Speaker 1: Welcome listeners to Tales, a podcast that brings your short
stories to life. Do narrations, sound effects and more. These
stories will be brought to you by different authors with
different writing styles, but with the same spooky vibes. So
lock your doors, check your closets, make certain there's nothing
lurking under your bed, and enjol there.
Speaker 2: Are the hollow Mark written by En Barrow. The road
carved through the hills like a scar stitched too tight.
Mave Turner's hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, the
hum of the car a low, familiar drone against her spine.
The town lay just ahead, scattered lights blinking against the
purple hush of dusk. She had been away too long.
At the base of the rear view mirror, a small
pendant swung gently with every curve in the road. It
wasn't expensive, just a piece she picked up from a
grimy roadside shop while passing through a nameless town for
gas and bad coffee. The old man behind the counter
had insisted she'd take it, practically shoving it into her
hand with trembling fingers and a muttered prayer. She hadn't caught.
Mave hadn't really looked at it, since something about it
had felt necessary, like it was waiting for her all along.
When she stuffed it into her glove box, she'd found
a slip of brittle, yellowed paper tucked inside the box,
scrawled in ink so faded it looked almost like a wound.
Three stands tall, flesh, mind, and soul. One breaks wide,
cracks the hole. When the balance tears apart. The rider
comes to claim the heart. She'd laughed at the time,
the kind of brittle laugh you used to shake off,
the wrong kind of goosebumps. Now, with the sky bleeding
into the night and the road narrowing into darkness, she
wasn't laughing anymore. May've turned the radio up. Fingers tightening
unconsciously on the wheel, the pendant bumped against the glass.
She saw it then, just for a second, the outline
of something enormous moving alongside the tree line. A rider,
a black horse, gone in a blink. The car lurched
as she slammed the brakes, gravel kicking under the tires
as she fought the skid to a stop. Breathless, she
twisted in her seat, peered into the thickening dark, but
there was nothing, just the empty road, the restless trees
whispering to each other. A cold chill seeped into her bones,
impossible to blame on the cracked heater. She forced the
car back into motion, easing toward the lights ahead, the
safety of home, of family, of things that made sense,
but somewhere behind her, lost in the stretch of woods
and shadows, something was already following, and the pendant, unseen, untouched,
stayed colder than steel. Merrowick hadn't changed much. Wide streets,
neat rows of brick, storefronts strung with soft white lights,
porch swings creaking in the autumn breeze. Everything gleamed under
the rising stars, like a postcard you couldn't quite touch.
May have eased to the driveway of her childhood home,
a modest two story with blue shutters and a porch
light already burning. The front door opened before she killed
the engine. Mave her mother called out, waving a dish
towel still clutched in one hand. A smile pulled at
Mae's lips before she even realized it. For a moment,
just a moment, the tight knot in her chest loosened.
She slammed the car door and hurried up the steps,
catching Mary and Turner in a hug that smelled like
lavender and sugar cookies. You made good time, her mother said,
pulling back to inspector. You look tired though long drive,
Mave said, forcing an easy grin. You always push yourself
too hard, said her mother. Before she could answer, a
voice called from the hallway. Or maybe you're just old now.
May've turned just in time to catch her brother, Samuel,
tossing a crumpled paperball at her. She caught it midair
and threw it back, laughing, Same old sam, same old house.
Inside the house was warm, cluttered with years of family life,
framed photos, worn furniture, the smell of something hearty baking
in the oven. Maeve dropped her overnight bag near the
stairs and let herself breathe. Dinner was loud, Stories traded
back and forth inside, joke still sharp despite the years.
Samuel caught her up on his college classes. Marian fussed
of her whether Mave was eating enough. Everything was almost
normal because sometimes when she wasn't thinking about it, Mave
could feel the pendant, the small weight hanging just above
her heart, shifting slightly against her skin. Still cold, still
heavier than it should have been, but she ignored it. Later,
after the house settled into the hush of sleeping bodies
and cooling night, Mayve lay awake under the old patchwork
quilt she hadn't seen since I school. She stared at
the ceiling and told herself everything was fine. Tomorrow would
be coffee and laughter and old friends. Tomorrow would be normal.
