In the heart of a wood which lost its name long ago, is a place where a seeker of stories may go. If you've arrived and a story is your desire, come take a seat, for what you require is a tale from the second storyteller. Ah, hello and welcome. Oh, don't worry, I was just doing a bit of spring cleaning. Who am I? Well, you can just call me the second storyteller. And I suppose if you're here, that means you're looking for a good tale. Well, look no further.
This tarot urn has been standing in these woods for longer than I know, and it holds fantastic stories of all kinds. We've got tall tales, short tales, tales that are about average height but still feel a bit self-conscious, you name it. I live here to ensure that this incredible place is not lost to time, and I am more than happy to share its wealth of stories with visitors. Here, why don't you have a seat by the fireplace? I'm sure I can find the perfect story for you.
Since this is our first meeting, I really should start things off right. Let's see here... Oh, here's a great one. Now, if you're ready, just relax and listen to the voice of the story. Let us begin. Empty Shoe Something unseen watched and waited as Robert Linky walked into the kitchen with Eon. As Robert filled the reservoir of his coffee maker with water and the filter with grounds, a presence lurked, percolating with anticipation.
Robert reached for the switch to turn the coffee maker on, but at the last moment he stopped, turned, and headed to the bathroom. An intangible being raged without sound as it waited for Robert to return. Mortals were infuriating. After five minutes of eternity, Robert finally re-entered the kitchen and without hesitation flipped the coffee maker on. Something else in the room could barely contain its glee. The small appliance made its usual gurgles as the water began to heat.
Robert had opened the fridge to retrieve a carton of milk, and so he failed to hear the moment when the coffee just started to filter its way into the pot and audibly gurgle out his name with a cryptic, R-O-B-E-R-T. The invisible presence was delighted when Robert, having just retrieved a mug, finally noticed that the liquid burbling down into the glass pot was the exact color and consistency of blood. The fuck? Robert grumbled, before turning his attention to the milk's expiration date.
The ghost, floating carefully in his blind spot, decided that desperate measures were required. It decided to use its most chilling voice. Good morning, Bob, a whisper which felt like a freezing wind plucked at Robert's ear. The best part of waking up is the blood of the innocent in your cup. The voice let out a high, airy giggle. Robert waved his hand past his ear as though chewing a mosquito, then retrieved the pot of hot bubbling blood, apparently, and poured himself a cup.
He took a long sip while the liquid was good and hot, before remarking aloud, Well, this blood tastes like dirt, but the milk is off by two days, so it'll have to do. Seriously? The ghost exclaimed. Frankie apparated slowly, a round, cartoonish figure with two large black, void-like eyes. His round body ended in a tail-like point, which rested lazily on Bob's countertop, while Frankie's two long legs dangled freely off the edge.
Though Frankie's legs were translucent just like the rest of him, they looked otherwise so normally human that it clashed unpleasantly with the rest of the ghost's almost whimsical appearance. This always bothered Bob. You know, I never asked, but why are there little hairs on your legs? asked Bob, pointing at the ever-present ghastly follicles. Frankie had never really thought about that, and did his best to hide his embarrassment. How the fuck do you shave a ghost, Bob? the phantom snapped.
No, forget how to get rid of them. Why are they even there in the first place? Do all ghosts have hairy legs? When you were alive, was that your best feature? Bob continued to drink his coffee. That's what you're thinking about, not the steaming mug of orphan blood you're sucking on. You mean the coffee that you put an illusion on. Why not make some illusory socks, so I don't have to look at your gross-ass ghost feet?
Frankie inspected his feet, which didn't look too bad in his opinion, and suddenly the ghost felt a slight pang of self-consciousness, wondering what Bob thought was gross about his feet, that he was failing to notice himself. The ghost shuddered slightly, and teleported, in the same seated posture, to the top of the refrigerator. Bob, I am so disappointed in you.
Your heart has grown so cold and detached that you can no longer distinguish between the taste of coffee and the blood of orphans who most certainly died as a result of your own selfish actions in life. Bob let out a satisfied sigh after taking another sip, before retorting. Nah, you did this one, I think. Two years ago? Maybe three? I- I did? Yeah, I'm coming up on four years in this place, and you totally did the turn coffee into orphan blood thing before. Maybe you told me it was puppy blood.
