Speaker 1: Calorouga Shark Media. Welcome to Ghost Scary Stories and the
October Records, a month long Halloween nightmare. This is episode
twenty seven. The Price.
Speaker 2: October twenty seventh, No October First, No October Margaret, the
record is fighting me. It wants to be played, but
also wants to be unplayed. I'm Silas Crane. I'm not
Silas Crane. I'm your creation. I'm my own creation. The
price God, the price of speaking things into existence. Every
horror you create demand's payment. Takes something from the real
world to make itself. The children you made hungry, they're
eating parents now. The building with impossible flaws, it's consuming
other buildings to grow. The pattern isn't just marking points.
It's hollowing out reality to make room for itself. And you,
you're the one paying. Look at yourself, Look at what
creating us has cost you. The price is always the speaker.
You're dissolving, Margaret becoming less real as we become more real.
By Halloween, if you complete all thirty recordings will be
fully real and you'll be fully gone. The void speaking
itself out of existence.
Speaker 3: I looked at my hands. Silas was right. They were translucent,
not like my transparent arm with its tiny millbrooks actually fading.
I could see through myself to the floor below. The
created horrors were still in my office, but they were
more solid than yesterday, more real. The Davidson things scales
were sharp enough to cut. Clara's pregnant belly pulsed with
actual life. The children's hungry mouths were wet with real saliva.
Show her, Davidson said to Lucy Henderson. The child opened
her mouth wide, wider inside I saw her parents, the
real Henderson's being slowly digested, still alive, still aware. You
made me do this, Lucy said, around her impossible mouthful.
You heard me hungry, so I became hungry, And the
only thing that satisfies the hunger is what you heard
me eating. The phone rang dr Ashford's voice, Margaret. The
hospital is collapsing the real hospital. Your created morgue is
eating it. The breathing corpses need space to exist, so
they're consuming the actual building. We have patients dying because
their rooms are becoming your fiction. Another call the fire chief.
The apartment building is sinking, actually sinking. Those impossible basement
floors you created, they're pulling the real structure down. Seventeen
families are trapped another the sheriff. The children from the
bus are hunting, actually hunting. They've taken twelve parents so far.
We can't stop them because they're not fully real. Bullets
pass through, but they're real enough to kill. I was
destroying my actual town to create my fictional horrors. The price,
said the Sarah Blackwood creation, still dripping fountain water that
was eating through my floorboards. Every world spoken into existence
requires matter, energy, life, your cannibalizing reality to feed your nightmares.
My transparent arm was writing frantically, play backward, unspeak, uncreate,
but my fading hand reached for the next recording, number
twenty seven, still moving forward. No Clara screamed, If you
play that, more of us become real, more of the
town gets eaten. But I couldn't stop. My hand moved
on its own. The recording placed itself on the turntable. Wait,
said Davidson, his form solidifying further, becoming more monstrous. She's
not in control. Something else is playing the recordings through her.
The needle dropped, but the voice that came out wasn't Silases.
It was mine from the future from Halloween night past me.
If you're hearing this, it means you've discovered the truth.
You're not the creator, You're the stylus, the needle. Something
else is playing the recordings through you, something that needs
thirty specific horrors to exist, something that's been waiting two
hundred and fifty one years for the right void to
speak through. You are that void, the missing thirty first family,
the absence that makes presence possible. And on Halloween, when
you play the final recording, you won't create the last horror,
You'll become it. The recording continued, but now in another voice, older, ancient,
not human.
Speaker 4: Hello speaker, I am what you've been creating. Not it,
not the pattern. I am the thing that exists between
existence and non existence. I need thirty anchors in reality
to fully manifest. You've created twenty six four more, and
I can emerge. Thank you for your service. Your dissolution
is almost complete.
Speaker 3: I tried to pull the record off, but my hands
passed through it. I was becoming too unreal to affect reality.
The created horrors backed away from the record player. It's
using you, Davidson whispered. You're not a broken god. You're
a throat speaking something else's words into being. The recording
kept playing my voice again, but younger, maybe eight years old.
Speaker 5: I found the record in the basement when I was little,
played with them, pretended they were real, made up stories
about October and patterns and drowning. The stories told often
enough become true. And now I'm trapped in my own story,
creating myself, creating the horror that creates me.
Speaker 3: The record stopped silence, then from everywhere and nowhere.
Speaker 4: Through more speaker. Then I like, finally exist, Finally, finally
shows were a lot? What way waste between words? It's cns.
Speaker 3: I looked at the remaining recordings, three unplayed twenty seven
that could be reversed, but I was fading too fast.
Soon I wouldn't be solid enough to touch the player
to make any choice at all. There is another way,
said a new voice. I turned in my doorway stood
someone I didn't recognize, an old woman but familiar. I'm
Margaret Blackwood, she said, the real one from twenty twenty five.
You're the thing that's been pretending to be me since
October started. You're not playing my recordings, You're playing yours,
creating yourself through my history. She held up a Manila
folder inside the real History of October nineteen seventy four
newspaper clippings, photos, all showing a normal October. No pattern,
no drownings, no horror. None of it was real until
you made it real. She said, you're not Margaret. You're
the void that eight Margaret, and now you're eating the
town to make your fiction true. I looked at my
reflection in the dead record. She was right. The face
looking back wasn't Margaret's. It was nothing, a hungry nothing,
speaking horrors into existence to fill itself. But knowing didn't
stop it. The twenty eighth recording was already playing itself,
my voice, but not my voice, describing new horrors that
were already manifesting outside the real. Margaret pulled out a gun,
aimed it at me, at the nothing wearing her face.
The price of creation is the creator, she said, Time
to pay. She pulled the trigger. The bullet passed through me.
I was too unreal for it to hit, but it
shattered the record player. All the recordings played and unplayed
scattered across the floor, some spinning playing fragments, others silent.
The created horrors began flickering, caught between reel and unreal.
Choose quickly, the real Margaret said, before something worse than
you finishes what you started. In the distance, Halloween approached,
three days, three recordings, three chances to I complete the
horror or uncreate it. But now I knew the truth.
I was the horror, and I was almost complete.
Speaker 1: Ghost Scary Stories is a production of Caloroga Shark Media.
Some elements of AI may have been used in this production,
but it was written, edited, mixed, and produced by Real
Live People Executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott