WEBVTT

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Nice Story Studios Gain Story a Voice. Hi, this is Graham Rowett.

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Are you in the mood for something
scary? Well, you're in the right

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place. This is The Wicked Library. Warning. The Wicked Library is a

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horror fiction podcast rereaded for a mature
audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of

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pain, murder, violence, blood, betrayal, and inhumanity. Monsters win,

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people die, and hope is often
shattered. There is also beauty,

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heart, catharsis, and raw emotion. Fear may be deeply personal, but

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we all share it. If at
any time a story takes you to a

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place too dark, turn on the
lights, press pause, or press stop,

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and always remember that, unlike in
the real world, these nightmares and

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your participation in them, are under
your control. Welcome back to The Wicked

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Library. I'm Daniel Foytech, and
I thank you for listening. A sincere

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thank you to those of you who
are supporting the show. Without you,

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the show would not be possible.
If you're not yet supporting the show and

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you'd like to do so, you
can do that at Patreon dot com forward

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slash Wicked Library. All of our
supporters get early access to episodes ad free

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shows and more. Today we present
the last of our three special episodes for

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Halloween, featuring stories by Pippa Bailey, Lee Andrew Foreman, Brianna Morgan,

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and Mike Pilgrim. This year for
Halloween, I wanted to recreate that special

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experience of sitting around a campfire and
listening to spooky tales. So bundle up,

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gather around, and grab a cup
of hot apple cider or something a

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little stronger. For Volume three of
Wicked Campfire Tales sh The Spoiler by Pipper

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Bailey. Whether you use a sack, bucket or a pillowcase, make sure

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you fill it to the brim,
for on Halloween you'll always need to spare

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some of your haul, for when
the Spoiler comes a creeping he might just

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ruin it all. The Spoiler an
ancient creature known by many names in many

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forms the world over. Some call
him rots, others decay, black mold,

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creeping up damp walls, or maggots
scavenging a corpse, sucking juice from

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the most succulent, desiccated eyeballs.
You'll hear him on the breeze, whistling

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in the winds of winter and the
blistering heat of summer. He is the

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sweat stains on the pants of a
hot dog devouring trucker, and your cousin's

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diaper blowout on your aunt's new dress. For now, he is the spoiler.

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His spinly oily fingers tug lightly at
the wrappers, making foil warp,

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paper burn, and candy a turn
all. Gray chocolate begins to weep and

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boil beneath his tender touch. Fetid
ooze once jelly choose in silvery papers turn

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to mush, So kiddies, fill
that bucket till it bursts for fear you'll

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lose it all, and make sure
to leave the spoiler a mound of treats

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from your festive hall. Lace it
at your doorway, beside your bin or

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gate. Keep fresh bars, bites
and morsels hidden out of sight. Every

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year the spoiler comes toe tapping around
your house thrice. He'll turn and thrice

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once more. As quiet as a
mouse, he knows the scent of sweets

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and treats. He can smell them
miles around. With his elongated coiled snow

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he SLINKs along the ground. You'll
never spot him coming as he drifts in

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on the breeze with spores and dirt
and all dead skin and other things that

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go unseen on Halloween this very year. Don't forget to spare some of your

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haul, for when the spoiler comes
a creeping, he might just ruin it

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all. The thinning veil by Lee
Andrew Foreman. I sit here with you

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this hallowey night, and all that
comes to mind is my poor Lily.

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She passed away nearly three years ago. An unkind accident took her from this

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world and tucked her broken body neatly
below the soil. Now it lies unseen

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and decay. Time its only companion. But her spirit is something time can't

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seem to grasp. She isn't gone, she isn't in heaven or hell.

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Lily is right here with me.
It isn't some comforting belief I've conjured that

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brings me to this conclusion. No, it's the nightly presence of her.

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The routine visits every night since her
death. She's come to me, and

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on each of these nights, she's
pulled me closer to her and further from

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my own body. The first time
I saw her spectral form, tears welled

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in my eyes and spilled forth in
her honor. I was overjoyed to see

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my lily, to know that existence
didn't end with bodily death, that her

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essence lived on My lily wasn't gone. But that jovial moment was soon obscured

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by the darkness that eventually covers all
things. Her misty form hovered before me,

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and discomfort spread over my body.
First it was only a tingling sensation.

