of three special episodes for Halloween, featuring stories by Mike Pilgrim,
Victoria C. Blackthorne, and Caitlin Marceau. There's something special about spooky tales
told around to campfire, So bundle up, gather around, and grab a
cup of hot apple cider or something a little stronger for Volume one of Wicked
Campfire Tales, and check back tomorrow for volume two. Sh The Devil and
Jack by Mike Pilgrim. Jack was a bastard, a real bastard, as
the story goes, an irishman of the old Country. He liked nothing better
than trickery, drinking, gambling, and all the things that follow trickery,
drinking and gambling, if you catch my meaning. On the day of Jack's
appointed death, the Devil came to the bar to collect the soul rightly owed
him. Thinking quickly, Jack asked if he could at least finish his drink
before being dragged off to hell for all eternity. Scratch, being a fellow
of good humor, obliged him for as we all know, forever is a
very very long time. Indeed, they spoke while they drank, until at
last the Irishman began to question the validity of the Devil's power. Jack dared
the devil goaded him to prove his might by transforming into a silver coin Satan,
being a creature of considerable pride and never one to be belittled by a
mortal, instantly shifted form, Jack watched the shining devil coin as it spun
on the counter. Then, before it even had a chance to fall flat,
he snatched it up in a scarred hand. He smirked at the cross
shaped scar which held the angel locked within his grasp, and then he ordered
another drink as he mocked the devil's stupidity, then another and another. After
a time, Lucifer agreed to give Jack another year of life in exchange for
his freedom, He would return to collect Jack's soul the following Halloween. Jack
squandered his year, swearing he would repent his evils only on his deathbed and
outwit the devil one final time. When Lucifer returned, Jack challenged him to
a game of dice. The devil, who has never passed up the opportunity
to play dice very quickly took the game, even though the dice were of
Jack's own design, But a scratch loomed. To collect his winnings, Jack
threw the dice again. They yielded two threes and landed in such a way
as to make a tea cross on the table. The Christ sign crippled the
angel for a second time, forcing him to grant the conniving Irishman yet another
year of life. Cursing and bitter in his defeat, Satan vanished in a
cloud of sulfurous smoke. Jack was never the kind of man to waste an
opportunity. He lived hard that year, and gambled harder. He indulged himself
in any vice that would have him, and forced himself on those that would
not. Despite all his trickery, Jack dropped dead without warning in the seeping
blackness of the nether world. The devil was nowhere to be seen. Jack
was alone in the dark after a seeming eternity. Navigating his way through the
creeping dark of the Spirit Realm, Jack saw a light and followed it to
the gates of Paradise. No sooner had he arrived than the angel and attendant
showed him away that chased him back into the dark, poking at the dead
irishman with a flaming sword, Jack screamed in pain as he fled back into
the shadows. Every step in the swirling pitch unsettling and yet more blackness.
The creatures that dwelled within the shades followed him, hungry and silent. Jack
heard the weeping and wailing long before he saw the infernal gates. Lucifer smiled,
a smile such as Jack had never seen, as he too, refused
him entry. Jack cried, but he had no tears. He shrieked,
and he begged, although it did nothing to slow the heavy darkness, which
was fast closing in around him. Hungrily, what will I do? How
can I see? Please, my Lord morning Stock, please help me,
please, please please. Bored with all the begging, the dark angel threw
a burning coal at him. Taken by surprise, Jack caught it in both
hands. The ember hissed. It seared away the flesh of his fingers and
burnt through bone before it crashed onto the ground. Lucifer laughed as Jack writhed
and cursed him. Things circling in the dark also issued coughing chuckles, which
echoed like snapping bone. Eventually, Satan tired of the spectacle and withdrew back
to his charge of the circles beyond the gates. The things in the dark
again drew silent. Jack's eyes could not see them scuttling all around him,
but he felt their gaze. Unable to cry, Jack scrambled blindly through the
thick shadows for the longest time. His aching fingers eventually found something round growing
in the dirts. He knew it by smell. Shattering a fingertip, he
used the freshly sheared bone to hallow the turnipout. Jack carved the holes of
a face into its flesh so he would not feel so alone that he tipped
the damned coal inside. Jack has wandered the dark space between ever since,
with a throat that cannot drink, a belly that cannot eat, and lips
that cannot kiss, although it has never stopped him from trying for love of
the dark ones. By Victorious Blackthorn. On a cold fall night, deep
in the woods of the ancient Appellachians, as the mountains swallowed the sun and
blackness bled through the trees, an old man with tattered clothes and time worn
eyes, stumbled into a camp of hunters. He told them he was not
from these parts and had become disoriented by how early the sun sets in those
mountains, losing his way back to his camp. The hunters nodded, understanding,
and invited the stranger to join them by their campfire, and poured him
some coffee and whisky to help ward off the cold. As he sat sipping
his drink, warming his hands, he thanked them and offered to tell them
a story that would send shivers down their spines in exchange for their hospitality.
