Bline Story Studios giving story a voice. This is Addison Peacock and you're listening to The Wicked Library. Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created for immature 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.
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 to the Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytech, and I thank you for listening. A sincere thank you to those of you who are supporting the show. Without you, this show would not be possible. This season, all episodes are heard first by Patreon supporters and later shared
with the full audience. When you support the show, you can choose between ad free episodes, early access to the stories, and at higher levels of support you'll greet premiere access to Endfield Detective Agency current in production. That's right, Frank is coming back and to your ears this fall. You can support
the show at Patreon dot com Forward slash Wicked Library. A lot of hard work and money goes into making a Wicked Library, and I really do rely on this support to help me pay the authors, voice actors, composer and artists so that none of the Wicked Libraries contributors work for free. For as little as three dollars a month, you can help make the show you love
possible at Patreon dot com Forward slash Wicked Library. Now, let's get wicked with today's first dark tale told by Addison Peacock with a custom score written by Nico vites Of. We Talk of Dreams. Just another cautionary tale by Alexis Dubon. Just another cautionary tale by Alexis Dubonne. I had a sister once, Elsie, but not anymore. She had been accused of a pretty gruesome crime, and rather than get locked up, she decided to run away.
They were never able to find her. Her boyfriend's bones were discovered all picked clean after he stopped showing up to work, and since she'd split, everyone was pretty sure it was her who did it. That was a few years ago, and Jamie has kind of fallen into the sister shaped hole in my life. I met her at the bar shortly after all my family drama, and we've been best friends ever since. She's almost like a sister, about as close as someone could get, but no one will ever be Elsie.
She'd worked there long enough that she had the good schedule, with the good bar back and the good regulars, lots of familiar faces night after night, and Jamie knew them all, which meant I got all the good gossip. Like Mark, who lost an eye because of the time he got too drunk to play darts right and used all his strength dislodging one he got stuck in the wall. He pulled it so hard he impaled himself with the back end
of it. And Will who always had his two Jamison shots and Michaelobultra's between work and home. He never said a word, but he was there every day, always left Jamie at twenty. There was Chris, who once puked all over the bathroom and Jamie made him clean it up himself. After that night, he always had a hard time looking her in the face, although that didn't stop him from coming in and getting hammered more often than not.
Then there was Greg. Greg was a predator, gorgeous but evil. He had those lumberjack arms made of hills and valleys that you kind of just want to bite. He always had just enough scruff on his face to emphasize that jaw of his It could have been carved from stone. He had deep blue eyes that you'd have to swim your way out of. You could just drown
in them forever, and the man was devastatingly charming. He would remember just enough of what you'd say to make you feel important, but it never stayed in there long enough to make that feeling anything real, just enough to tease you, make you taste it, but nothing ever lasted. He'd always lose interest, move on to the next impossible to satisfy women served a passing purpose to him, and that's where it ended. Greg was a monster. Most
of the drama in the bar started with him. Girls would destroy their lives to make him happy. They'd break their leases on the promise of moving in with him, just to be left without a home or a backup plan. They'd lose lifelong friendships because they didn't know he was simultaneously sleeping with both of them. They'd sometimes come into the bar and tears, walk up to him while he was on a date with someone else and cry about how he told
her he loved her just the night before. He'd brush them off like he didn't even know who they were, greg ate women for breakfast and shout out broken lives. Lots of these stories I heard from Jamie, but I had seen enough firsthand and know she wasn't exaggerating. It was always different versions of the same thing. We'd watch him find some girl at the bar with her friends or on her own, but he was never the one to approach.
He always just somehow ended up with them. They came to him like hummingbirds to sugar water. We would watch him scope out the room, make his selection, and then without any effort at all, she'd end up at his side, and unless he wanted to, he never left the bar alone. Greg had an appetite or only one thing, and the man was insatiable. Jamie and I saw him break countless hearts in the most ruthless, unfeeling ways, and we tried warning his victims, but none never wanted to hear us.
