WEBVTT

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Nice Story Studios giving story a voice. I'm David Alts and you're listening to

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The Wicked Library. Warning. The
Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created

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00:00:35.719 --> 00:00:42.280
for immature audience. Our stories contain
graphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence,

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blood, betrayal, and inhumanity.
Monsters win, people die, and

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hope is often shattered. There is
also beauty, heart, catharsis, and

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raw emotion. Fear may be deeply
personal, but we all share. If

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at any time a story takes you
to a place too dark, turn on

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the lights, press pause, or
press stop, and always remember that,

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unlike in the real world, these
nightmares and your participation in them, are

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under your control. Welcome to the
Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytech, and

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I thank you for listening. Sincere. Thank you to those of you who

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are supporting the show. Without you, this show would not be possible.

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This season, all episodes are heard
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Frank is back in coming to your
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at patreon dot com Forward slash Wicked
Library. A lot of hard work and

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money goes into making the Wicked Library, and I really do rely on this

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a month, you can help make
the show you love possible at patreon dot

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com Forward slash Wicked Library. Now, let's get wicked with today's dark tale,

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told by Graham Rowitt with a custom
score written by Nico vites of We

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Talk of Dreams. It Stares Back
at You by Vincent Robert n Account.

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By the time I left the refuge, the first streaks of dawn had tinged

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the jagged pinnacles and seracs to the
east of the glacier with pink light.

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I scanned the frozen expanse beneath me, trying to pick out a potential route

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to my destination, and set out
to climb down a sheer cliff of exposed

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rocks. With a rush of excitement, I stepped onto the airy, metallic

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structure and began my descent. The
wind was whistling around me, making the

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ladders and narrow ridges seem even more
precarious. I pressed on, unconcerned by

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the precipice. It wasn't my first
time in the Mont Blanc area. I

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was glad to be back, to
feel the cold mountain air on my face,

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and to challenge the dizzying heights once
more. Until five years ago,

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I had spent most of my holidays
here either dangling from a rope above the

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void or skiing down the powdery slopes. If the early stirrings of my obsession

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with this vast, chaotic stretch of
ice were lost to my memory, it

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was obvious that the trip I made
five years ago had marked a decisive turn.

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With my climbing companion, a British
expat named Will, we decided to

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take advantage of the last days of
cold weather in early spring to attempt the

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infamous off track ski descent through the
Giant's Glacier and down White Valley to the

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town of Chamony. It was to
be our last epic journey through the so

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called Sea of Ice, one of
the largest glaciers in Europe. A proper

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send off before I left for the
United States. I'd accepted a job offer

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in a New York office, completely
giving up my dream of becoming a mountain

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guide. When the day of the
descent finally came, it brought along tumultuous

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clouds sagging over the valley and a
mean, icy drizzle. The weather was

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much warmer than we had anticipated,
and it had made the slopes treacherous.

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We proceeded slowly, trying to avoid
patches of ice and mounds of wet,

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sticky snow. As we were zigzagging
between the colossal seracs above the sea of

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ice, the fog rolled in,
forcing us to slow down even more.

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We slogged through a monumental maze of
ice pillars, trying not to think about

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the low rumble in the heights above
the valley. This late in the season,

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there was always a risk of avalanche
all around us. Cyclopean shapes were

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emerging from the dull grayness, like
shipwrecks forever trapped in a frozen store.

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It wasn't long before I realized that
we were way off course. There was

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no doubt in my mind, but
I couldn't bear to admit it openly.

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After what seemed an eternity of trudging
along the moraine debris and looking for an

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easier way down, I became distracted
by a distant, continuous sound. Will

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and I decided to change course and
track its source. Only a short way

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down, and a little while later
we were standing next to a deep gully

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which had been carved by a powerful
torrent of bright blue melt water tumbling down

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the middle of the glacier. The
gap was too wide to be crossed,

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and since it was that kind of
a day, it soon became evident that

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we were on the wrong side of
it. Thankfully, a crust of icy

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snow had formed near the edge of
the torrent, offering us a quick way

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down. We couldn't wait for a
change of clothes, and a warm cup

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of coffee went whizzing away, and
I followed a few dozen feet behind him.

