Welcome to ghost Wax, a Foreign Tall Tales production. The following story may contain graphic content. Listener discretion is advised. Tales from the Vault is a community sourced variety show featuring readings of classic fiction, real life testimonials, poetry, music, and stories created by ghost Wax listeners. If you have anything you'd like to contribute to future Vault episodes, please feel free to email us at Foreign Tall Tales at gmail dot com. Depths of the Doldrums by Hannah
Brown read by Kate Jackson. Oil spills are loud, chaotic things, with crews on fireboats yelling, helicopters circling overhead, and the groans of machinery being dragged down into the depths. But as our crew approaches, the silence is an oppressive, numbing, like anesthesia in the air. Even Harvey in full officer mode, barking commands and avoiding his feelings, stops as if his tongue
has grown heavy. I pull our fireboat Arris into a rolling stop beside the cruelest Leshie and idle the engine framed perfectly by the two halves of the cargo ship. As they drift apart. Harvey stares down into the viscous oil spill coalescing in the still ocean waters. Someone has set up an oil boom, so the spill is edged in the fluorescent orange freeboard, but the oil isn't touching the edges of the oil boom as normal. The spill is turning inwards,
coalescing. Our engineer, Alex saddles up beside me and mutters, where the fuck is everyone? The crew of the less She is vanished. No one shouts from the cargo ship. The water is void of any survivor. Bobbing in a life jacket, it is still. I grip the helm, fighting down a reflexive shudder. Alex's voice is muted, but Harvey still turns to look, and I see it then in his eyes, the same panic he had on his face when he pulled me in the water after my diving
equipment failed. We are going to die. I shake it off, swallowing back file and looking past Harvey. Our deckhand Crook leans over the bow towards the shiny spill hovering on the surface of the water. I watch as the shimmering oil seems to avoid his questing collection flask, bobbing out of reach, curling back in on itself. I grabbed the VHF radio and search for a clear line, But no matter how many times I changed channel, only white
noise greets me. Radio crapped out Eva. I look at Harvey, helplessness numbing my throat before I choke it back. Something's wrong. I'm the first one to voice it, that deep seated knowing that lingers in all our bellies. Something is very, very wrong. We should head back. Alex says, there's no one here and we need back up. Harvey's lips turn inwards, loathe to shirk our duties, But then his gaze flickers to me, and I see it again. He no longer looks at me like a firefighter,
a pilot, a coworker. Instead, he looks at me like I'm just a woman. Fuck one sweep, I correct Alec before Harvey caves. They could still be out there. Harvey relents fine Crook. Crook's scream comes from the bottom of the ocean. We charge towards the bow, towards where we last saw him, and watch as the oil sucks something wearing a life jacket beneath. It's not a splash, The darkness simply bubbles up for a moment, and then draws krook beneath, falling back into calm stillness. Seconds
later, his scream doesn't even echo. Harvey shoves Alex away, stripping his life jacket and outer layers until only his wet suit remains, grabbing one of the scooby units and strapping himself in. I help him with numb hands, Harvey, I say, eschewing his title, as the numbing sets into my lungs too. You sure? He gives me a stoic nod, and I step away so he can dive into the water. He avoids the spill that has been fenced in by the oil boom as he dives, and then swims
over, dipping beneath it. The second he is out of sight, I turn my attention back to the oil spill, watching as it seems to take in a deep breath, the edges of the slick turning back in on the center, becoming darker more opaque. Seconds later, Harvey's head is birth from the center, his mouth gaping, viscous oil stretching across his skin, blocking his airways. His eyes ava run, and then he is swallowed again,
his head disappearing below the numbing stillness of the surface. I hear myself scream as though from far away, the numbness and my lungs leeching into my heart. Beside me, Alex reaches for the blowtorch. I jolt from my panic, grabbing it as he does. No, I screamed at him. They're still out there. Wild eyed, Alex kicks me and my gut, knocking me onto my ass. I slam into the gunwhale, our lucky fish hook clattering into the floor beside me in time to watch him lean over the bow.
I griped the fish hook, bracing myself as I catch his ankle, ready to tug him back onto the deck. Alex extends the ignited blowtorch towards the oil, but it doesn't ignite. The second he touches the flame to that inky darkness, the darkness reaches out, sloughing up his arm and yanking him face first into the void at its center. I'm tugged to my feet by the motion, forced to let go of the fish hook as my shoulder
screams in protest. I fall back onto the deck and watch as Alex flails, his arms and legs covered in a film viscous black ooze, before everything falls silent again. Still the fish hook clatters to the deck. The crew of the cargo ship, crew of the Lesche Crook, Alex and Harvey. Whatever this thing is, it took them, and more ships will come. That numb, horrifying feeling, I understand it with sudden, heartbreaking clarity.