His spell was too strong and so it went till last week. The night began like any other, Jamie and I playing Rummy five hundred while it was slow, and then gradually, as she got busier, our interactions were reduced to side eyes, shot over guys getting drunker and drunker, and trying harder and harder to hit on her. Eventually the place was full and we barely had time for even our brief chats. As she passed from one side
of the bar to the other. With my stool in the middle by the taps, we exchanged glances over Greg, watching to see which pretty young thing he would take home. But for whatever reason, his eyes kept landing on me, even when my back was turned. I felt them big bear paws hugging my shoulders and working their way down and up the curves of my body, sussing out the quality of my meat. I was his choice that night. I felt it that whole I glanced over my shoulder at the empty seat
beside his dangerous territory, but my decision was well informed. He wasn't just the hot guy at the bar paying attention to lucky little me, so cute and funny and irresistible that I couldn't possibly say No, he was Greg, and I knew his game, and he knew I knew his game. This would be something else. It was almost like a dare. Don't all winning streaks come to an end? Eventually, Jamie shook her head at me and mouthed a hard no. Sisters look out for one another, But why not.
I would be entering into this willingly, and we would see which one of us would survive. The next time Jamie passed by my stool, it was empty. Jamie shook her head at me disapprovingly. She had seen me leave with men before. She knew I had a type. I had a sweet spot for the womanizers, something about a man who could just shoe women up and spit them right back out. I could never pass it up.
But even compared to the worst of them, Greg was extreme. I had secretly dreamt at this moment I wanted him so badly, but until that night, I just never had the opportunity. This was my chance, and I was going to take it. Hi, was all he said, so coolly. As I sat down beside him. Hi, I gave him back, and we both smiled because we both knew that we didn't really need to say anything. Else we had entered a wordless agreement, Predator and pray. Game
on. We abandoned our half full drinks on the table and walked right out the door. I'm going to show you something, I said, as I nuzzled and nibble at his neck, and he pressed harder against the gas pedal. Just take this exit here. Pretty soon we were heading north on Root seventy one toward the Lost forty forest. He'd never fucked on the forest floor before, he said, and I guided his hand up my dress, promising him warmth against the cold night air. Can't wait to taste you, he
purred. Finally we arrived. He shut off the car and the headlights, leaving only the moon to light the night for us. Come, I whispered, and I led him into the woods, off the path where no one ever went. I want to take you somewhere where we can be as loud as we want. He followed, without hesitation. This is what a life of safety brings. No doubts, just guarantees, no fear, just certainty, not a care in the world besides feeding his hungry body. He knew
in his heart what was going to happen, but he was wrong. I led him deeper and deeper into the woods, until it was so thick with trees we could barely see the moonlight anymore. Into the heart of the forest, where the pines stood tall and pale and silent. He was ready to have me. I would be devoured and demolished and discarded like all the ones who came before, but not this time. The wind shifted, and I knew we were close shit. The temperatures dropped like twenty degrees. Greg sputtered
through chattering teeth. I held that handsome face in my hands, and with a wink, assured him that he wouldn't be cold for long. There in the silence of the forest. Something began to stir thought and gray. She'd been waiting among the pines. She could have been a tree herself, standing so thin and still, until her arm creaked at the hinge and her bare
foot rose from the cold dirt. Hollow and bony, the creature emerged from the woods, spattered with sparse patches of matted fur, alid skin stretched thin and tight over her figure, the bones sealed within, threatening to burst through at any moment. Gregg tried to run, but found himself already in her grasp. And then came the teeth, dozens of them, shining like ivory daggers in the dim blue light of the moon, Dripping wet with anticipation.
Her sharp green tongue speared from a lipless mouth, the tip unfurling, as if in a hurry to taste him, in advance of the rest of her Dried blood, caked over patches of mange painted a grotesque mockery of a smile across her face. Then she let out a horrible, haunting sound, giving voice to the fear in Greg's heart better than any attempt to do so through his own human mouth. Her breath burned my nostrils with putrid fumes of corruption
and decay. It was worse than I even remembered the sulfur extench of over boiled eggs, and the sharp sting of vinegar, rotted acrid meat and broiled flesh, fresh tire tracks, and long dead animals left a bake on hot summer asphalt. It choked me as I quietly stepped aside and let her study Greg's body with lifeless, unforgiving eyes, Deciding where to begin. I watched with cautious glee as he looked to the beast struggling to escape her grip.