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Then I felt the pull, as
if something inside were trying to break

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free, as if within me there
were a thousand tiny magnets, each one

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tugging my flesh with its desire to
join whatever force she carried. Just when

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the feeling became unbearable, she missed
it away, like the smoke from a

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stubbed cigarette. I didn't sleep the
rest of that night, only pondered what

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happened. After a day of musing, my heart raced at the thought of

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seeing her again. I wondered whether
she would return. I feared that first

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visit might have been her last good
bye before taking the journey to wherever the

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next place might be. If only
I were so lucky. She came back

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the next night, and like the
first time, excitement filled my veins with

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hot blood. The rush of seeing
my beloved once again elated me to the

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point of nearly bursting. She glided
over to me, her smoky eyes stared

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into mine, and again I felt
the pull. This time it was harder,

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stronger, thought my torso would burst
and my soul would escape into her

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arms. But again before I succumbed
to that mighty drawing power, she left

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me alone in the dark with only
my thoughts. This has happened every night

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since her death. Each time it's
more painful. I know she'll come again

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tonight, just like she always does, and she'll pull me toward her.

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They say the veil is thinnest on
Halloween, and it's a full moon.

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My will has grown frail, my
body weak. The want to let her

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take me grows with each visit Without
her, I feel empty, despite my

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fear, I want this. Even
as I tell you this tale, I

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wonder if it will be my last. That tonight she may pluck the soul

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from my moral body, and I'll
join her wherever we may go. From

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the water by Brianna Morgan, the
water flashes silver. That's how I know

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it's time. I pull hard on
the rod, due turning over and over

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itself as I draw in my catch. The line squeals and protests. I

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don't let up, Daddy, Brett
says, I know. I tell him.

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Another few minutes of sweat and straining
muscles brings the fish on board.

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I hold it in my hands,
a wet, shiny thing, and marvel

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at the effort it took to capture
such a tiny creature. Brett leans over

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my shoulder. He smells like sunscreen. Can I see it? He wants

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to hold it, just like always
last time. I didn't let him.

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A pang of regret eclipses my train
of thought, and I pass the wriggling

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fish to him without another word.
It falls through his hand and lands with

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a smack against the deck. Brett
peers down at the fish. Its mouth

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opens and closes, like Brett's did
after I pulled them from the water.

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How can a whole year have passed? A lump rises in my throat.

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I find the strength to speak around
it. It's a little guy. We

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need to put him back. I
want to keep him, Daddy, I

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know, but you can't. You
have to. We need to let go.

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Brett twists his head towards me.
I can see through him, but

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his eyes are as piercing as ever. They haunt me. I wish he'd

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stop hunting me. Why'd you come
back here? Brett asks, you'll understand

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when you're a father. I don't
reply. It stings. He'll never be

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a father, He'll never learn to
shave, never take a girl to prom

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never learn to drive. The water
took that away from him, away from

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me. I look past Brett to
the glow of the sun peeking on the

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horizon. Dawn spreads pink fingers across
the sky, washing everything in a warm

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hue. I reach out to touch
Brett in my hand, goes right through

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him, just like the fish.
Another wave of guilt rolls over me.

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If only I hadn't been drinking that
day, if only I'd put a life

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jacket on him. I came back
for you, I say, I'll always

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come back for you, buddy.
Tears distort my vision. Brett's form fuzzes

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at the edges like smeared ink.
We're running out of time. I kneel

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and scoop the fish into my hand
again. It's breathing as shallow. It

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doesn't have long Let go, Brett
says, he makes it sound so easy.