It's the feeling of being beheld by a predator. Beyond knowing. There's only one thing I can think of, one stupid, deadly thing I can do to contain it. After all, wear a fireboat. We have a pump for a reason, only this time it won't be water. I pump, I grab a sharpie and scrawl across the control panel. Death in tanks do not open. And then I grab the helm, swallow my fear, and plunge into the midst of the beast. As the black ooze of silence rolls
up to greet me, I close my eyes and reach for Harvey. And now a first hand account from Brian Watson Jones. Hi, I'm Brian. I'm one of the writers and actors on Ghost Wax, and this is a story that is not fiction and I am not acting. This is a true
thing that happened to me. When I was young, I was obsessed with the unknown, read books by Charles Fort dug into all the wild stories that led to both the well known and the obscure Bigfoot and Nessy of course, rains of frogs and blood and jelly chains and pterodactyls that were cracked out of coal and mines. A lot of those things have been debunked or have gone unreported for so long since their initial stories that they became conspicuous in their absence.
But that doesn't change the feeling I had when I was reading them, and it doesn't make me less likely to chase things that make me feel that feeling. Again. That's a big part of what brought me to ghost Wax. I haven't had a lot of my own experiences, but maybe more than most. Saw you once so a field of ghosts, once heard another ghost laughing another time. But there's only one time. Something happened that I absolutely cannot explain, not even with paranormal stories. I have no idea what this
was, what it could have been. I was eleven or twelve and visiting my step grandmother's house. It's around my birthday, so late spring, but it's hot. My brother and I are staying in a side room and I cannot sleep. I am baking. There is no ac there is no window to crack. It is hot, so I take my sleeping bag out onto the back porch, where at least there's a breeze. I've been tossing and turning all nights, so by the time I get out there, the sky
is starting to lighten with dawn. My stepgrandmother lived in a pretty rural area, but less rural than I was used to. You could see signs of other properties from the porch, and we weren't surrounded by trees. As I lay there, trying to get even a little sleep before the day actually started, I was staring off to the west, away from where the sun would come up, and aside from a large bush in the yard, I could
see all the way to the horizon. There was a flashing light just at the edge, cone shaped, pointing a little off from straight up, like a spotlight, but pulsing regularly, tick tick tick. I could almost hear it, like that electrical clicking that comes from some appliance getting switched on. A couple of rooms away. I'm lying there wondering what it was, why I was doing that so early in the morning. When the bush lights up, it just illuminates from within, not like Moses's burning bush, more like
a dimmer bulb that got dialed up from nothing to full. No sound, not even that electrical hum. It just became bright. And I lay there staring at it, holding my breath, noting that the pulse on the horizon was continuing and waiting, waiting for the next step in whatever was happening, waiting for something to escalate or arrive, waiting for whatever this portended to pay off. And nothing else happened. After a minute, or five minutes or ten seconds, I have no idea. The bush goes dark again, the
same in reverse, just full light to normal bush. The pulse on the horizon continued. The sun still wasn't quite up, it was still goddamn hot, but the spell was broken. I went back inside quick as I could, scared as hell, and went back to my room. I don't remember if I slept after that. I never went back to the house after that trip, and to this day, I have no idea what that was. I'm certain I wasn't asleep, that's all I'm really sure of. But in
all my weird reading, I've never heard of anything like that. I don't even have a debunked name to slap on it. It just was, for a few minutes, just a little slice of broken reality. The Green Bridge by Marlow Not Found read by Gaylas Stell and Robert Knutson. This is this is silly. I'm really anxious right now, and I feel this this need to get this out. I just got out of work, and I have
to wait for my car to warm up. So so I'm just gonna tell the story from the beginning, just in case when it snows, I take the long way home. I work the night shift in my office, usually getting out at midnight. I don't mind the dark on the drive home, and the snow doesn't scare me much either. Mostly I'm just concerned with assholes on the freeway rushing home after their shifts end. People who grew up driving in this weather think they're invincible. I take the second way home, twenty
five miles per hour, through suburbs and into the softly lit town. I get to enjoy the holiday lights illuminating the freshly fallen snow. It's beautiful and no one is there to tail gave me a perfect drive with no unnecessary risks until I get to the bridge. I didn't used to fear the bridge. I grew up in this town. The distinct green of the bridge is a symbol of home for me. I remember when they added a beautiful new sidewalk and I used to hang off the railing to look at the rushing water roar
over the rocks. It was probably eight at the time. I loved that bridge so much. The sidewalk is at an angle now. The supports under the bridge are rusted nearly through too many years of town not having the budget to make proper maintenance. They finally got a grant from the state to build a new, safer bridge, but bridges take time to build. Until the new one is built, there are only two ways to cross the river, the freeway or the green Bridge. The bridge was always part of my winter