I don't know. Didn't work then, either. Bob reached up through the ghost on his fridge to a bowl of fruit and tried to take an apple, but it somehow became lodged inside Frankie when Bob pulled his arm back. He gestured for Frankie to move, and the ghost obliged, teleporting and repositioning himself to float just above the table in the tiny kitchen. The apple remained floating around inside the ghost, slowly withering over time. Four years? Frankie asked. Music? Bob interrupted quickly. Huh?
Oh. Frankie glanced at the clock on the microwave, it read 618 A.M., already later than Frankie realized. Yes, please. Bob turned on the radio, and energetic rock music settled into the tiny room. I can't believe it's already been. Frankie tried to return to his original thought, but interrupted himself when he recognized which band was playing. Wife with the big knife! Bob grinned. Yeah, I wish this station played more than just Empty Shoe, though. I mean, it's great.
Why wouldn't you play this one song all the time, but... Empty Shoe isn't even close to the best song on Mammoth Leg, though. What about Dustface? Do they even ever play Bottles Under Burdens? Bottles Under Burdens is way too long to play on the radio. I do hear Dustface sometimes in the car. I guess they don't play it at 6 A.M., Frankie sighed, spinning in a small circle as he floated.
The flesh of the apple floating inside him had rotted away considerably, and the seeds were just starting to show. Why don't you float all the time? asked Bob through a mouthful of apple. Why don't you stand all the time, Bob? Frankie retorted. Bob raised both eyebrows and made a face to indicate that the ghost had made a good point.
The young man and the ghost existed in silence for a few minutes as they listened to the last lines of Empty Shoe, both internally acknowledging that while the song was indeed overplayed, it was just so good. A generic pop song took the place of Empty Shoe. I'm going to see Wife of the Big Knife after work tonight. Frankie teleported rapidly around the kitchen with excitement, before appearing a few inches from Bob's face. You have to get me a t-shirt! the ghost insisted. You don't wear clothes!
But I need one! Frankie insisted. Okay, okay, fine. Maddy would get you one anyway, Bob conceded. Oohhhhhhhh Frankie crooned. Though, coming from him, it just sounded like a stereotypical ghost sound. Wife Knife, and a date with Maddy. Nice. Yeah I just hope. Bob cut himself off, glancing over at the microwave clock. What's up? Frankie asked. It's about that time. Bob gestured to the clock, which now read 6.57. Oh, damn, already? Well, quick then, what's up with Maddie?
She seemed okay when she stayed over a couple weeks ago. We talked about movies! The ghost rambled. Maddie's fine, don't worry about it. I'll get you a shirt tonight. See you tomorrow. The apple floating in Frankie had dwindled down to a stem in two seeds. As the digital clock ticked over to 7am, Frankie's ghostly form began to fade. Bye, Bob, said Frankie. See ya, weirdo. Bob waved. And the tiny kitchen vanished. Frankie once again found himself in total darkness, a seemingly endless void.
The void was boring. Frankie could conjure simple illusions to help himself pass the time, and mostly he wrote songs and poems. With so little else to do, they were always easy to memorize, and Bob sometimes liked them. The void wasn't really too bad, especially since once a day, apparently for nearly the past four years, Frankie would appear in Bob's apartment from 6am to 7am.
Being a ghost, Frankie just kind of assumed that he was supposed to try and scare this human, and so introduced himself to Robert Lenke with an illusion of the apartment on fire. Robert had woken up in a panic, falling over himself to attempt to extinguish the flames. Frankie had quickly discovered that there was no joy or satisfaction to be found in watching a grown man panic to the point of sobbing, and returned to the void that day feeling more embarrassed than anything.
On his second visit, Frankie had waited patiently in the tiny kitchen, determined to make a less upsetting introduction. When Robert had emerged from his bedroom a hundred percent nude to find a ghost with legs waiting for him in his kitchen, he had simply walked back into his bedroom and slammed the door. It had been a long hour before Frankie faded back into his dimension of emptiness. This seemed more or less to be the right amount of surprise.
Frankie continued to appear in the apartment at the same time every day, spooked Robert, then faded back into the void. Before too long, Robert began adjusting to the schedule, so Frankie had to keep thinking up new ways of popping up, or surprisingly human. It took a couple of weeks before Robert started asking questions, and their odd yet comfortable relationship began to take shape when the human had insisted, just call me Bob, okay? Frankie found it surprising that four years had gone by.
