Speaker 1: Life Story Studios Gain Story a voice.
Speaker 2: Horror has always whispered the loudest truths in the quietest dark.
It dares us to look closer, not just at the monsters,
but at ourselves. And in that raw, unsettling space, we
don't just find fear, we find revelation. I'm Virell Nocturne
and this is the Wicked Library.
Speaker 1: Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created
for a mature audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence, blood, betrayal,
and inhumanity. Monsters win when people die, and hope is
often shattered. There is also beauty, heart, catharsis, and raw emotion.
Fear may be deeply personal, but we all share it.
If at any time a story takes you to a
place too dark, turn on the lights, press pause or
press stop, and always remember that, unlike in the real world,
these nightmares and your participation in them, are under your control.
Welcome back to the Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytek, your host, producer,
and guide through the strange and shadowed. As always, thank
you for listening, and a heartfelt thank you to our
supporters on Patreon. Your generosity is what keeps this library
open and whispering. Without you, none of this would be possible. Today,
I'm thrilled to present something new, a glimpse into a
very special collection of stories, penned by Virel nocturn This
is tails from mister Natle's shop, a place that appears
when it's needed, where the lighting is always warm, the
dust never settles, and the tailor always understands exactly what
you think you want. But be careful. The fit is perfect,
the cost exact. Today we open the door with two stories,
the man who wanted confidence and the man who wanted
to be slimmer. Let's begin sh one The Man who
wanted confidence by Virel Nocturne. I'm mister Nadle. I have
been called many things, a tailor, a courtier, a humble clothier,
a merchant of fine things, a weaver. Names are stitches temporary,
binding and so very easy to snip. The right pull
and even the most carefully crafted identity unravels. So for
now you may call me mister Natle. I keep a
shop where that depends on when you're asking. Sometimes it
finds itself on a narrow street. No one remembers walking down.
Other times it tucks neatly into a district of means,
as if it has always belonged. The location is immaterial.
The clientele always finds me. The lighting inside is always soft,
always warm, The dust never settles, and the clock above
the counter ticks at its own pace, slower or faster,
depending on the gravity of the request. My client tell
they want things, something sharp, something classic, something that commands
the room, nothing flashy. But when people see me, I
want them to just just you know, you understand. I understand.
I always do. I listen, I measure, I sew, and
my suits they fit not merely in cut, but in truth.
They do not hide who you are. They define you,
refine you. After all, what is a man but the
sum of his threads. The question, of course, is whether
they truly grasp the cost. Most assume it's coin. I
never correct them. But you came here to hear a story,
didn't you? Very well? Let me tell you about mister Lowell.
He wanted confidence, he got it. Shall I begin? Lowell
entered my shop on a rain slicked evening, the kind
of night that makes people reflective, regretful, eager for change.
He hesitated at the threshold, a man who had spent
a lifetime second guessing. I beckoned him in. You looked
like a man in need of something finer. I told him.
A suit, he admitted, brushing the rain from his sleeves.
Something that makes an impression. Something that he trailed off,
glancing at the endless rows of fabric boats, the mannekins
standing in eerie silence. Something that makes me bigger, I offered.
He flinched, but nodded confidence. That was what he wanted.
A simple thing, A stitch in the right place, a
cut that guided the shoulders back, a weight to remind
the wearer of his own presence. Such things can be
so into the very bones of a garment. I took
his measurements. He barely noticed how much, he asked, because
they always do. The price is fair, I assured him,
and it was. By the time he left, the suit
was waiting for him, pressed and perfect. He never questioned
how I had made it so quickly. They never do.
The next time he stepped through my door, his posture
was different, broader, taller eyes that did not dart, but held.
He had been wearing the suit for weeks, and it
had worn him into something new. It's incredible, he said,
it fits. I agreed, no second guessing, no hesitation, no fear.
He said it with pride. But there was something beneath it,
a flicker, a whisper of uncertainty, a ghost of the
man he used to be. He had stopped apologizing, he
had stopped pausing, he had stopped considering. I don't regret
a thing anymore, he told me. It's like I'm always sure,
always right. I smiled. I know. A month passed before
I saw him again. By then, the suit had settled
into him, its stitches disappearing into the very fabric of
his being. He did not slouch, He did not fidget.