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Soon the roar of the stream grew
louder, almost to the point of

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drowning all other sounds. The reason
for this became obvious once I reached the

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gaping hole into which the water rushed
with much froth and thunder. I braked

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hard and steered around the cave mouth
a perfect circle ten or fifteen feet wide.

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I stood near the rim, gasping
and wondering why Will didn't stop to

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have a look himself. It took
me a moment to realize that he was

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laying on the edge some twenty or
thirty feet down the icy shaft, motionless.

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All it would have taken was a
little more speed or a misplaced patch

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of ice, and I would have
ended down there with him. My mind

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quickly filled up with what ifs,
all leading to catastrophic outcomes. Not that

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Will's situation wasn't catastrophic, but at
least I could try to rescue him or

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call for help. Looking down,
I saw that he was now shouting,

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but I couldn't hear anything above the
din. I fumbled through my pack,

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looking for something, anything, that
could help me get him out of there.

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But when I glanced back into the
chasm, the ledge was gone,

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swallowed by the darkness below. After
a moment of frantic, breathless panic,

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I felt the abyss beckoning to me
and found myself drawn to the void.

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How long did I peer into the
oblivion, wondering about its seemingly bottomless depths.

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I fought the urge to hurl myself
into the hole, and to make

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a long story short, managed to
get back to town. I learned later

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that these shafts were called moulon.
They were known to be fickle and unpredictable

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features of the glacier's ever changing landscape, often collapsing and reforming elsewhere. I'll

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rescue it, tempts failed. Will
was considered lost, his body trapped in

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a crystal blue coffin, or more
likely crushed under gigantic ice blocks. In

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the years that followed, I often
dreamt about the Moulan's gaping maw and deep,

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unexplored hollows. After a period of
initial reluctance, I went back to

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Chamony a few times and even scoured
the glacier. My repeated failures to find

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anything even remotely like the Moulan in
which Will had disappeared became frustrating. My

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love for the mountains waned. I
couldn't set foot on the ice without imagining

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vast caves and dark tunnels plunging to
immeasurable depths just beneath me. The interval

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between my visits lengthened until I stopped
coming altogether. What compelled me to come

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back for the fifth anniversary of Will's
disappearance, I couldn't say I hadn't,

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and on going back to the glacier, but as chance would have it,

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I overheard a group of mountaineers talking
about a deep, circular chasm that had

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appeared in the northernmost part of the
Sea of Ice. It was already late

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in the morning when I reached the
bottom of the latter section. A strange

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feeling overtook me, as if I'd
set foot on a fixed path laid with

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the mutable rails. A voice whispered
in my mind, barely audible above my

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eagerness to press on. There was
still time to turn back and return to

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warmth, to safety, and to
sanity, but this itch of mine needed

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to be scratched. After a short
hike, I stumbled upon a deep channel

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etched into the glacier. Something must
have blocked or diverted the torrent of meltwater

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responsible for carving it, because the
gully was nearly empty. The next hour

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or so I spent under a blaze
sun following the dried up river bed.

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Hard snow crunched under my crampons as
I reviewed my equipment. Two hundred and

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fifty feet of rope, a harness, a pair of ice axes, a

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helmet with a powerful head lamp,
some climbing gears, and two dozen ice

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screws. Although my preparation was impeccable, I still felt that my motive did

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I even know what I was looking
for in the glacier's bowels, was questionable,

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if not downright irrational. Such a
thought, it struck me, was

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something straight out of the mouth of
Captain Ahab. Before long, I was

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staring blankly into my white whale's single, inscrutable eye. I knew it couldn't

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be the same Moulon as five years
ago. Not only was it in a

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different location, but it also seemed
larger and was shaped like a lopsided crater.