So the old man, once warmed by the fire the rich coffee and good
whisky, began to weave his eerie tail, his voice a raspy whisper that
seemed to echo through the woods. Eons ago, he began these woods,
this very land. It was a different place, my friends. Dark force
is ancient and malevolent, lurked just beyond the veil of reality, waiting for
an opportunity to cross over. In those days, this place sat at the
threshold between one reality and another. That other, darker reality was sown from
the fabric of the original dark Cosmos. Before what you see around you had
been fashioned into existence. That older original reality, being a place of endless
shadows and darkness, can only bleed through the veil into this world when the
sun is hidden beyond the ridge of those ancient mountains. The hunters exchanged anxious
looks and leaned in closer with anticipation, as the old man's voice cantinued to
carry the tail you see back then, I was not the man you see
before you. I was something else, something quite beyond your comprehension. I
practiced at fashioning things from the dark threads of the universe. Like any new
craftsman, I faltered and failed more times than I succeeded. The things I
wove and wrought from the ether had a great hunger. They were malevolent and
thrilled at creating terror and chaos. Undeterred, I worked on new patterns.
I created many things, marvelous and terrible, but they all hungered, and
nothing I forged from darkness could sate their terrible desires. Many, many trials
later, I found a way to crush the darkness to a point so dense
that it created something new. Light. The old Man's eyes glistened in the
firelight as he continued. Reflected flames danced unnaturally across their surface. But I
did not create the universe out of benevolence. It was a twisted design,
the cosmic experiment, designed to feed the insatiable hunger of entities that I had
created Before the birth of this universe. My creatures thrived on devouring light,
the essence of life, and I had crafted a cruel and endless buffet for
them. As he spoke, the woods around them seemed to transform, the
moonlight dimming and the air growing heavy with an unnatural chill that the fire couldn't
vanish. Shadows deepened, and the atmosphere became suffused with a palpable sense of
dread. It was as if a dark portal had opened to a world beyond,
and the very fabric of reality began to unravel. The old man's voice
carried on an unsettling mixture of regrets and malevolence. My creation was a perfect
prison. You see, life in all its forms was the offering to these
ancient beings, a never ending feast, and they have feasted on the essence
of life since time immemorial. The campfire's glowed dimmed further, and a sinister
presence seemed to loom just beyond the firelight. The old Man's gaze bore into
the hunters as he revealed the most chilling truth of all tonight, in these
very woods, you are the offering. With a horrific hiss, the dark
entities emerged from the shadows, their grotesque forms twisting the very fabric of our
reality as it strained to contain them within our three dimensions. Bony fingers stretched
out, and they descended upon the hunters. The air was filled with the
hunter's anguished cries as their life forces were extinguished, their souls devoured by the
very forces that the old Man had created. The old Man rose from his
seat and fear finish the last of his whisky, a sinister, malevolent grin
on his face. His mission was complete, and for a while at least,
this sacrificial offering to his first children had sated their appetite. As the
old Man walked into the luminal space between our reality and the vast darkness,
the creatures followed, retreating to the other side of the portal, leaving no
trace of the hunters behind. The woods return to their normal state, as
if nothing had ever happened. But sometime soon, around another campfire, an
old man will come forth, seeking warm coffee, good whisky, and bringing
with him a tale of dark things that wait closer to that exceedingly thin veil
than you think. It has a way of messing with you too. By
Caitlin Marceau. I remember the end of August in ninety seven like it happened
just yesterday, even though it's been more than twenty years since it came and
went. The sun was hot, but the wind was cool, the final
days of summer bleeding into the first days of fall. I could feel her
eyes on the back of my head as I dragged my pocket knife across the
top rail of the back porch, severing one of the spider's spindly legs from
its inky black body. As I waited for my dad to get home from
the factory. You should leave it alone, she told me sternly. When
you mess with nature, it has a way of messing with you two.