risk assessment. The odds of the bridge collapsing are much lower than the chances of me getting driven off the road on the freeway. Something about the bridge at night has started to feel wrong, though I know that's really vague. It's almost as if the bridge has a presence something that I don't feel the weight of until I'm halfway across. It's been two winters of feeling this weight. Heading into my third last winter, the street lights on the bridge started
flickering off right as I passed under them. I thought it was a fluke or that passing under the light and my car roof throwing a shadow over me just seemed like the lights were shutting off. Easy to explain. Right the next time I crossed, I paid attention to the lights. The last light on the bridge shut off right as I passed. I didn't tell anyone, not until it happened two more times. My coworker shrugged, and so the city probably shuts off the lights at a certain hour to save energy, since
there's such little traffic after midnights. Anyways, when I explained it wasn't always all four lights, and that I didn't arrive at the bridge at the same time every night, she just shrugged me off. Ghosts aren't real, after all. She didn't believe it was anything strange. It started happening at other times too, in other seasons a nicer weather. I walked across the bridge at sunset this summer, and every single light flickered off as I passed,
ignoring the crossing cars completely. I can convince myself it's safe to cross in the daylight when the lights are already off. Nothing scary happens in the daylight. It's an easy lie. Early autumn, I drove over it once at night and the light stayed steady for the first time in a long time. God, I was so relieved until I dreamt of drowning. That night. I woke up with my teeth chattering. I couldn't get back to sleep until dawn. I stopped driving over the bridge entirely after that, I go far
out of my way to cross any other bridge to get home. The dreams haven't stopped. I remember more and more every time I wake up from them, and just thinking about that makes me feel so cold. And if I zone out even a little bit when I'm driving around town, my brain auto routes me directly to the bridge. It's just I can't avoid it. I should have called out today when I heard about the weather, but it's too
late for that. Now I think I'm going to die tonight, like I'm running the risk in my head, and just know if I take the freeway home tonight, I'll slide and crash. It's It's Murphy's law right where it only rains if you forget an umbrella. The one day I choose to take the freeway instead of the back row it's home and a snowstorm will be the day I wreck my car. The bridge is inevitable for me. It's the only option. That's why I needed to record this. I need someone to
know about this in case the bridge does collapse tonight. This is so stupid. The death of j Sterling wouldn't have immediately raised any red flags. It was how the recording surfaced and its message that finally got our attention. The bridge did collapse that night. Jay's car was found, but their body was never recovered. This recording was posted to their social media account two weeks after their presumed death, giving enough locals affright that it made news stories. We
haven't been able to locate the body of the victim either. This testimony, recorded before their death, now committed to wax, is all we have. It's unclear if there were other worldly entities at play on that bridge, or if the victim just had a latent premonitory ability and predicted their own death. Until we have more to go on it will remain A cold case feeding by Sam Taylor, performed by Robert Knutsen. As Van said, Owen sat at
his desk and wondered about his new familiar. The black cat pranced in happily with something in his mouth. What do you have, Jinx, Owen asked, with an eyebrow raised. Jinks jumped up to the desk and sat in front of his necromancer. He sat proud with his fresh kill. Owen observed the cat and the kill. Is this an offering? Owen asked. Jinks set the creature down in front of his necromancer. It was bluish, with eyeballs covering all of it. Jinks looked expectantly at him. Are you wanting
me to eat that? Owen asked. Jinx me out at him and pushed the creature forward. Owen looked at the creature and back at Jinks. Good cat. He patted Jinks on the head before picking up the creature and dropping it in his mouth. The creature was chewy, as Owen made sure to make it more manageable to go down his throat. It was not the worst thing Owen had ever eaten. He took a few SIPs of his tea, and the offering was moving towards his stomach. Oh my God's, Pip said
in the doorway with Luca. You didn't eat that, did you. I cannot let this hunter's offering go to waste. Owen tried to defend his actions. Jinks seemed to be in agreement, nodding his head and yowing indignantly to Philippa. Though I like my offerings cooked, Owen said, taking another sip of tea and patting Jakes's head again. Good cat, Good cat. Mannekin
Memories by Knox Corvum read by Atlas Gizzi. There's a mannequin in the corner of my living room, wearing the beginnings of an evening outfit in blue and purple and black fabric like a galaxy. It is a simple torso and featureless head, rotten, pale, slightly worn cloth, held up by a pole to the thick wooden stand. I glance over, and the chin is drooping, wasn't it looking ahead? I didn't know the neck was posable. I
thought it wasn't. The mannequin wobbles as a book, slides off the top of the stack on the table, and hits the arm when did he get an arm? Didn't I buy this one because it was cheaper for having only the basic form? Why is there only one? Oh? Oh? The other arm is on the floor. One sleeve is empty. When did I add sleeps? When I glanced at it on my way out the door, part of the pin fabric of the collar has fallen onto its feet. When did it get legs? Wasn't it held up by a pole before? Its