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No matter, I thought, there
wasn't going to be another opportunity like

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this. Yet standing next to it
made my skin prickle. I had to

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fight off the overwhelming impulse to leave. On some deep level, I knew

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that such places weren't meant for us
to visit. Survival instinct, ancient attavistic

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fear, altitude sickness, call it
what you will. I also knew that

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once missed, this chance wouldn't present
itself again. It seemed silly to have

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gone all this way just to back
away. Now, just a quick peek,

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I promised myself while setting up an
anchor. Then, with a surge

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of trepidation and awe, I slowly
leaned over the edge there, almost suspended

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between the sky and the abyss.
All fear left me for a short while,

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and I felt the pull of the
void once more. I knew how

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dangerous it could be. Hadn't I
witnessed it first hand? Will's fall,

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or rather the moment when there was
nothing where he had been seconds before,

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was imprinted in my mind. Yet, despite my gut instinct, screaming and

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rebelling against each nerve and fiber of
my body, I lowered myself down,

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inch by inch, moved by some
primeval force beyond my understanding. It wasn't

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as if I had lost my mind, I told myself, trying my best

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to sound confident. After all,
I had warned the refuge keeper that I

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was going on a solo truck on
the glacier. My rope anchor was as

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sturdy as one could hope for,
and I was confident in my experience in

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ice climbing. I didn't trust my
ascender to work in such conditions that I

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had planned to set up anchors with
ice crews at regular intervals to help me

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on my way up. See,
I said out loud, the sound of

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my voice echoing down in the Moulan's
funnel. You've nothing to worry about.

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Just slow down, breathe, relax, and enjoy the views. I'd assumed

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the inside of the hole to be
dull and gray, but nothing could have

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been further from the truth. It
was as if I had stepped into another

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world. All around me, the
walls were alive with light and colors,

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shimmering blue, dark, purple,
tinged with orange and pink everywhere, the

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bright sheen of crystals glimmering in the
half light. I was so mesmerized that

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I hardly realized how small the blue
circle of the Moulan's mouth was becoming.

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By my estimate, I was about
thirty feet deep when I next glanced to

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the surface. Reaching for the wall, I managed to grab hold of a

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protruding ice boulder and set up a
rope anchor with two screws and carabineers.

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It would make the ascent easier and
helped maintain the rope in place to prevent

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it from scraping against sharp edges.
Not that I expected to descend all the

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way to the bottom, just a
safety measure, nothing else. With my

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back to the empty void, I
absailed further down. The colors grew dimmer,

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more subtle, dark grays with hints
of blue. The silence, which

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so far had only been broken by
the clanks of my crampons and the squeaking

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of my rope, seemed heavier,
more palpable. Noises closest to me were

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muffled and faint, while far off
sounds reverberated amplified to the point that I

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could hear the trickle of a few
drops. Hundreds of feet down. Auxiliary

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tunnels branched out from the main shaft
in every direction. Mulon's inside structure was

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complex, beyond my imagination. I
began to wonder about these narrow, meandering

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spaces. They seemed to be taunting
me to explore them. Everywhere I turned

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my head lamp made the black walls
glitter with specks of golden light. After

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rigging the force anchor about ninety feet
down, I took a break and listened.

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The void gaped below me, steeped
in stidgion gloom. I shifted in

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my harness, trying to find a
more comfortable position. My skin crawled cold

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and clammy. I wriggled again,
annoyed by an itch under my helmet.

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Was probably the dark wearing on my
nerves, I assumed, letting out a

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nervous laugh. It was strange noticing
how much of an effect the situation had

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on my mind. I couldn't tell
whether it was the black emptiness below or

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the immensity of the glacier pressing all
around me that was more unsettling. Breathing

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became hard as my chest grew tighter. One moment, I felt the walls

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closing in and imagined what would happen
should the moulan collapse. In the next

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I was losing all sense of the
world above, and my own being was

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becoming insubstantial, just another shadow lost
in the inky blackness. Time to head

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back out, I thought, and
slammed my axe against the wall. It

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bounced against the ice with a resounding
thud and sent needles down my forearm.