For Bob it had been four years, but it had only been an hour a day for Frankie, only about sixty days, when Frankie spent a long time working out the math. It took him so long, in fact, that when he arrived at the total of about sixty days, the void was fading again, and he found himself sitting on the small couch in Bob's living room. Before he could think of a good prank, Bob walked into the living room holding up a black t-shirt with a huge, brutal looking knife printed on it.
He tossed it at the ghost, and the shirt landed inelegantly over Frankie's left eye hole. Yes! How was it? Did they play a good set? Any of their older stuff? The ghost chattered excitedly. Bob recounted the details of the concert for a while. He seemed distracted, but Frankie kept asking questions. Eventually the human waved his hands. Wait, I'm getting sidetracked, and we only have so much time. I gotta tell you something, Frankie. Wife with the big knife isn't breaking up, is it?
The ghost gasped. That would be the absolute worst! No, nothing to do with that. Good, Frankie sighed. So remember how I said I'd been here almost four years? Yeah, I was just thinking about that in the void. I still feel bad about the fire prank. I still feel weird that a ghost saw my dong. Frankie and Bob exchanged an uncomfortable look as they both realized that no amount of time would make that memory less awkward.
Anyway, things are getting serious with me and Maddie, and I asked her last night about moving in together. Frankie teleported around the living room with Glee before he settled on top of the TV. Ah yeah, Maddie is awesome! This will be great! Maybe she can start showing me some of those movies she was telling me about. When is she moving in? So Maddie's place is actually closer to where I work, and it's way bigger. Plus my lease is over at the end of the month, so...
Bob paused, hoping that Frankie would take the hint, but the ghost was still cheerily tapping his ghost feet on the TV screen. I'm actually moving in with Maddie at the end of the month. Frankie stopped swinging his legs. Wait, but...Bob grimaced. I know! I knew this would upset you, but I didn't want to be a dick and tell you at the last second. Me and Maddie literally agreed on it last night. We talked about it a little bit before, but... Frankie started floating in nervous circles.
But...but...but you've always been here, the ghost muttered. Only for the last four years, actually. But I was never here before you were here, Frankie continued. You mean you weren't in this apartment before? Yes. No. Both, I mean. Both. I wasn't in this apartment, and I wasn't...anywhere. I don't think. The ghost sounded panicked. So you died just before I moved in? I don't know. Did you live here before me? Dunno. Well, when I move out... I don't fucking know!
Frankie suddenly shouted, inches away from Robert's face. There was a long silence as the ghost and the human stared at each other. Frankie's form was expanding and contracting as though the ghost were breathing heavily, which of course was impossible. You...you can't go, Frankie said finally. Man, I can't stay here forever. This apartment is tiny, and why can't she just move in here? It's way too small, Frankie. I mean, you can make it work, it's not that bad.
Yeah, but...even if it wasn't happening now... Someday, dude, I'm just gonna have to... But what's going to happen to me? Frankie shouted again, and then vanished completely. The living room was gone, and Frankie found himself back in the void, filled with questions and fears with nothing to pacify them.
The ghost decided he had about a month, twenty-six more hours, in fact, to change Bob's mind, and spent his interval in the void devising clever arguments and good solid reasons why moving was a terrible idea. He reappeared, this time in Bob's bedroom, to find the human already sitting on the end of the bed, waiting for Frankie. Okay, so... Sorry if I got heated, but I had some time to think. Frankie started as he hovered back and forth across the room.
Bob put his hands up and covered his face, his voice muffled through his hands. I'm definitely moving, Frankie. I finalized it with the landlord. She's got someone new moving in at the start of next month. But what if they suck? I'm sorry, Frankie. What if I stop fucking existing, Robert? Fuck off, that's not my problem! The ghost shuddered, turned invisible, and remained in that state until he returned to the void. Over the following weeks, 6am to 7am became tense.
Frankie alternated back and forth between anger and sulking silence. There were mornings where all of the cabinets in Bob's kitchen continuously slammed for an hour. On a different morning, Frankie left an angry note scribbled in the fog on the bathroom mirror. It was exceptionally hard to read, however, and Frankie knew that the message failed when Bob emerged from the bathroom asking out loud, How would I even choke on a deck? I don't have a deck!