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I blink hard against another swell of
tears. The fish's scales are cool

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on my skin. Before I can
second guess myself, I stand and tip

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the fish from my hand into the
water with a splash and another flash of

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silver. It's gone like it never
existed. When I turn, so is

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Brett. I won't pull him from
the water anymore. Observations concerning the Thing

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that most definitely is not a cat
by Mock Pilgrim. The thing is not

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a cat, not really, not
at all. It may present the feline

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shape in the most convincing manner,
masterfully mimicking this slinking ambulation, even the

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twitching tail, but those elements are
nothing but camouflage, exceptionally executed camouflage,

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but camouflage. Nevertheless, its tongue
is as black as the devil's sphincter,

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and if you were to come under
the sway of such a beast, you

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wouldn't know what had befallen you,
not until it was far too late.

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It has no fur, which by
cat standards, is not entirely uncommon,

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but just uncommon enough to make the
creature notable. They spoilt, a color

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not unlike that of raw chicken flesh. They are also always and without exception

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male, but that doesn't inconvenience their
reproductive cycle as much as the interested observer

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might imagine. And no, they
very much do not reproduce asexually, which

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is not the problem that one might
imagine. The thing doesn't eat cat food,

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which also is not an uncommon thing
for the common house cat. Many

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normal cat owners are more than comfortable
with spending the minister sum of money they

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have left in the world on food
for their captive psychopath to tip out onto

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the floor. Just like regular cats. The thing will shit in a box,

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which may sound like a positive attribute, but really it puts them out

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in the open to ensure that you, its chosen surrogate, will be more

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inclined to do your part. They
have but two purposes on this plane.

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The first is to shit, the
second is to breed, and you are

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untwined in both of these processes.
The rank, black flecked turds are anything

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but what they seem to be.
They give off for steady aura of intoxicating

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hormones, which are specifically designed to
draw the attention of the human subconscious.

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It won't be long before you awake
mid te to discover the previously folded a

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box is now entirely bereffed of feces, and the only thing worse than the

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rank, oily taste in your mouth
is the gritty texture of the brown chunks

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stuck in your teeth. Sometime not
long after, often as soon as a

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few hours later, the kittens will
arrive seemingly from nowhere, but be assured

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they haven't. They came slithering up
your gullet out into the world while you

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slept, And as with every part
of this process, the tiny babies are

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designed to be the cutest thing your
wee. The human senses have ever encountered.

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Every single thing about them, from
the tiny little fingers on their jellybean

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paws, to the scent that comes
off their bodies to the saccharine peep noise

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as they make. Is evolved to
draw you in and keep you close.

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There is no other current in nature
that triggers such a torrential flood of serotonin

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and dopamine in the human brain.
Not finding true love, not winning the

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World Cup, not even the birth
of one's children comes close to this level

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of emotional impact. Prompted by the
steady chemical release and supervised by the father

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cat, the foster human will birth
up to twelve kittens over the next few

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days, then spend their every waking
moment blissfully caring for and protecting the little

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parasites from any in all threats.
Sometimes, the cognitive dissonance of warring chemicals

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within their subconscious forces people towards suicide. This situation is, of course understandable

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for the long term, so once
the kittens have grown large enough to feed

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properly, they will devour their carer
fighting wildly over the cartilage tips of the

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bones. Thank you for listening to
episode number twelve oh seven. Today's authors

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were Pippa Bailey, Leandrew Foreman,
Brionna Morgan, and Mike Pilgrim. Today's

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stories were told by Daniel fuy Tech. That's me and it's been my pleasure

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to be your host today. Our
resident composer and executive producer is Nikovites at

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the Inky Pop Print. Artwork for
today's episode was created by Greg Schaefer.

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Our producers are Meg Williams and Daniel
Foytek. To find out more about The

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Wicked Library and other Ninth Story Studio
shows, visit the Wickedlibrary dot com and

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Ninth Story dot com. If you'd
like to hear your own story on the

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Wicked Library. Submissions are now open. Check our website for more details and

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requirements. To help keep this collection
of dark tales coming, please support the

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Wicked Library on Patreon at patreon dot
com forward slash Wicked Library. You can

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00:22:38.039 --> 00:22:42.440
also help by leaving a five star
rating and short review in Apple Podcasts that

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helps others find the show. The
Wicked Library is created by Ninth Story Studios

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LLC. All rights reserved at ATT