WEBVTT

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Bright Story Studios Gain Story a Voice. I'm David Olt and you're listening to

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

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for a mature audience. Our stories
contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder,

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

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

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

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

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turn on 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,

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are under your control. Welcome back
to the Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytek,

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and I thank you for listening.
Before we get started today, just

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

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your support, this show would not
be possible. If you're not yet supporting

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the show and you'd like to do
so, you can do that at patreon

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dot com forward slash Wicked Library.
Today we present the second of three special

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episodes for Halloween. Today's episode features
stories by l B Waltz, Christopher Long

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and mel Continuing our theme, these
tales are told in the style of sitting

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around a campfire and listening to spooky
tales. So bundle up, gather around

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the fire, and sit back with
some hot apple cider or something a little

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stronger for volume two of Wicked Campfire
Tales, and check back tomorrow Halloween for

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a volume three, kindling by Christopher
Long. Some folks don't do so well

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out here on their own. That's
what the park ranger had said to me

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when he'd seen me pull up.
I'd tried telling him this wasn't my first

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time, whilst making a point of
showing him all the kit i'd brought along.

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It's not cheap stuff, and I've
used it plenty of times before.

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But did that impress the old boy? No, it did not. Not

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even my tent over there, and
let me tell you that tent can survive

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storms. I guess he wasn't to
know. Camping's in my blood. I

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get it from my dad. We'd
go camping together when I was growing up.

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It was our little escape. We'd
sit around a fire and he'd tell

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me stories, stories about things like
you. Now that I think about it,

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we'd get a lot of stupid deaths
up in the hills. That Ranger

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had said obviously convinced I wasn't listening. Some people must just forget how to

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survive the night. He'd made it
sound like he'd find some burnt body sprawled

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in the ashes of their own fire
and have himself a good chuckle. Now

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I have to wonder if he ever
dreamt those people might have encountered something like

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you out here. And more importantly, I want to know how many stories

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those other hikers told you before they
realized they were never getting home. Of

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course, that Ranger's warnings didn't stop
me. I got my gear on and

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started walking, telling myself I'd be
fine once I got moving, But I

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was far from fine. I was
jumpy. It didn't help that I never

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saw another soul out on the trail
to distract me. I even got a

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little scared of the sound of my
own footsteps. Once I was deep amongst

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the trees up here, they echo
everything back at you. That's probably why

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I called it a day earlier than
i'd planned. You must have seen how

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easily I got this fire going.
I set it right in the middle of

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these old stones where it looks like
a few other campers had lit their fires

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before me. Ah, maybe that's
where I went wrong, because I lit

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that fire and there you were sitting
beside it, like you'd been waiting for

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me. At first, I thought
you were just a trick of the light.

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I was pretty tired, and you
stayed so quiet. You didn't whisper

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until you caught me looking at you. You didn't speak until the first time

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you knew. I'd seen you clearly, and I swear I did my best

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to ignore you. I tried telling
myself you were just one of my dad's

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old stories rattling around my head.
Only you started asking me questions, and

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even though I knew deep down not
to answer you, I also knew I

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could only resist for so long.
I guess your sort depends on that.

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You started demanding your stories from me
not long after I told you my name.

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That must be how it works.
You've been drawing them out of me

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ever since. How long has it
been. I'm sure I've not seen the

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sun rise yet, but it can't
be the same night this all started.

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We've been out here for days,
haven't we. I know I'm losing my

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voice, and I know I'm running
out of stories. I don't want to

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think about what's going to happen when
the fire dies out, or how that

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old park ranger is going to find
my body when the sun finally does come

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up again. The Coffin by L. B. Waltz. The question came

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in that silence between one collision and
the next acts against trunk, trunk against

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ground, heart against ribs. What
are you doing? I yeled, swore

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too, though the bow's final groans
did well to mask that. With twigs

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shattering like fingers beneath my feet,
I spun around, and there was a

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child. To say I was alarmed
would be to undermine both how perilously close

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this little one was to the yoak
and the spontaneity with which they manifested.

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A dozen half formed reprimands caught in
my teeth before I managed to hiss.

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You might have been crushed, you
full said, full blinked. They had

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odd eyes, pale eyes paler than
pale, the color of the ghost that

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sprouted from unearthed roots. The gash
that was their mouth wilted into a frown.

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What are you doing? They demanded
again. Their voice was youthfully androgynous,

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and although I squinted. Neither did
their form nor their features hint at

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a gender. I took a breath, gathered my thoughts, my patience,

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and my axe. Are you lost, i asked, I'm exactly where I

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should be. The child insisted.
With one spindly finger, they traced the

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oak's exposed rings. Why did you
cut down that tree need of lumber?

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I sighed, I've been hired to
make a coffin. A coffin. The

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word was repeated slowly, and that
way the forest echoes all manner of hidden

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carnage. Crows shrieked in the distance. What is a coffin, Well,

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it's a vessel, I explained,
thinking the child to be younger than previously

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assumed. Coffins house the dead.
Only those who are properly buried can find

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peace in God's kingdom. The child
turned this idea over in the same way

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they did a leaf two leafs rustling
through the toppled oaks foliage, They mused,

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So you murder the living to appease
the dead and call it justified.

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The accusation saw me falter. I'd
never considered my work in such terms before.