He did not blink with uncertainty, or chew his lip
in hesitation. Mister Lowell had become a man who commanded,
and it had been, by all accounts, a success. You
wouldn't believe it, he told me, dropping into the chair
across from my counter, though he no longer asked if
he was allowed to sit from mine. Meetings flawless. I
don't second guess, I don't overthink. I just know what
to say, what to do. He leaned back, fingers laced
over his stomach, surveying the shop like it was his now,
and I prompted because there was always an and his
smile faltered and he frowned. Some people have taken it
the wrong way. They say I'm too direct, too dismissive,
But I'm not. I just see things clearly now. I
don't get caught up in the doubt. I don't waste
time on hesitation or pointless feelings. Pointless feelings, I let
the phrase linger. How's your wife, I asked, He exhaled
through his nose. A shop thing. We've been arguing, well,
she's been arguing. He waved a hand as if brushing
it aside. She says, I don't care that. I don't listen,
but I do. I hear her. I just he shook
his head. It's all so emotional, unproductive. I used to
get wrapped up on all of it, but now I
just cut straight through to the truth. I don't apologize,
I don't playgate. You don't hesitate, I reminded him, exactly,
he said, relieved that I understood. Of course, I understood.
The suit fit him beautifully. He once told me that
she had cried during a fight, that she had said
he used to hold her hand. When they argued that
he used to say, I don't know, he laughed, after
telling me that he didn't remember how it had felt.
The next time he came to me, the shine had dulled.
Not his suit, of course, No that remained, Christine pressed, perfect.
No amount of wear would diminish it. No errant thread
would dare betray its weave. It was Lowell who had dulled.
He no longer looked shop. But hard she left, he said,
because it was the most relevant fact. Took the kids.
I told her she was being irrational, He told her
she was making a mistake, but she wouldn't listen. I
straightened a lapel that did not need straightening. And how
do you feel about this? I don't, he excelled, sharply,
impatient with the question. That's the problem, isn't it. I
know I should care, I know I should feel something,
but I don't. Not really, I just see it for
what it is. It's a cost of success, the price
of clarity. His fingers twitched, adjusting the cuffs, the buttons.
The perfect seems. I could try to win her back,
he continued, almost to himself. But I'd have to fake it,
fake doubt, fake regret, fake vulnerability. He scoffed, and I can't.
It's not me anymore. I smiled, No, I said, it isn't.
He did not return after that, but I saw his
name in the papers now and then a promotion, rise
in influence. He climbed the ranks effortlessly, unswerving, unyielding. The
suit had made him a man of absolute conviction. He
never lost, He never second guessed, never hesitated. He was
always right. And when the moment finally came, the inevitable moment,
the one I had seen stitched into his face from
the very first cut, he was certain. The brakes had failed.
They said, simple miscalculation at high speed. But he had
not hesitated, he had not doubted. He had taken the
turn with absolute confidence. And the suits, I imagine, still
fits him perfectly. Even now. I dusted my counter. The
door creaked open. Another client entered, shoulders slouched, fingers twitching.
I need a suit, he said, I smiled, Of course
you do. This episode of the Wicked Library is brought
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man who wanted to be slimmer by Verrell Nocturn. I
need a suit. The words came out soft, almost accidental,
like he hadn't meant to say them aloud. The man
in my doorway was already fussing with his shirt, tugging
at the hem, smoothing creases that weren't there. His hands
moved too quickly to precisely, trying to flatten the fabric
against his stomach, as if pressure alone could erase what
he believed to be too much. His discomfort wasn't hidden.
It clung to him like sweat. You could see it
in the way he stood, in the way he avoided
my gaze. I need a suit, of course you do,
I said, gesturing him inside. He paused, just for a moment.
There's a kind of person who hovers at a threshold,
not because they doubt the door, but because they doubt
their right to pass through it. Then finally he stepped inside.
He wasn't large, not by any chart, any measurement, and
a standard you'd find in a clinic, but he carried
himself as if He was a man who had spent
his entire life painfully aware of his presence, of how
his body entered rooms, of how he took up space,
how he shouldn't. A man who had learned to tuck
himself away in photographs, to position himself behind others, to
tilt his head and archer's eyebrows just so when passing
a mirror, someone who had trained himself in invisibility but
never managed to master it. What are you looking for?