The wind stirred outside, rattling the window panes softly, and
somewhere far beyond the safe circle of tam lights, the
sound of hoofs struck stone, slow, deliberate, patient waiting. Morning
came slow and golden, pouring across the wooden floors of
the Turner house. May have sat at the kitchen table,
nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold,
listening to her mother hum in the other room. For
a few heartbeats, everything felt right at her chest. The
pendant rested cool against her skin. Mave pressed her fingers
against it, frowning. The thing seemed heavier today, dragging against
her collar bone like an invisible hand was tugging it downward.
She shook off the feeling Ryan was waiting for her
outside her house, leaning against his truck. Coffee in one hand,
keys in the other. You ready, city girl, he teased
as she approached. Mave laughed, flipping her sunglasses down against
the rising sun. Lead the way, country boy. They drove
through Merrowick's narrow streets, past the general store, the new cafe,
the tidy park. Everything looked normal, alive, and safe as
she remembered it. Ryan took her to a little cafe
on main Street, brick walls, sunlight through the wide windows.
They grabbed coffee and fell into easy conversation, the years
between them folding away like bad dreams. Afterward, they wandered
the park trails, kicking up leaves, pointing out old spots
they used to hide as kids. The crisp air smelled
like wood, smoke and earth. At one point, Ryan jogged
ahead to show her the new past the town had
cut through the woods. Mave called after him, without thinking,
Slow down, Ryan, call away, I'm not as fast as you.
The moment the words left her mouth, the world seemed
to stop breathing. The air shifted a sharp snap, like
a storm about to break. Ryan turned confused. Mave didn't
see it clearly, just a blur of black tearing across
the trail behind him, fast and massive, the glint of metal,
the shape of a grinning head clutched under one arm.
She screamed, Ryan, move, but it was already too late.
A four slammed into Ryan's back, hurling him off the
path like a rag doll. He hit the ground with
the sound of Mave would never forget the sick, wet
crack of bone breaking. She ran to him, falling to
her knees beside his twisted body. Blood darkened the dirt
beneath him, pulling thick and slow. His chest hitched once
a sound tried to escape his lips, then nothing. The
woods around her went dead, silent. As the pendant burned
against her skin a deep, searing pain. Mave ripped it
off and hurled it into the woods, choking on horror
and grief. She didn't understand, only that something ancient had
found her and it wasn't finished. Mave didn't remember driving home.
Her car wasn't the driveway, but still clung to the tires.
But the whole trip back from the woods was a blank,
just blood and broken bones flashing in her mind, and
Ryan's hand twitching once, then falling still The Turner house
buzzed around her that morning, but not with the easy
noise of normal life. It was quieter. Her mother moved
through the kitchen like a shadow, busting with the kettle
she'd already boiled twice. Samuel sat at the table, staring
blankly at his phone, scrolling without seeing. Nobody said it outright,
but the air tasted like mourning. Ryan Callaway was dead.
An accident, they said, a fall. Tragic. That was what
they had to believe. Mave sat at the kitchen table,
thing wrapped around a steaming mug she couldn't quite lift
to her mouth. Mave, her mother said, softly, resting a
hand on her shoulder, Honey, do you want to talk
Meeve shook her head slowly. If she opened her mouth,
she wasn't sure what would come out, grief, terror, the truth. Later,
she met Emma Cross at the cafe, the same one
Ryan had taken her to just days ago. Emma was
already sitting inside, hunched over a cup of coffee, eyes
rimmed red. She jumped up the second Mave entered and
pulled her into a tight, shaking hug. I'm so sorry,
Emma whispered against her hair gone mave, I can't believe
he's really gone. They talked, but the words felt hollow.