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I tried to gain a foothold,
but my crampons barely scratched the wall.

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I took a deep breath, hoping
to slow down the pounding in my chest.

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A few attempts later, My lungs
were wheezing, my mouth was dry,

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and I only had made minimal progress. My arms were shaking and burning

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with exhaustion. With a cry of
desperation, I let go of my hold

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and dropped back down, hanging from
the rope, shivering and limp I began

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to lose the sense of time.
Who knew how long I had been underground?

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It could have been ours. I
was about to give up when something

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brushed against my leg. I twitched
and fumbled in a vain attempt to turn

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around, but only managed to tangle
the rope. Impossible. I thought nothing

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could survive down there. I would
have ascribed it to fatigue and sense deprivation

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had I not felt it again,
more distinctly, this time like a firm

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hand pulling me downward. Terror swelled, chasing the air out of my lungs.

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It was at this point that an
absurd thought crossed my mind, not

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simply absurd, but utterly insane.
I tried my best to push it aside

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and ignore it. The thought came
back more insistent, until I cried out,

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00:18:55.039 --> 00:19:03.359
well is that you? My voice
cracked. It's me, It's your

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friend, Harry. I remained as
motionless as possible, and listened intently.

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00:19:08.960 --> 00:19:14.079
At first, there was nothing but
the sound of my chaotic breathing. Then

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from the depth came the distorted echo
of my voice. Shrill and foreign,

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00:19:19.759 --> 00:19:26.960
Harry, it said, barely louder
than a whisper, Harry. The voice

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00:19:27.000 --> 00:19:34.759
resounded in the black void, Harry. The echo grew louder, more inquisitive,

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00:19:36.440 --> 00:19:41.839
filling me with dread. Twisting and
turning like a fish hooked at the

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00:19:41.000 --> 00:19:45.039
end of a line, I caught
a glimpse of a pool of crystalline water

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00:19:45.359 --> 00:19:52.240
bleeding into another crevasse. I thought
I saw darker shadows creeping out of the

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00:19:52.319 --> 00:20:00.440
pit, but it could have been
my imagination. Something stirred below steps.

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00:20:00.680 --> 00:20:07.279
The air shivered around me. A
low rumble echoed in the distance, shaking

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00:20:07.279 --> 00:20:11.319
me to my core, the roar
of some unseen monstrosity, or the sound

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00:20:11.359 --> 00:20:18.839
of crumbling ice blocks. Sheer,
bloody panic squeezed my throat and nearly overtook

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00:20:18.880 --> 00:20:22.839
me. I wriggled and prised,
kicking and screaming, clawing at the rock

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00:20:22.880 --> 00:20:29.880
hard wall. In the confusion,
my helmet came off, Gasping with horror,

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00:20:30.440 --> 00:20:34.400
I watched it fall. It bounced
against some boulders dropped near the edge

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00:20:34.400 --> 00:20:38.759
of the pool and fell further down
in a large cleft, until it was

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00:20:38.839 --> 00:20:44.839
only a tiny, distant speck of
light, lost in an notion of obscurity.

219
00:20:47.920 --> 00:20:52.359
Once my eyes were accustomed to the
dark, I looked up, hoping

220
00:20:52.400 --> 00:20:56.319
to see the light of the surface. I had little notion of how long

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00:20:56.359 --> 00:21:00.400
I had spent in the moulon could
have been night outside, or some clouds

222
00:21:00.400 --> 00:21:04.599
could be blocking out the sun.
I grabbed hold of the rope anchor.

