Speaker 1: Nine Story Studios Gain Story a Voice.
Speaker 2: Hi, this is Graham Rowt.
Speaker 3: Are you in the mood for something scary? Well, you're
in the right place. This is the Wicked Library Warning.
Speaker 1: 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, 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, and
I thank you for listening. A sincere thank you to
those of you who are supporting the show on Patreon.
Without you, this show would not be possible. Today's tale
is the first special episode for Christmas, So bundle up,
gather around, and grab a cup of hot cocoa or
eggnog or something a little stronger. From the deep dark
woods of Central Pa comes chill Afra, Man of snow,
chill Afra, Man of snow. On a frosty morning, under
the first thick snowfall of the season, a small town
lay in serene silence. The world seemed paused, draped in white,
save for the cheerful sound of children gathering in a
snowy field.
Speaker 2: With giggles and chatter.
Speaker 4: They began to roll snow into boulders, piling them into
the form of a snowman. Their creation took shape, a
jolly figure with a round belly button, eyes that gleamed
like polished obsidian, and.
Speaker 2: A crooked grin.
Speaker 4: It was the happiest snowman any of them had ever made.
Pride sparkled in their laughter as they stepped back to
admire their masterpiece. He crown, one child exclaimed, clapping mittened
hands together. A king must have a crown. Another agreed.
The youngest among them, a girl with bright pigtails, dashed
home and returned with a peculiar item, a tarnished magician's
crown from an old costumed chest she found in her attic.
Strange symbols etched its surface, their meanings long lost to time.
It glimmered faintly as she placed it atop the snowman's head.
The instant the crown settled, the air seemed to shift
the cold bit deeper, and a deep rumble, like distant thunder,
rolled through the silence. The snowman trembled, then out a
booming chuckle, a sound that seemed to echo from the
depths of the earth.
Speaker 5: Happy, oh, fear, and happy, I am born, the snowman declared,
his voice, both merry and unnerving, like the creak of
ancient ice.
Speaker 4: The children gasped in astonishment. He's alive, one whispered, eyes
wide with wonder. The snowman's eyes, now glowing with another
worldly light, swept over the children.
Speaker 2: Yes alive for now, he.
Speaker 4: Said, his tone smooth yet edged with something unknowable.
Speaker 2: And it is you who have roused me from slumber.
Such glad the little ones.
Speaker 4: He moved, his stiff limbs cracking and groaning as he
stretched to his full height. The children cheered as he
began to twirl in place, his crown tilting precariously, But
his dance was not the playful jig of a snowman
brought to life. His movements were jerky, unnatural limbs flailing
in ways that defied anatomy. His form twisted grotesquely, each
motion a contortion, each step reverberating with an unspoken wrongness.
He's so funny, one child laughed, clapping along. Yet there
was something sinister in the rhythm, something deeply uns in
the way his feet scraped the snow. His twisted performance
resembled an ancient rite rather than a dance of joy.
The crown atop his head pulsed faintly, its symbols shifting
as if alive, glowing in sync with his unnatural movements.
From a distance, wary adults observed the scene. They noted
the snowman's unblinking eyes and the creeping frost that spread
outward from his steps. The elder of the town, a
woman whose wisdom was etched and every weathered line on
her face, watched in growing dread. Stop, children, come away,
she cried, her voice cracking, But the children were lost
in their delight, oblivious to the subtle darkening of the
sky and the unnatural chill that had settled over the field. Yes,
the snowman roared, spinning faster, his body stretching and contracting
with impossible elasticity.
Speaker 2: Dance with me, move, feel the awakening.
Speaker 4: The wind whipped around him, swept. The children joined hands
and laughed, spinning in circles, their joy unbroken. They didn't
notice the way the frost clawed up their boots, or
how their breath crystallized in the air, like whispers of
lost souls. The snowman stopped abruptly, his grin wider, his
glowing eyes fixed on the children.
Speaker 6: Enough of this merriment. It's time for something more exhilarating.
What is it, asked a boy, his cheeks flushed with
cold and excitement. The snowman crouched low, his icier fingers,
leaving jagged trails in the snow.
Speaker 2: Again, he purred, I call it frozen shadows.
Speaker 4: The children exchanged eager glances.
Speaker 2: How do we play? Follow the shadow?
Speaker 4: The snowman whispered, his voice carrying an almost hypnotic cadence.
Speaker 2: It will lead you, but beware it does not forgive missteps.
Speaker 4: With that, the dark shape began to stretch across the snow,
a twisting, serpentine shadow that moved without any source of light.
It slithered toward the forest, beckoning. The children ran after it.
Without hesitation, their laughter ringing out like bells. The elder
woman's face paled. No come back, she screamed, but her
words were swallowed by the howling wind. The snowman straightened,
his grin, never wavering.
Speaker 2: They are mine now, he.
Speaker 4: Said, his voice rich with ancient authority.
Speaker 2: They have entered the game.
Speaker 4: The shadow led the children deeper into the woods, its
movements chaotic yet deliberate. Their small figures disappeared among the trees,
their laughter fading into an eerie stillness. The elder stumbled back,
her breath misting in short gasps.
Speaker 2: She felt the creeping.
Speaker 4: Dread of something ancient and unknowable stirring beneath the snow.
Speaker 2: The snowman turned his hollow.
Speaker 4: Gazed her, his grin impossibly wide. It begins, he said softly,
with a glint of malice in his glowing eyes.
Speaker 2: The shadows know the way, and soon all will join
the dance.
Speaker 1: Thank you for listening to today's bonus episode. Today's author
and storyteller was Daniel Foytech, performing as the Dark Voice.
To find out more about The Wicked Library and other
Ninth Story shows, visit the Wickedlibrary dot com and Ninth
Story dot com. If you'd like to hear your own
story on The Wicked Library, submissions are open for season thirteen.
Check our website for more details on requirements. To help
keep this collection of dark tales coming, please support the
Wicked Library on Patreon at Patreon dot com forward slash
Wicked Library. You can also help by leaving a five
star rating and short review on Apple podcasts. The Wicked
Library is created by Ninth Story Studios LLC. All rights reserved,
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