I asked him, though of course I already knew. He
swallowed something that makes me look slimmer, he said, And
that was the ask, shaped by years of shame, A
quiet plea to be less. There was no vanity in it,
no narcissism, only a longing so old it had become
bone deep, that can be arranged, I said. His breath caught.
The relief was immediate, sharp and bright, but he did
can yet know what exactly he was relieved for. They
never think I mean anything more than cut or cloth
or silhouette. They never think bigger. Let me measure you,
I said, reaching for my tape. I'll make sure it
fits you exactly as it should. When he returned, the
suit was waiting. It was beautiful, of course, dark clean,
tailored with surgical precision. But its true craft wasn't in
the color or the drape. It was how it held him.
The suit didn't hide his form. It reshaped, it, whispered, adjustments,
pressed him into the outline of the man he wished
the world would see. Try it on, I said, He did.
The moment he slid it over his shoulders, his hands
flew to his stomach, then to his chest, to his arms.
He stared into the mirror, as if afraid it might vanish.
It's perfect, he whispered. It was how much, he asked,
because they always do. The price is fair, I said,
and it was. He left the shop standing taller, lighter,
as though the suit had lifted some invisible weight from
his spine, And of course the suit had already begun
to take. He returned the next week. His cheekbones were sharper.
You were right, he said, There was awe in his voice.
It's incredible. I look better. I am better. His fingers
ghosted along his jaw line, tracing edges that hadn't been
there before. And your appetite, I asked, He hesitated, just briefly,
don't feel as hungry anymore. I used to think about
food all the time. Now I barely think of it
at all. He laughed, quick and bright. He adjusted his cuffs. Honestly,
it's a relief, of course it was. And your energy,
Oh that's the weird part. He shifted on his feet.
I get tired, quicker some days. I feel a little weak.
But it's worth it. People are noticing me, complimenting me.
His smile was dazzling, too, dazzling. He hadn't noticed the
fabric pulling tighter, Good, I said, because it was the
Next time, he didn't stand, he sat and his hands
were shaking. I can't take it off, he whispered. He
had lost more weight, far more than he should have.
His wrists looked fragile, his collar bones were sharp enough
to catch thread, and his once round face was hollowed
into shadow. Then why would you want to, I asked,
adjusting a lapeal that did not need adjusting. He swallowed.
I think it's I think it's doing something to me.
It's making you exactly what you asked to be. But
I don't think I can stop even if I eat.
It's like the suit doesn't let me keep it I
just it just pulls it out of me, like it
decides what I deserve to hold. Then, perhaps, I said,
tilting my head, it's time to consider what you really wanted.
Did you really desire to be slimmer? Or did you
want to be less, to disappear, to take up less
space in a world that never made room for you.
His breathing was shallow. Now, I just wanted to be enough,
he said, And you are, I told him gently, just
a little less every day. He stopped coming in after that,
but I still see him reflections in windows, half glimpsed
images on screens. Each time. The suit was flawless. His
posture was elegant, controlled his face, though his face was wrong,
to shop to clean, bones pressing out like the body
was trying to escape its own skin. But no one noticed.
The world looked at him and saw perfection. Almost There
were exceptions. You're getting too thin, his mother told him, once,
touching his arm like it might break. You look off,
a friend said, frowning, But others, co workers, strangers, passers
by just smiled. No. They said, he looks perfect, and
he believed them most days, but sometimes, just sometimes, he
caught his own reflection at the wrong angle, in the
wrong light, and saw the truth. A man whittled down
to nothing, a shadow wearing a suit. And yet when
he turned his head just slightly, there it was again
the illusion, the fit perfect, still perfect. I had dusted
my counter. The door creaked open. Another client. I I
I need a suit, he said, I smiled, Of course
you do. Thank you for listening to episode number thirteen
oh three two tales from mister Natle's shop. Today's stories
were written by Verrel Nockturn and performed by yours truly,
Daniel Foytek. To explore more of the haunting voices that
echo through our halls, visit the Wickedlibrary dot com. The
Wicked Library is the production of Ninth Story Studios LLC.
All rights reserved. If you've enjoyed your time with us,
help us summon new listeners from the Shadows, leave us
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if you'd like to help support the show and help
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submissions for season thirteen are still open. If you've been
waiting for the right time to tell your tale. The
door is open until next time. Mind the stitch.