stance is sure? Feet planted? I put the fabric on the desk to be fixed later, and the mannequin seems to loom over my shoulder When I return, it gazes longingly out the window and I can't remember why I spun it around when I have just begun working on the front details. The outfit is mostly done now, galactic colors sweeping across the limbs and body. The mankin's feet are offset, hips twisted as if preparing to spin. Why didn't
I buy a more standard mannequin? Did I want the challenge of creating something around a dynamic shape? The mannequin's face, a plastic mask like thing, gazes off towards the front door, a small smile, as if holding a secret on its face what's my name? I have a name, don't I. I stare into the mirror and panic. I'm mostly sure I recognize the face that makes up my reflection, but nothing comes to mind when I try to remember my name. My eyes are wide and so very gray, a
misty forest just before dawn. Perhaps that's my name forest. No, No, that isn't it. That isn't right, that isn't me. Dawn wrong again, too colorful, too full of light, and something I can't place. Gray. Hmm, perhaps gray will do. Why why can't I remember? The mannikin stares at me through the mirror in two doorways, expression full
of mirth. I lock both doors and go to bed. Some part of me is afraid of the mannequin's eyes, such a startling color, as they are silvery, sort of sharp and quiet, gray like woods anticipating the sun. I remember my face in the mirror, and I wonder how I'm just now being frightened that the mannequin's eyes resemble mine. I've had it for long enough that my project is almost done. I should be able to finish it tomorrow. What was I making again? I cannot sleep, I've just been
sitting up in bed staring at my bedroom door. It took me a minute to work out just exactly what the sound coming from beyond the two locked doors is. But I think I just don't want to admit to myself that someone is using my sewing machine. I don't know when someone could have gotten in without me knowing, given I've been home for most of the day uninterrupted, and why would someone break into a home to use a sewing machine in the
dead of night. My breath catches when I hear a hum accompany the noises of the machine, and I can't quite convince myself that I should go remove whatever has fallen onto the pedal and take a look at whatever appliance is humming in my home. I stay like that for several hours, based on the clock of my nightstand, but there were several moments where I nearly fell asleep
from exhaustion. I'm a little afraid I did. When the noises from the living room stop, I can just about see you around the room, but I still haven't heard any move no footsteps on the floorboards, no creak of a door. I haven't moved for quite a while, and most of my attention has been focused on the door to the hallway with short glances around my room and out the window, and suddenly something in the room is unfamiliar.
I didn't think to look down before the figure clad in purple and black and blue, sitting on the floor next to my bed rises fluidly, far too quickly, and its eyes are wide and unblinking and gray, and its hands are cloth and plastic and too warm to be made from non living material. As they settle on my jaw. My hands are just starting to move, and the mannequin's almost mirrored eyes, with that face full of mirth, stare
into my own as it snaps my neck. I jul to awake, then trying to breathe to calm myself from the nightmare, at the same time as instinctively trying to hold my breath to listen to any noises in my home. My lungs heave as quietly as I can make them do so, and I don't hear anything out of the ordinary, nothing I haven't heard before on any other night, No sewing machine. My alarm will be going off soon, but I feel as though I really did stay up all night staring at the
door. I go through what routine I can while keeping the door between me and the mannekin firmly shut and locked. And when I can stall no more, I know I have to face the thing in my home in the light of day, not just in the darkness of my dreams. When I opened
the door, the wooden stand is empty. I stop in my tracks, and my exhaustion does me no favors as a figure swirling in the colors surrounding the stars, sweeps out from the hallway to my left and takes my hand, leading me in a strange semblance of a waltz towards the empty stand. The figure starts to look more and more like the gray in the mirror with every step, and my own flesh is losing its color, cooling to the
texture of cloth. And there is a moment where neither of us are skin and neither of us are fabric, but both of us briefly alight in the same place. In between. The figure gently spins me so that my bare feet step onto the wooden stand, and my eyes are so heavy, my joints are so stiff I cannot feel my hands anymore. I'm not sure when I stopped breathing, but my chest won't move and neither will my legs, and the figure puts a warm hand on my cheek. Their smile is no
less mirthful, but it seems too bright on a human face. I can't move as the figure lets me go and steps towards the door, and the last thing I see before my eyes disappear into cloth and plastic is the galaxy of fabric disappearing through the front door, and the sound of it closing aligns
with the final beat of my heart. The Oceans Lament by Christine Wolfram, performed by Stephanie Olsen as Jane, with Brian Watson Jones as Mister Rochester, Kate Jackson as Leah the Maid, and Adelaide Rochester, Gaylastell as Missus Fairlax, Missus Ainslie, and Bertha Rochester. Pale. Moonlight streamed through my curtains when I awoke to the sound of a woman weeping. At first I thought that it was perhaps one of the other servant girls, so I donned my