Stories about Ryan, memories of all three of them when
they were young and invincible. May have just nodded blankly,
not really listening to Emma's words. She remembered the way
Ryan's body had hit the ground, the way the air
had gone still, the way the writer had watched without
pity or haste. But she said nothing because they thought
it was an accident. They had to believe it was
an accident. When May've walked back toward her car after
their coffee, she saw it lying neatly on the driver's seat,
like someone had placed it there with careful, deliberate hands.
The pendant, the chain unbroken, the silver, cold and perfect.
May have stood frozen, her keys loose in her hand,
her pulse roaring in her ears. She hadn't brought it back,
She had thrown it into the woods. She had felt
it leave her, and yet here it was like it
was patiently waiting for her. The streetlights buzzed faintly as
Maeve stepped out of the cafe and into the night.
She didn't touch it, didn't even open the car door.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Emma, hey, come by
for a bit. I hate being alone tonight mee have
closed her eyes. She wanted to say no, and she
almost did, but Ryan's absence echoed too loudly between her bones.
Emma was waiting on the porch, arms wrapped around herself
for warmth, mug in one hand. You took your sweet time,
Emma said, trying for a smile. Maeve smiled faintly. Sorry, Emma.
Cross the moment she said it, the air shifted, A
subtle wrongness crept into the world. The wind held its
breath inside. Maeve whispered. Now. They bolted for the door,
beet hammering the porch steps. Just as they crossed the threshold,
black smoke yanked Emma backward. She hit the porch charge,
her face smashing into the steps with a sickening crack.
Blood spattered across the wood, Pouring from her mouth. Emma
may've screamed. Reaching for her Emma cough gagged another tendril
of smoke wrapped around her neck. Her hands flew to
her throat, clawing at the invisible Noose's eyes wide with horror.
We've tried to pull her back Emma's legs kicked weakly,
Her mouth opened and closed, but no air came. Her
body convulsed once, twice and still as the smoke vanished,
Emma's broken body lay twisted across the steps, blood still
warm beneath her head. Mee've dropped beside her, sobbing. She
was too late yet again, Ryan and now Emma, and
somewhere in the distance hoofs cracked stone. The flashing red
and blue lights painted the porch, and sickening shifting colors
may have sat on the steps. Emma's blood drying tacky
on her hands, her jeans. She didn't fight when the
officers pulled her away from the body. She didn't speak
when they cuffed her hands loosely in front of her
and read rights. She barely heard. The world moved without her,
now a slow, underwater dream. Questions floated around her. Were
you the only witness? Did any one else see what happened?
Was there a struggle between you and the victim? Victim?
As if Emma was a footnote, a case number, not
her friend. Maeve sat at the metal table in the
station's cold interview room, staring at the dried blood caked
into the cuticles of her fingers. Detective Harrow, a tall,
tired looking man with graveyard eyes, flipped open a folder
and placed it on the table between them. This turner,
he said, carefully. The first thing we need to understand
is why two people you were close to have died
in less than a week. Me looked up slowly. It
wasn't an accident, she said, either of them. Harrow exchanged
a glance with the officer by the door. All right,
tell me what you saw. She tried. The rider, the
black horse, the smoke that moved like a living thing,
the burning of the pendant, the moment the air snapped
when she said Emma's name. I learned about it in college,
she said, voice trembling, in a folklore class. Irish met
the Doulahan, a rider without a head. It calls death
when it knows your name. She chokes the rest out, disjointed, frantic,
half believing herself. By the end, Harow leaned back, arms crossed.
You're saying, a headless horseman kills your friend. May've nodded,
eyes shining with rage and fear. And you saw this
figure when Ryan Callaway died. Another nod. No other witnesses,
no physical injuries, no video, just you. May have said nothing. Eventually,
Harold closed the folder and stood, you're free to go now,
but don't leave town. May have walked home in a
fog of grief and disbelief. The pendant hung around her
neck again. She didn't even know when the pendant was
placed around her neck, or she placed it there herself,
but it was back, just like always. She shoved through
the front door of the house and collapsed onto the couch.