I waved her off with a hand and dragged the pen knife back across the
spider's path, slicing off another one of its legs in the process. I
watched its struggle to get away, its progress slow and unsteady before stabbing the
metal tip of my small weapon through its body, pinning it to the wooden
banister like a butterfly to a corkboard. I didn't know it at the time,
but I had anchored myself to that moment too. The rest of the
night passed uneventfully. My dad came home from work, We ate dinner as
a family, and I watched reruns of sitcoms in my pajamas. Once my
eyes started closing on their own volition, my parents sent me to bed,
and I was eager to obey. As I stared up, my eyelids getting
heavy, I saw it scuttle across my ceiling, a spider. I jumped
out of bed and called for my dad to get it, worried that it
was going to decide to jump in my hair or crawl in my mouth.
He grumbled all the way upstairs and complained even louder when, after he turned
the lights on, neither of us could find the bug. Eventually, he
made his way back down to the living room, and I tried to fall
asleep, convinced that it had been my imagination. As soon as my head
hit the pillow, the spider was back, only this time the eract and
was hanging several inches above my face. I realized with a start that it
was missing several of its legs. I bellowed for my dad, terrified the
force of my breath would be enough to knock it off its web and onto
me, but it clung to the thin strip of white as it watched me.
My dad barged in and threw the lights on, not hiding his annoyance
at missing the opening monolog from his favorite late night TV host. He loomed
over me, frowning as I white knuckled the bed frame. Get it,
I begged, Get what he asked. I gestured to the spider hanging in
front of my face, but he just shook his head. There's nothing there,
kiddo. Now go to bed. But Dad, it's right if you
see it again, take care of it yourself. He headed back to my
mother in the living room, turning off the lights as he left. The
second he was gone, the spider continued its descent. I swatted at the
bug, but my hands just passed through it as it journeyed towards me.
I could feel its ice cold legs on my flushed skin, but I couldn't
touch it. As I screamed and cried, I noticed them, a hundred
black dots crawling across my ceiling. I threw the covers off and slammed on
the light, not understanding how the rays of the fluorescent bulb passed through the
translucent bodies of a million tiny spiders that weren't really there. I stayed awake
all through the night, waiting for the swarm to go away. But they
never did, not that night, or the one after, or the one
after that. Even now, I can see them the campfire, casting shadows
on their bodies on the trees around me. I can feel them, their
wispy legs against my skin as they writhe and wiggle under the collar of my
shirt, their bodies crunching underfoot when I walk, and getting caught between my
teeth when I eat. Not that anyone ever notices them but me. I
wish i'd listened to my mom. I wish I'd known that when you mess
with nature, it has a way of messing with you too. Thank you
for listening to episode number twelve oh five. Today's authors were Mike Pilgrim,
Victoria C. Blackthorne, and Caitlin Marceau. Today's stories We're told by Daniel
Fluytec. That's me and it's been my pleasure to be your host today.
Our resident composer and executive producer is Niko Vitees at the Inky Pop Print.
Artwork for today's episode was created by Greg Schaeffer. Our producers are Meg Williams
and Daniel Floytech. To find out more about The Wicked Library and other Ninth
Story Studio shows, visit the Wickedlibrary dot com and ninth Story dot com.
If you'd like to hear your own story on The Wicked Library, submissions are
open. Check out our website for more details on recar requirements. To help
keep this collection of dark tales coming, please support The Wicked Library on Patreon
at Patreon dot com forward slash Wicked Library. You can also help by leaving
a five star rating and short review in Apple Podcasts. The Wicked Library is
created by Ninth Story Studios LLC. All rights reserved.