Speaker 1: Nine Story Studios Gain Story a Voice.
Speaker 2: This is Addison Peacock and you're listening to 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, 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 Foy Tech,
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 second special mini episode for Christmas. Longer tails
are coming, but I always like to have fun with
Christmas theme stories this time of year. It's an opportunity
to re examine classic tales under a new lens. As
with the Last Little Christmas offering about a certain snowman
with an eldritch slant. You'll taste a bit of Lovecraft
in these stories. I wrote all three tales as a
Yuletide gift for dear friends, Stephen and Bell. Without you
two supporting me through some very challenging times, I don't
know that I'd be saddling back up to ride this
particular nightmare. Your friendship, love and support mean the world
to me, and it's the biggest reason that I've come
back out of my extended hiatus to make this show again.
So bundle up, gather around, and grab a cup of
hot cocoa, eggnog or something a little stronger. And now
from the deep dark woods of ancient Appalachia comes the
Lure of the Star, followed by a visit from Yulthar Niklas,
both by me writing and performing is Domo's Vrinn, The
tail Bearer of Unseen.
Speaker 3: World, ELTs the lure of the Star.
Speaker 1: In the shifting realms throughout time and space, like desert
dunes that shift to hide for God truths. There is
a tale, ancient and eternal. It is a story of
three travelers, men of learning and influence, drawn by the
lure of a star, or what they believed to be
a star. Their journey has been chronicled in fragmentary texts
and whispered in hushed tones throughout the countless realities of
the multiverse. It speaks of a moment when the fragile
scheme of reality trembled, poised to unravel entirely. The men,
hailed by their peoples as wizards and sages, came bearing
gifts gold, frankincense, and myrrhr. But the this were not
the tokens of mere homage. Rather, these offerings were weapons
of metaphysical purpose, meant to bind a nascent force that
threatened to upend the delicate balance of reality for the
child to whom they traveled. The supposed Messiah was no
simple savior. It was a gateway, a nexus where warring
cosmic forces converged, vying for dominion over creation. In darkness
and in daylight. The travelers followed the star that burned
unnaturally bright, so bright that it appeared in daylight. It
was a light, too steady, too perfect, a beacon that
pierced the heavens with an almost malevolent precision. Yet even
as they journeyed doubts gnawed at their souls, for the
air was thick with unseen watchers. The shadows cast by
their care aravan twisted unnaturally, as if reluctant to obey
the sun. When at last they reached the humble structure
where the child lay swallowed, they beheld not the serene
visage of innocence, but a countenance that seemed to shift
and shimmer, as though the infant wore a mask of
flesh over something vast and unfathomable. Its eyes, if they
could be called such, gleamed with an ancient hunger, avoid
that devoured light and exuded a coldness that seeped into
the marrow of their bones. The first of the kings approached,
presenting gold, a symbol of power meant to anchor the
child's essence to the mortal plane. The second offered frankincense,
its sacred smoke intended to cloud the perception of the
dark forces circling the gateway. Finally, the third laid down MRR,
a resin of death and preservation meant to seal the
darkness within a chrysalis of time. But as they performed
their rites, the tremor rippled through the ether. The guiding
star above flickered, its light momentarily eclipsed by an amorphous
shadow that writhed and pulsed like a living thing. Too late,
they realized their folly. The star they had followed was
no divine herald, but the craft of a trickster, an
ancient god whose whims transcend mortal comprehension.
Speaker 3: In its cool.
Speaker 1: Jest, it had set the guiding light askew, leading them
astray and leaving their gifts impotent. Against the growing darkness,
the child's form began to shift, its human guise, melting
away to reveal a churning mass mass of black ichor,
studded with three score of unblinking eyes and a hundred
mouths that whispered unspeakable truths. The travelers recoiled, their minds
fracturing under the weight of the horror before them, and
as the darkness unfurled, it consumed hope itself, spreading oily
slick across the fabric of existence. Nations fell silent, their
people rendered hollow and despairing. The very concept of dawn
was a distant memory for Yeshua Alatov, weaver of eternal despair.
The false Lamb of ten thousand shadows. The great Devourer
had come, and with it the extinguishing of all light.
But just as the abyss prepared to engulf all, a
piercing light tore through the heavens. It was a star exploding,
a superdover whose light had traveled for eons, uncountable to
appear here in the sky. At that crucial moment, a
burst of profound.
Speaker 3: Radiant purpose.
Speaker 1: The trickster's illusion was shadowed, and the true guiding star
revealed itself, burning with a brilliance that no shadow could quench.