slippers and quietly tiptoed down the gallery. Hello are you all right, I whispered. I heard back no reply, save for the weeping and the sounds of trickling water coming not from outside, but from within. Along the walls, the portraits appeared to be crying, tears streaming down their faces. In the distance, I heard a wet, slopping noise, accompanied by the sound of something hard dragging across the floor. My thoughts began to churn. Was
I experiencing a haunting with some ghostly apparition trying to communicate with me? A burning curiosity possessed me. I felt a tug, a pulsion to investigate the source of the noises, so I ventured onwards. I had reached the main hallway when I stepped on something. I stumbled, falling out of my slipper. When I bent down to retrieve it, I was met with a strange
resistance. I pulled it back with a sickening squelch, and as I held it up in disgust to inspect it, a sticky, viscous slime dripped from it. I nearly jumped when I heard a voice behind me. What are you doing wandering about in the late hours of the night. I spun around, finding myself face to face with the Manner's shrewd and owl like housekeeper, missus Fairlax. I thought I thought I heard a woman crying, I replied, this is an old and creaky manner that's prone to drafts. It'll play
tricks on your mind if you let it. You don't suppose it could be the ghost of Lady Rochester. Do you maybe she still roams these halls, and that's why the Master fears to spend more than a fortnight here. No, child, this isn't one of those gothic tales. Now get you back to bed. I lingered in the hallway, hesitating, debating whether to tell her about what else I saw when she already thought me silly and superstitious enough, missus Fairlax drew an exasperated sigh. Well, what else is it?
Out with it? I found this strange substance on the floor. Look, it ruined, my slipper. Do you know what it could be? It must be drool from one of the hounds. I'll have one of the servants clean it up in the morning, but it's far too much. That is of no concern of yours. You oversee Adele's tutoring, and I manage the household duties. Those are the roles we play here? Is that clear? Fighting back protest, I mumbled a yes, ma'am, then good night,
miss Eyre. By morning, my mind was still reeling from last night, so I set out to investigate the manner for proof that what happened was real and not imagined. Besides just my soiled slipper, All traces of the slime had vanished from the hallway, so I backtracked to the gallery, where the Rochester family portraits scowled down at me with their grim and imperious faces. But as I stepped forward to examine them closely, I noticed a crystalline residue streaking
down their faces. Curious, I wiped at it with my finger and sniffed it. It smelt salty, either from tears or salt water. How strange, Thornfield Hall was miles from sea and by no body of brackish water. I was convinced that this was no natural phenomenon, and became even more certain of this when one day I caught Leah carrying a tray filled with parsnips and bones. Who is that for, I asked. Leah's eyes darted around nervously, she could barely meet me in the eye. It's a it's for the
little missus rabbit, she squeaked, I shot her an incredulous look. You give her rabbit bones as if she were a dog. Yes, he likes to gnaw on em to wear down his teeth. Why not give it something more suitable then, like a wooden stick. Leah shrugged. He prefers bones. Now, if you don't mind me, I'll be on my way. She brushed past me and scurried away with the tray. But something told me to follow her. I trailed behind her, watching as she set out into
the yard and disappeared down into a cellar. I returned back inside the manner, even more perplexed. From my understanding, ghosts don't require mortal food. No, they were keeping some creature of flesh and blood in that cellar, and I was determined to see it. I waited for the perfect opportunity to investigate the cellar without anyone noticing. That day came in early November, when
all the servants were bustling about preparing for mister Rochester's arrival. In the chaos, I donned my shawl and slipped outside, making a beeline for the cellar. As I plunged down into its depth, darkness swallowed me inside. I heard the scuttle of insects, echoing drips of water and hushed whispers. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and felt along the damp wall, using
it as a guide. As I continued onward, the whispers grew louder and louder, and as I rounded a corner, I expected to find some werewolf like beast chained to the wall. But what I found instead was a different sort of monster. There was a woman, half snail, half human. Her skin was a pallid, bluish hue, and upon her back grew a giant, opalescent shell. She knelt before a makeshift altar, illuminated by dozens
of candles, whispering a chantlike prayer under her breath. I held my breath so as not to disturb her, and began silently backing my way out. When a bone crunched beneath my foot, I flinched. Her chanting halted, and her neck elongated, twisting around to peer at me. I prayed to the gray man, blood lies, so I can scarcely any more, she said, dragging her flaccid body towards me. Would you help me? Here
was terror clawed at me as a blood curdling scream escaped my mouth. I fled, scrambling up the stairs, as if the very hounds of hell were on my heels. I burst out of the cellar door and ran towards the manner, my heart pounding in my ears. When a large animal barred my path, I frozen my tracks when realization hit me. Master had returned. He stood before me, holding the reins of his black steed as he watched me with an amused expression. Well, is your curiosity satisfied now, Jane?