Samuel came rushing in from the kitchen. May what the
hell's going on you? Okay? She looked at him with
hollow eyes. I don't know how to explain it without
sounding insane, may have said, Try me, said Samuel. So
she did. She told him everything, the writer, the pendant,
the names, the burning, the way Emma had died in
front of her. Samuel didn't laugh, neither did he say
she was crazy. He just listened, and when she was done,
he reached toward her. Let me see it, Samuel said.
May have blinked. What the pendant? Samuel said. She hesitated,
but he was already lifting it from her chest. Samiel
turned it in his hand. As he did this, it
grew colder, heavier, feels weird, he muttered, like it's pulling.
Mave sat up hart racing. Sam don't, but he was
already walking outside with it dangling from his fingers. He
stepped onto the porch and looked up at the dark sky,
as if something was drawing him outside in a day's state.
Samuel calls over his shoulder to his sister, you hear
that may have turner, You're cursed or something. The world
went quiet. The porch light began to flicker and then died.
Samuel turned slowly. The dazed look faded from his face
as he realized what he had done. May have stood
in the doorway, her stomach dropping into a pit of dread.
The street lights beyond the lawn blinked out one by one,
like candles snuffed by an invisible hand, and from deep
in the door a sound broke the silence, hoof beats
getting closer. Samuel stood frozen under the porch light, the
pendant still swinging slightly from his hand. Mave, he said,
but she couldn't answer. The sound of hoofs was growing louder,
too loud, and coming closer. A shape emerged at the
end of the street. The doula hand riding slowly, patiently,
cradling its own rotting head in one arm. Its empty
neck leaked black smoke into the night. Samuel stepped back,
eyes wide, poont the hell is that? Maeve grabbed him,
yanked him backward into the house, and slammed the door
shut behind them. They stumbled away from it, breath catching
chests heaving outside silence. Then the front window cracked, a
thin splinter racing across the glass like a spider's web.
The lights inside flickered, the pressure in the house dropped,
as if something enormous was standing just outside the walls, breathing.
Samuel stared at me. You weren't lying, No, screamed Mae.
What do we do? Samuel asked, fear in his voice.
Maeve looked at him. I don't know. They stood together
in the flickering dark, brother and sister caught in something
ancient and cruel, and outside the Doulahan waited, not knocking,
not breaking in, just waiting because it knew her name,
and that was enough. Some names call life, some names
called death, and some are never forgotten.
Speaker 1: My gran used to say there were names you shouldn't say.
Twice at least not out loud, not where something could
hear you. She told me the Doulahan rides where the
ground remembers blood, that he doesn't chase, He waits, knows
your names before you do. They made us name the dead.
Ones said it was to honor them, bring closure, say
the names back into the world like a prayer. But
prayer's only work if something listens that still gives a damn.
I did see him once though, One night. He stood
on the edge of the old field horse foaming at
the mouth, steam rising like breath from a grave. He
didn't move, he just held his head under one arm
and a lantern light leaking from the eyes. Then he spoke,
not words, but names, my name, the others a few
we hadn't even spoken yet. When I told my roommate
this story, he just laughed at me, said I was
losing it. You know, maybe I was. But he did
say my full name that night. No surprise, Darre though
he died in his sleep, no wounds, no trauma, but
his mouth was open like something had reached in and
taken back the name. Grant was right. Once he knows
your name, it's his to keep. This episode of Tales
was written by Envero, narrated by Kay rich Sin, and
produced by Tommy Boy Production. Oh Yes, tail Weavers, I
have some new story art which was created by an
artist who goes by the name of Kui Draws. You
can find our Instagram and the story notes, Give her
a follow and check out her amazing art created by
a human. Sadly in twenty twenty five. You have to
say things like that because you know us humans have
to compete with AI nowadays. Also, don't be shot and
hit that follow button on the podcast and leave a review.
Thanks for listening, tail Weavers. Just be careful what tales
you carry home.