Most days, though, Frankie slumped invisibly in a corner, waiting for 7am to whisk away his awkward visits. On the day before the move, Frankie decided to lurk on top of the fridge and dump the fruit bowl on Bob's head once the unsuspecting human reached up for some. The ghost haunted impatiently, but Bob did not appear in the kitchen. Invisible, Frankie phased through the bedroom door, preparing to catch Bob completely off guard. But it was Frankie who was unprepared.
He found Bob sitting on the end of the bed, face buried in the Wife with the Big Knife T-shirt. The human's shoulders shook slightly as he used the shirt to muffle his crying. Frankie was stunned. He'd never seen Bob like this. He phased back into the kitchen sheepishly, and at 7am, he faded into the void, full of regret. Frankie sat in the void, cursing his own selfishness. He'd been so angry and afraid. Now though, he was just angry at himself for having wasted so much time.
One day left before the move, and he only now realized that Bob was also afraid, unsure of what the consequences of his decision would be. It felt like an eternity before 6am. The radio in the kitchen was already switched on, with some energetic voice selling some inconsequential product. Frankie sat himself on the kitchen counter and waited. The room was bare, save for a few essentials.
Frankie had never realized how much a simple thing like a fridge magnet or a wall calendar added to a space, or how empty that same space looked, without those simple, familiar things. Bob shuffled into the kitchen. He and Frankie stared at each other for a moment. What, no horrific visions today? the human asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Didn't feel like it today, Frankie offered glumly. Fair enough. Bob took a seat at the kitchen table. So, that t-shirt you got me. Take it with you.
I can't wear it anyway, said the ghost awkwardly. You sure? It's yours. Yeah, if you don't want it, Maddie can have it. Thanks man. Yeah. The two existed without speaking, Bob sipping at his coffee as the radio offered music that neither of them particularly liked. I would settle for empty shoe. Frankie sighed. Same. I mean, I say settle, but it is a good song. Talking seemed to pass the time too quickly, but silence was painful and bit sharply. Frankie was sure that Bob was feeling it too.
The ghost tried to avoid looking at the microwave clock, but it was impossible. As the longest, short hour was nearing its end, Frankie hopped off the counter. I'm off. Say hi to Maddie for me, the ghost offered. Yeah. Take care, Frankie. The ghost gave a slight nod. Bye, Bob, said Frankie. See ya, weirdo. Bob waved. And the kitchen faded away. The void was bigger, deeper, and more encompassing than Frankie remembered. The ghost focused on his favorite song.
There was nothing else to do, and he wanted to make sure he remembered every word and note. The worry, doubt, and fear all felt like a terrible weight, poised to crush the ghost if he allowed his thoughts to linger on those feelings for too long. As he started thinking about the song, very slowly, he started to realize that he wasn't just thinking about it. He could faintly hear the first few opening notes of Bottles Under Burdens.
Frankie's anxious feelings melted away, replaced with warm comfort as the void gently faded out and the song became louder. Hmm. I wonder where Frankie ended up. Well, fortunately you and I have had a much less awkward first meeting. I think so anyway. I hope you've enjoyed today's story. This tower is filled with every type of story that you could possibly imagine.
So if there's a sort of story you would like to hear, please do let me know, and I would be more than happy to find one to suit your request. For now, be well, and carry today's story in your heart. Frankie's tale has ended, but return once again to this place where you are considered a friend. Return to this tower and its mysterious dweller for more from the library of The Second Storyteller. Thank you for listening to The Second Storyteller.
If you have a prompt for a story, please send it to thesecondstoryteller at gmail.com. If your prompt is selected, your name will be credited at the end of the episode. Today's prompt was Ghosts, submitted by Aster C. If you would like to help support the future of this podcast, please consider becoming a patron by going to patreon.com slash the second storyteller. The Second Storyteller podcast and the featured stories were written and created by Katie Chacon.
The role of the second storyteller is played by Charles Scott. Today's voice of the story was provided by Katie Chacon. The voice of the intro and outro is Chris Camp, and you can find the fantastic games he's worked on at rix.itch.io. The music was written by Finton, who can be found at garbagebag.itch.io. The second storyteller will return next month with more magic, fun, and of course, a story to tell.