Mister Rochester asked, what what was that horrid thing that is my wife? I thought you said she died in a sense. Is there anything you can do to help her, something that can revert her back to her natural state? And what would you have me do? Hmm? Send her to a madhouse and tell them here's my wife. I'm afraid she's turned into a mollusk, so please do what you can for her. Or, better yet, perhaps I should send her to a surgeon who will have her vivisected an
ogle dat before an entire theater. Then we'll find our own way. He raised an eyebrow. We I'll find a way if you're so content with your lot. I like to consider myself a pragmatist. But you're free to go about searching for a non existent cure, so long as you're discreet about it. I won't tell a soul outside this manner, Sir, Your secret is safe with me, good because no one will believe you anyway. With that, he turned on his heel and led his horse to the stables, leaving
me to shiver in the autumn chill. The next morning, I found mister Rochester sprawled in a chair, staring pensively into the flames of the fireplace, lost deep in thought. As he nursed a glass of wine. A sort of bone tired weariness clung to him like a cloak. I could see it in the shadows of fatigue under his eyes and the strain in his jaw. Isn't it a bit early for wine, sir? I asked? Yours still here? He replied? Does that surprise you? I asked, I half
expected you to pack your bags and flee during the night. I scowled, I'm not so easily deterred, sir. Evidently not. He regarded me like he was appraising me anew, seeing me in a whole new light. No, you fancy yourself a noble heroine come to save us from our curse. And what manner of curse is that he drew a heavy sigh. It's a bit of a long story, so sit if you wish to hear it. Pulling a chair, I sat down beside him and listened as he began his
tail. Three years ago, we were on a holiday along the English coast. We were exploring the tide pools when Bertha came across this giant purlescent shell. She picked it up and held it to her ear exclaimed that she heard the ocean along with something else, a chorus of heavenly voices. I didn't think much of it at first, because she was a bit of an odd bird, much like yourself. She brought the shell home with us, and the more she listened to it, the more it changed her from the inside
out. She began to crave leafy vegetables, and I found her gnawing on discarded bones for their calcium. I presume she began to grow a shell of her own, and now she spends her days begging to listen to the artifact once more. But what of you? Are you unaffected by it? Not entirely, I hear it still calling to me, but I find the ringing subsides the farther I go from it. And that's why you disappear so often, and for societal parties and so called business. Correct, clever girl,
surely there must be a better solution, though a permanent one. Alas, he smiled bitterly as he swirled the wine in his glass. Just as I cannot bring myself to kill my wife and put her out of her misery, I cannot bring myself to destroy the cursed shell. What if I destroyed it for you? Just tell me where? No. I watched in horror as something inside him shifted, anger, contorting his face. His eyes bulged, extending unnaturally long, until I was afraid that they might pop out from his
head. Entirely, you would dare desecrate such a sacred thing, he roared. The wine sloshed from his hand, spilling onto his trousers and jolting him back to his senses. His feature snapped back into place, but I could still see that he was visibly shaken. He hunched over, clutching at his eyes, as if frightened of himself. Forgive me, that was unseemly, he said, his voice strained. Go now you are dismissed from your service. He gave a small shake of his head. No, just for the
day. I rose from my chair and bobbed my head in a curtesy as you wish. As I turned on my heel to leave him, I walked with a new found purpose. The artifact was taking a toll on him, wearing him away piece by piece, and I needed to find it and cast it back into the sea before his condition deteriorated any further. But where would he hide such a thing. Surely he would keep it close enough that no random stranger might accidentally stumble across it. Perhaps it was hidden somewhere inside the
manor or on the grounds, and I was determined to find it. I set out and searched every nook and cranny. I checked beneath loose floorboards and behind every book in the library. I even went into that frigid attic. I crawled around on my hands and knees amongst the dust, miscellaneous heirloms, and moth eaten sheets. My body froze up at the sound of creaking footsteps.