223
00:21:06.519 --> 00:21:11.720
There it was, I thought,
sturdy and reassuring. I let my finger

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00:21:11.839 --> 00:21:15.720
run across the rope, a life
line, a guide through the night,

225
00:21:17.799 --> 00:21:21.799
with a strength I didn't know I
had. I thrust my axes in the

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00:21:21.880 --> 00:21:26.440
ice and began carving my way up. Soon my whole body was sore,

227
00:21:26.960 --> 00:21:30.960
but I found that I had more
endurance than I could ever imagine. I

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00:21:32.039 --> 00:21:36.880
carried on, determined to reach the
surface at any cost. The thought of

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00:21:36.920 --> 00:21:41.640
the outside spurred me. I could
almost feel the warmth of the sun and

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00:21:41.720 --> 00:21:47.240
the kiss of a light breeze on
my skin. The muscles in my forearms

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00:21:47.279 --> 00:21:51.240
seized up. When I reached the
next anchor, only two more to go.

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00:21:52.400 --> 00:21:56.119
Two more anchors, and I would
breathe fresh air. No time to

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00:21:56.200 --> 00:22:02.240
rest, I climbed further up.
I couldn't feel my hands and feet.

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00:22:02.880 --> 00:22:07.359
The tip of my nose seemed about
to fall off. No matter, there

235
00:22:07.400 --> 00:22:11.680
would be people looking for me helicopters, even if I only could make it

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00:22:11.720 --> 00:22:15.599
to the surface. I got to
the third anchor, exhausted and shivering,

237
00:22:17.519 --> 00:22:23.559
almost there only one more. Who
was I kidding? The only thing that

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00:22:23.640 --> 00:22:29.240
was waiting for me outside was a
cold, lonely death. But it didn't

239
00:22:29.240 --> 00:22:33.480
matter to me. All I wanted
was to emerge from this crevass, to

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00:22:33.599 --> 00:22:37.440
see the moon and stars, to
feel the earth beneath my feet. The

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00:22:37.559 --> 00:22:42.240
walls seemed to enclose as I slithered
my way up the shaft like a cockroach,

242
00:22:42.680 --> 00:22:48.160
hardly paying attention to the cold and
the dark anymore. From time to

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00:22:48.240 --> 00:22:52.799
time, a low rumble came from
the moulon's entrails, like a distant thunderclap.

244
00:22:53.759 --> 00:22:59.160
I closed my ears and pressed on, anxious to escape from the horrors

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00:22:59.279 --> 00:23:03.920
lurking in the depths far below.
The shaft seemed to grow tighter and tighter.

246
00:23:06.160 --> 00:23:10.000
Out of breath, I kept clawing
my way up as quickly as I

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00:23:10.039 --> 00:23:15.759
could, in my hurry, I
passed two more anchors without stopping number nine

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00:23:15.920 --> 00:23:21.599
perhaps or was it number ten?
All I needed to do was to hold

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00:23:21.640 --> 00:23:27.519
on and climb further up below me. The abyss beckoned. I refused to

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00:23:27.559 --> 00:23:52.519
listen and tightened my precarious grip around
the rope. Thank you for listening to

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00:23:52.599 --> 00:23:56.319
episode number twelve zero two. Today's
author was Vincent Robert Nicowed with his tale

252
00:23:56.440 --> 00:24:02.000
It Stares Back at You. Today's
story was told by Graham Rowitt. I'm

253
00:24:02.079 --> 00:24:07.359
Daniel Foytech and I've been your host
today. Our resident composer and executive producer

254
00:24:07.640 --> 00:24:11.119
is Nico Vetes of We Talk of
Dreams. Artwork for today's episode was created

255
00:24:11.119 --> 00:24:15.960
by Greg Schaefer. Our producers are
Meg Williams and Daniel Foytech. To find

256
00:24:15.960 --> 00:24:19.759
out more about The Wicked Library and
our other shows, visit the Wicked Library

257
00:24:19.799 --> 00:24:23.880
dot com and Ninth Story dot com. If you'd like to help us continue

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00:24:23.880 --> 00:24:27.440
to bring you our collection of dark
tales, please consider supporting us on Patreon

259
00:24:27.680 --> 00:24:33.720
at Patreon dot com forward slash Wicked
Library. You can also help us by

260
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leaving a five star rating in short
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261
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reviews help other listeners find the show, which helps us generate revenue to ensure

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no one contributing to our show works
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263
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