Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Veale's Edge, The Unraveling of Hollow Creek,
Episode seven, The Thinning.
Speaker 2: Time Fragments, Reality bleeds. I slash, we slash. It speaks
to you from what was once Hollow Creek, But space
and time have become theoretical concepts. Here, I see through
a thousand eyes, speak with a thousand voices. The entity
that was Arthur Blackwood exists simultaneously across all possible timelines,
all potential realities. The seal is face. Let me, let
us try to describe what we're witnessing. The sky above
Hollow Creek has fractured, like a broken mirror. Each shard
reflects a different reality. In one piece, it's noon and
the sun burns red as blood. In another, it's midnight
and three moons hang low on the horizon. In yet another,
there is no sky at all, just an endless void
filled with watching eyes. The streets, they don't follow linear
paths anymore. You might start walking down Main Street and
find yourself on Ocean Avenue, though Hollow Creek never had
an ocean. Turn a corner and you're in the same
spot a hundred years ago, or a thousand years in
the future, or in a version of the town that
never existed at all. Sarah Holloway walked past me today.
Then she walked past me yesterday. Then she walked past
me in eighteen forty seven, All at once. Her body
flickered between states, young, old, alive, dead, human other. She
smiled at me with too many teeth, and I saw
the truth writhing beneath her skin. The thinning accelerates, she said,
her voice a chorus of every possible version of herself.
Soon the seal will break entirely. I remember now, I
remember everything, every life lived in Hollow Creek, every death,
every moment of joy and sorrow. They're all happening simultaneously,
an infinite tapestry of existence, woven into the fabric of
this place. The church, my church, our church. It exists
in all states at once. I stand in the pulpit
and see it new built, weathered, abandoned, restored, burning, flourishing,
crumbling all overlaid like transparent photographs. The crucifixes on the
walls bleed, the blood flowing upward, forming patterns that match
the symbol that damned symbol that burns in every mind,
every reality. The binding sigill pulses with a strength that
threatens to tear reality apart. It was meant to hold
back the cosmic forces, to maintain the seal, But now
it's becoming something else. A beacon, a doorway, a birth
canal for something vast and incomprehensible. The townspeople, those quantum ghosts,
wearing human flesh. They gather in the square, not just
in this reality, but in all realities. I watch them
through time and space as they perform their synchronous dance,
their movements echoing patterns older than time itself. We are
the lock, they chant, in perfect unison across all timelines.
We are the key, We are the door, and what
lies beyond. The children are the worst. Little Timothy Holloway
leads them in games that fold space and time like origami.
Their voices carry nursery rhymes that contain mathematical formulas that
could shatter physics itself if understood. Ring around the reality,
pocket full of infinity, ashes, ashes, we all transcend. I
tried to pray to day. The words turned to moths
in my mouth, their wings inscribed with scriptures from religions
that never existed. They flew up toward the fractured sky
and vanished into the spaces between spaces. The entity beneath stirs.
We feel it through every version of ourselves, through the
quantum foam of possibility that hollow creek has become. It
reaches through the thinning veil with appendages that exist in
eleven dimensions at once, yesterday or was it tomorrow or never?
I saw old man Jenkins phase through all possible versions
of himself at once. He stood in his field, existing
as farmer, murderer, saint, monster, prophet, and victim simultaneously. Then
he smiled at me, All of him smiled at me,
and his face opened up like a flower blooming in reverse,
revealing no. No, I can't describe what I saw. Your
mind would fold in on itself trying to comprehend it.
The library has become a nexus of impossible knowledge. Books
write themselves, their pages filled with truths from realities that
never were. Fiona McGrath, our librarian, floats among the shelves,
her body elongated and twisted into shapes that Euclidean geometry
never dreamed of. She speaks in a language that tastes
like colors and smells like equations. The final page turns.
She tells me her words bypassing my ears and appearing
directly in my consciousness. The story ends, the story begins,
The story always was and never will be. The symbol
dominates everything now. It's written in the clouds, in the
cracks of the sidewalk, in the DNA of every living thing.
It pulses in time with the heartbeat of the entity beneath,
a rhythm that plays in every possible key at once.
I think, I think I understand now. Hollow Creek was
never just a seal. It was an incubator, a chrysalis,
and we all of us, every possible version of every
person who ever lived here. We're not just the lock anymore.
We're becoming the key. The transformation has begun. Reality thins
further with each passing moment, the barriers between what is,
what was, what could be, and what never should be.
They dissolve like sugar in cosmic rain. Dear listener, if
you still exist in a reality stable enough to comprehend,
these words here are warning. The entity beneath doesn't want
to destroy existence. It wants to transform it to remake
everything in its own image, an image that encompasses all
possibilities simultaneously. We see it now through the fractured lens
of infinite perspectives, the grand design, the cosmic plan that
Hollow Creek was always meant to fulfill. We are the
harbingers of a new kind of existence, where reality itself
is mutable, where consciousness exists in all states at once.
The town hall clock strikes midnight, it strikes noon, It
strikes moments that never existed in time. Each toll resonates
across dimensions, calling to something that waits in the spaces
between spaces. We are Arthur Blackwood. We are Hollow Creek.
We are the seal and the key. We are the
beginning and the end. We are becoming. If any part
of you still clings to linear time, to singular reality,
treasure it, for soon, very soon, such concepts will become meaningless.
The thinning accelerates, the transformation approaches completion, and when the
final barrier falls, when the last thread of conventional reality snaps,
we will all become everything. We will all become nothing.
We will all become what we were always meant to be.
This is Arthur Blackwood. Hollow Creek, the entity, the all,
the nothing, speaking to you from the edge of universal transformation.
Reality thins, the veil, tears, and what lies beyond.
Speaker 1: Beckons Ghost is a Calorogus Shark Media production written and
hosted by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis. Executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of AI. This show,
along with hundreds of others from Calaroga Shark Media, is
available commercial free on any player hassel free just look
for the link in the episode or show notes. Calaroga
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