I debated whether to hide or come up with a convincing excuse for why I was poking around in the attic, but I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that it was just Adelaide, her hands covered in dirt and a wrapped bundle in her arms. She scrunched up her face, giggling at the sight of me. What are you doing. I'm looking for an old family heirloom, I said, as I stood up and dusted myself off. Did you find it? Not yet? Ad gestured to her bundle,
But what about you? What do you have there? It's a way we can all be together. Smiling, I knelt down beside her. May I see it? She nodded, sheepish, and pulled back the blanket to reveal a beautiful purlescent shell. When a haunting melody began emanating from it, my eyes widened in horror and panic seized me. I snatched the shell out of her hands and fumbled for the stag shaped lamp beside me, and brought it,
crashing again and again as Adelai wailed for me to stop. I don't know how long I bashed the dreadful thing, but when I looked up, panting for breath, I saw mister Rochester standing in the hallway, his face blanched with shock. Jane, what have you done? I hurriedly rose to my feet as words came tumbling out of me. Adelaide brought the shell to me. It began playing a song, and I didn't have much time to think. I just grabbed the closest heavy object next to me to protect us
both. I said. My words couldn't reach him. They slid off him like rain and glass, as he staggered in a daze and fell to his knees before the relics remains. No, no, no, he cried with trembling hands. He sobbed as he tried to piece the shattered shell back together. He was unrecognizable, a broken man. The very sight of him such a state sent a pang of guilt through me. I just wanted to help,
I said, My voice smoke. He glared up at me, his eyes brimming with furious tears, and shot me a look of such utter loathing that I took a step back. Leave, he hissed. I flinched as the venom in his voice stung me. As you wished. I tried to maintain my composure as I stiffly marched back to my room, but my lips began to quiver. By the time I reached my door, I had fully broken down. Tears blurred my vision As I shoved my dresses, my sketch
book, and the rest of my meager belongings into my baggage. I silently departed Thornfield Hall with a strange, aching hollowness inside my chest. I felt like I had somehow bestrayed mister Rochester. That I had abandoned poor Adelaide, and I was now leaving behind the only home that had brought me joy. What options did I have. I couldn't go back to living with my cruel
aunt and cousins. I couldn't live in Millcote. That Shire lay too close to Thornfield's looming shadow, so I settled for taking a carriage to Morton, a small town to the east. Sewing was one of the few skills I had acquired at Lowood, so I found a job there as an assistant at a seamstress shop. The work was dull, but it kept me fed. Three months passed without a single word from mister Rochester. I was sketching an idyllic scene of fairies attending their queen when I heard a rap at my door.
There's a man who wishes to speak to you. He asked for you by name, said the seamstress, missus Ainsley. My attention piqued. Did he happen to give his own name as well? No, but he's a brooding sort of fellow, with a fierce brow and a hawk like nose. Groaning, I set my sketch book and charcoal pencil aside on my bed. I know exactly who you're referring to. Shall I tell him you're here? Or would you like me to send him away? No? I'll see him,
although I cannot fathom what he could possibly want with me. Apprehension crept over me. I hadn't seen mister Rochester in months, or spoken to him since I departed the manner. I didn't know whether his anger had waned, or if his resentment of me had festered like an infected wound. Whatever the case, I stealed myself and waited. I heard footsteps and looked up to see mister Rochester standing before me, stripped of his hot e veneer, a proud man. Undone, Jane, you appear to be in good health.
Have they been treating you well? He asked missus Ainsley. Is fair, and she provides me with room and board at the deduction of some of my wages. I stared at him pointedly, But why do you care? Do you customarily check on the well being of your former employees. I felt obligated to check up on you, especially after I so hastily removed you from my service. He awkwardly wrung his hands as he searched for the right words. You see, the truth of the matter is I have not been myself for
a long time. In the grip of my madness and anger, I lashed out at you. I treated you most unfairly, even after you had saved myself and my ward from straying further from our humanity, And for that I am eternally in your debt. One name in particular was noticeably absent from his speech. I'm glad I could save you and Adelaide. But what of Bertha? Have her symptoms improved? I inquired? He smiled ruefully. I'm afraid she remains a giant snail. Only now a profound melancholy has taken her,
and she scarcely leaves her shell at all. Oh, my heart fell I had hoped to free her, but it appears I have only made matters worse. You mustn't blame yourself. There's not exactly a precedent for this sort of thing, so you couldn't have known. That's what would happen to her. That's the thing, isn't it. There was no telling what could have happened. I could have killed her, I could have killed all of you. I'm just a silly girl whose head is filled with fanciful dreams, and everyone
around me suffers for it. My shoulders racked as I broke down into tears. Never apologize for that, mister Rochester said. As he crossed the little distance there was between us. He tenderly cupped my face in his hands and wiped a tear away with his thumb. That's the very quality that makes me
so fond of you. My cheeks flushed and my heart fluttered wildly. Words caught on my tongue, and I lost all capacity for speech as I became suddenly aware of the heat in his body and the length of his dark eyelashes. As he peered intently down at my lips, his face painted with yearning and desire. For a moment, I swore he intended to kiss me. Until the spell between us broke. He dropped away from me, and he took a step back, clearing his throat. Oh, before I forget.