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Ours is a good Christian village,
I told them a touch defensive.

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We know that unless a soul receives
the necessary rights, they're not eligible for

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salvation. Many things can be justified
if resurrection is at stake. I see,

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they said, small hands growing still, an acorn lay cradled in their

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palms. On that at least we
are agreed. And then the child was

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there, right there, nose to
nose with me. Their fungle eyes,

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bright, chin sticky with amber,
and cheeks scored with that. There were

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thirty thin rings around their white void
pupils answered a question I didn't realize I

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had. I was given time to
open my mouth, but not to scream.

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The moment my lips parted, a
fist shoved past them, dirt,

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bitter, rough, cold, ramming
a lump down my throats. That lump

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fell into my belly. Consciousness followed, and that's when you found me alone.

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It seems no child, nor any
evidence of one. Nothing but the

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trees there was. I fear,
never anything but the trees. I shouldn't

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fear them, the trees. I
mean, if anything, I should fear

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how much of the day I wasted
collapsed in the woods, and here in

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bed I can't be putting down roots
on this mattress. I need to get

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up. There are blueprints to finalize
laughs, to saw planks, to shape.

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Coffin. Building is a sacred task. I've always treated it as such.

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I have no intention of doing otherwise. Now, even with this pressure

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in my belly, this rootling squirm
doesn't Matteralvation is what matters. Resurrection is

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what matters. That requires a coffin. I will make a beautiful coffin.

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Slice the thread by Mel. I
was never superstitious, but I was always

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a good child, no matter how
absurd. You don't question your parents in

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a Korean household. Don't wear black
to weddings, don't eat the tips of

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chicken wings, cover your thumbs around
sand mimetaries. Never give a knife as

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a gift. One evening, I
sat across from my mom and finally asked

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her where the knife omen came from. Her body stilled, blade in hand

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against a ratish who was peeling it
cuts into the flesh as clean as a

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butcher, and so shallow. The
skin looked paper thin. Her eyes lifted

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and she laughed lightly, as if
this were tea time and I was being

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droll in old custom. She finally
spoke, too ominous to gift a knife

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to someone you love, you'll quarrel
with them forevermore. Her eyes tightened at

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my laugh. One day, your
doubt is going to get someone hurt.

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My mood soured. Did she have
to take this so seriously? There were

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hundreds of American superstitions that she never
adhered to, so why did I need

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to follow any I had a friend
who I cooked with weakly, meal prepping

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together, our way of still seeing
each other despite their hectic married life.

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I told myself I wasn't bitter,
that I wasn't angry when I saw the

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cuts on their fingers. Their spouse
too cheap to use the household funds to

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buy a proper knife. They got
a new wound daily when the cheap doll

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blades slipped and nicked their finger.
They explained, since it's dull, I

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never hurt myself too badly. I
was fed up enough so that as much

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as my family superstition clawed at my
gut, I ordered a good knife for

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their birthday. I bit my lip
as I watched for my friend's reaction and

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for some ancient god to smite me
for daring to disobey my parents in some

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contract. I had signed by being
born to uphold tradition, but it didn't

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happen. My friend was overjoyed.
They used it immediately, and the smile

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on their face was everything. That
and the fact that they weren't cutting themselves

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raw and doll blades anymore. I
felt so proud of my choice until it

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went wrong. What used to be
friendly texts about our interests turned to the

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snipes about how I always looked at
things in black and white. Friendly conversations

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soured into venting sessions where I either
had to listen on and on or join

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in and rub my emotions dry.
Our weekly sessions became a mockery of camaraderie.

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I could do nothing right. Our
mutual aggravation sharpened until I begged them

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to stop the snipes and the complaints, but they pressed harder until I had

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to look away and finally noticed it
a thread hanging loose above My eyes followed

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it up, and I saw a
red robed figure holding it like a rope

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or a noose, watching us.
He followed me everywhere I went, and

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I thought my mind was searching for
a gruesome way out, that my stress

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was telling me to end it all. I would end it, but not

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that way at home. I grabbed
my butcher's knife. I used it to

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hack at the thread in question,
keeping grim eye contact with the apparition.

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I thought it would take hours.
It took one single cleave, like cutting

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through air, as if the thread
had been fragile all this time, and

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I had just needed to push to
slice. The man disappeared, and the

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ends fell and sat heavy and worn
at my feet. I never heard from

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my friend again. Thank you for
listening to episode number twelve oh six.

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Today's authors were Christopher Long, lb
Waltz, and Mel Today's stories were told

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by David Alt and Daniel Foytek.
That's me. It's been my pleasure to

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be your host today, and we
hope you'll join us again tomorrow for part

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three. Our resident composer and executive
producer is Nikovitez at the Inky Pop Print.

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00:18:02.240 --> 00:18:06.079
Artwork for today's episode was created by
Greg Schaefer. Our producers are Meg

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00:18:06.119 --> 00:18:10.000
Williams and Daniel Foytek. To find
out more about The Wicked Library and other

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Ninth Story Studio shows, visit the
Wickedlibrary dot com and Ninth Story dot com,

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00:18:15.000 --> 00:18:18.000
and if you'd like to hear your
own story on the Wicked Library Submissions

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are now open. Check our website
at the Wickedlibrary dot com for more details

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

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leaving a five star rating and short
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