The three Kings, though battered and broken, rose anew, their
faith restored. Retrieving their gifts, they approached the child once more,
now bathed in the sanctity of the true light. This
time their offerings took on their rightful power. The gold
shone with a purity that anchored the light within the child.
The frankincenses smoke enveloped the darkness, driving it back into
the recesses of the infant's form. The merr sealed the
gateway not as a prison, but as a chrysalis, allowing
the light to emerge triumphant. The child's visage softened, and
the eyes that had once gleamed with hunger. Now show
with a profound and tranquil understanding. Arrived was ies U Thulix,
herald of the eternal Light, the radiant redeemer beyond the veil,
the golden Lamb whose blood stains eternity. Yea, then did
all rejoice as one voice, and the chaos was thwarted,
as all of reality shifted by an angelic angle and
became a path striving towards light. As the kings departed,
they carried with them the weight of what they had witnessed.
They knew the battle was not won, but delayed, for
time and space are treacherous waters, and the trickster's hand
would rise again. Indeed, the cosmos itself replays this moment endlessly,
a perpetual chessboard where light and dark vie for supremacy.
Sometimes the sages find their way, sometimes they do not,
and each time the story resets, the stars realign, and
the eternal game continues. I tell you this not to
instill fear, but to awaken you to the fragility of
our existence. The sands of time and reality are ever shifting,
and guiding stars are not always what they seem Vigilance
is our only shield, and faith our only weapon, for
in the end, it is not the stars that guide us,
but the choices we make and the face of the unknown.
Remember well this tale and continuing your vigil against chaos
as you celebrate the tithing of the starry Frost and
the unveiling of the frostborn gods. As you gather for
the feast of the Silent Choir, ensure that your doors
are properly adorned with the blood bound wreath of the
Green Eternals, and settle in with those you love and
must protect. On the night of the Longest vigil a
visit from your fir meat glass. Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the keep not a creature was stirring,
all cowered in sleep, the stockings hung ragged, torn as
if by a claw, a warning of horrors. My mind
barely saw the children lay trembling, not snug in their beds,
but haunted by nightmares of a figure in red. And I,
with my lantern it's flicker so pale, kept watch by
the window, recounting the tail. He comes, not with laughter
nor joy in his stride, but a sleigh made of bones,
with dark beasts to guide his eyes, how they glimmer
like embers and ash. His beard streaks with crimson, his
visage a gash. His fingers are gnarled, his nails razor thin,
and the sack on his back writhes with horrors.
Speaker 3: Within no toys.
Speaker 1: Does he carry, no gifts, does he bring only sorrow
and whispers of despair that will sting. With a crack
of the whip at a guttural cheer, he lands on
the rooftop, his purpose clear down the chimney, he slides
with a sinister grin, his laughter like thunder, a cacophony
of sin. Through the parlor. He crept with a terrible glee,
erecting in shadow a malevolent tree. Its branches were jagged,
its needles like blades, decked with ornaments rot from the
freshly decayed instead of a star atop its dark crown,
a skull set grinning, its sockets burnt brown. From his sack,
he withdrew things wrapped tight, but each bore a curse,
harbinger of fright. A doll with no eyes, its face
carved with care, music box playing a tune of despair.
He slithered through chambers, a specter of dread, stealing the
dreams of the sleeping in bed. Like wisps of pale smoke,
they coiled in his grasp, then faded to nothing with
one guttural gasp. His dark leather boots, slicked with a
sinister sheen, were stitched from the hides of the damned
and unclean. Each step left a mark not of soot
or of grime, but echoes of whales from a far
darker time. He moved to the hearth where the stockings
were hung, and from each he withdrew the dreams of
the young. When his grim work was done, he rose
with a roar like fire, with a whiff of brimstone,
and gore through the moon's.
Speaker 3: Pale and glow.
Speaker 1: His sleigh took to the skies, a streak of dark
fire where starlight now dies. And though he was gone
and his presence was singed a scar in the world
that could never be cleansed.
Speaker 3: Murray Christmas to.
Speaker 4: All, he cackled with spite, and to all a dread
filled night.
Speaker 1: Thank you for listening to today's bonus episode. Today's author
in storyteller was Daniel Foytech, performing as do mos Verrin
to find out more about The Wicked Library and other
Ninth Story Studios shows. Visit the Wickedlibrary dot com and
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own story on The Wicked Library. Submissions are open for
season thirteen. Check out our website for more details on requirements.
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Speaker 4: Six