He reached into his pocket to hand me a check. Here are your monthly earnings, and if there's anything else I can do to help your life be more comfortable, Please don't hesitate to ask. I hesitated if I may ask one favor, sir, there is one household I have my eyes on. I'd appreciate if you could put in a good word for me there. Of course, name them and I'll sing your praises to them. It's called Thornfield Hall. The place is gloomy, and so is its master, but I've
grown fond of them both. Uncertainty flicked across his face, as well as something else, small spark in him that dared to hope he would still wish to work for me, after all I've put you through. He asked, You're the only employer peculiar enough for me and I for him, I replied. He beamed a rare smile at me, without a trace of his usual bitterness, warm enough to melt winter snow. Then come, Jane, let
us go home. My heart soared as I caught sight of the iron gates of Thornfield Hall before us loomed the manor itself, shrouded in fog and latticed with frost. I once found the castle like structure imposing, but I now found comfort in its gloom. The carriage rolled to a stop outside of it, and I took mister Rochester's hand as he helped me down. I strode up to the front door, where Missus Fairlax greeted us with the small incline of her head, and for the first time she looked at me with respect.
Welcome back, miss Eyre, she said, thank you, I said, stepping inside and removing my mittens. It's good to be back. I glanced around in wonder, absorbing the details of the manner's interior once more, from its mahogany banister to its austere sculptures, to the sprawling, haunting tableau towards its entrance. My attention snapped when I heard a clamor of footsteps and a child shouting miss Eyre. Miss Eyre Adelai came running down the stairs to
greet us, squealing in delight. I outstretched my arms as she flung her arms around me. Burying her face in my shoulder. I'm sorry, I'm sorry I yelled you. I didn't mean it. She said, that's quite all right, Papa, I said, as I smoothed her hair. People often say things that they don't mean when they are upset. As the days passed, I sank into the rhythm of familiarity. My tutoring with Adelaide resumed, but something in my relationship with mister Rochester had shifted. He appeared more
at ease around me and would seek out my company. We took sleigh rides through the snow and skated on the frozen lake beside the manor, and I felt a forbidden thrill when we began stealing kisses, deep and fierce in the shadows of the alcoves. It was like living inside a fairy tale, a dream. But that dream shattered when I awoke to drip, drip, drip. My stomach sank as an icy dread sloosed through my veins. No, I destroyed you. I flung back my sheets and stared at the wall in
disbelief. Dark water poured in rivulets down my wall. No, No, was it possible someone had restored the shell? Who would do such a thing. Everyone in the household seems so content, everyone that is, save Bertha. Marching down the hall, I sought her out to confront her. I descended into the dark of the cellar with a candle in hand. As I made my way down the narrow steps, I heard something that was either sobbing
or hysterical laughter. Bertha, I called out, cautious, I treaded across the floor when something burst beneath my feet, splashing the hem of my dress. I peered down. Intermingled amongst the puddles of water was cluster upon cluster of egg like membranes. Swallowing a scream, I hitched up my skirt and carefully sidestepped them. As I approached Bertha's shadowy silhouette. I know you must despise me, but there's something I must ask you, I began, to
my surprise. Birth Still, she lifted her head and I could see the madness in her eyes, glinting in the candlelight. Despise you, she said, and a voice as deep in cavernous as the sea. No, I am grful to you. You how me fine? The true? I swallowed hard? And what truth is that? All time? And my clong onto my humanity, believing that the great ones were incomprehensible, So far of myry in true, they of josen me just joy in their ranks. I've snded,
don't you see? I am no longer need the art of bag because I carry this song with him. She pressed a finger to her lips. Listen, can you hear? The energy of the cellar shifted? The hairs on my arm stood on end, and I felt a humming, like the crackling static that hangs about the air before a lightning strike. I heard it then, an otherworldly melody that was both early beautiful and filled with such utter
sadness and loneliness, A lament sound in the gulf, enveloping me. It reached into me and strummed my heart, plucking it like Orpheus played his lyre before Hades. I wept, tears streaming down my face as I wondered how I could have ever tried to silence such a wondrous thing. Thank you for listening to Ghostwax, a production of Foreign Tall Tales. Find us at Foreign Talltales dot squarespace dot com. Ghostwax is an independent podcast. So if you'd
liked the show. Please rate and review and consider joining us on Patreon at patreon dot com. Slash feign Tall Tales also give a listen to our fantasy roleplay show could Have been Heroes for something completely different. Ghost Wax is written and directed by Robert Knutsen, production and editing by Aaron Schoenrock. Our theme song is by bo Hoover.