Helpless and hopeless and so delicious, I observed all the cockiness had drained from his face. His confidence had deserted him, his arrogance turned to terror. There was fear and place of pride, defeat in place of dominance. It was glorious. The trees shuddered at the sound of his tortured and refutal cries for help. Needles fell like tears from the pines, as if in solidarity. He shrieked and sobbed and begged for his life, But we were so
far from anyone who might save him. Here he could scream as loud as he wanted, only I in the trees would hear. I backed up, slowly, knowing I had to be in the car and ready to go before she was done with him. I had brought enough men into these woods to know that I only had a short time to get myself to safety. While she fed with every man the beast consumed, she became a little wilder, a little more feral, And I knew that eventually it would be too dangerous
to keep this up. But now, as I moved further away, I watched gnaw old talons rip into his beautiful body, slicing a mo open like pie, spilling blood and piss and half digested beer all over the frosted dirt, making its steam greg This is Elsie, I shouted to him above his screams, and please for mercy. She has quite an appetite herself. Next up, we dive back into the darkness with today's second dark tale, told
by David Alt with a custom score written by Niko VTEs Of. We talk of dreams, the very counterfeit of death by Ken Browsky, the very counterfeit of death by Ken Bruski. I am not alone here, I am not alone here. I remember seeing this island in the distance. I remember it shaped like a crescent, with a beach of black sand, like a gaping mouth consuming the blue ocean water. I remember a crash, then darkness. I can only remember the storm and churning waves. The boat hit a rock.
Suddenly I felt my body slam into the helm. Then cold water and darkness. The sun burns the skin of my neck. During the day, the land is dry, hot and sparse. There are cacti and white incense trees with bare branches and yellow iguanas and giant tortoises with beady, discerning eyes. They wonder why I don't make my way to the north the island, where trees are more abundant in their shelter from the elements. I tell them I'm too weak, too exhausted. I take shade during the day underneath trees
with heavy green leaves. The air is wet at this higher elevation, and mist obscures any view of the south end of the island. It clings to me, I swear. I can feel the water droplets crawling across my skin like an army of ants. Birds call out from the trees. It's a familiar song. There are rocks jutting out of the southern cliff like tall steps that make it easy to crawl to the ocean, where the waves are gentle and undisturbed. I drink the salt water. I can feel my body absorbing
what it needs. I know it's impossible, but it's true. I drink water that clings to massive spade shaped fern leaves. Birds encourage me with high pitched tweets. It's as if they want me to survive, and I take this as a good sign. I was always an optimist. You have to be when you're waiting for a good wind to fill your sail. The lizard is watching me from a rock. I grab it and squeeze it until it stops writhing. I pluck the nails and eat it whole. Then sleep,
wake a dusk with a terrible hunger, my skin burning. Follow a trail to a tortoise nest. I use my fingernail to slit its throat, devour it. Jesus Christ. I can't stop, even though the taste is wretched. The birds wake me early. They sit on low branches, proud of their yellow and red plumage. They look to me like finches, but some have a strange horn on their bills. I talk to them to stay sane while I walk through the forest and gather jew that's collected on leaves. They
follow me, flying from branch to branch. They gather in greater and greater numbers. My flesh burns and aches. I pluck branches from the white oil trees and dig them into my skin like giant acupuncture needles. I can feel the soothing oil lubricate my muscles. It feels so good. This coat of thorns I try to walk toward the south end of the island, but the birds cry out a warning. Night is comfortable, cool, dark. I find another tortoise and drip it apart with my bare hands. I taste salt
and ham and something sweets blood. And when I'm done, I start chewing on the shell. And I don't know why, but I can't stop. I'm so sure that if I could only crack through the exterior there might be some hidden marrow inside. I feel a crack and a wave of pain as one of my teeth shatters. Terror washes through my veins. What's happening? Is this punishment? Foot? But no, it was not my fault. The ship crashed. The birds sit on low branches and watch me sleep.
There's so many now they scare me. The mornings raise rake across my back. My hollow stomach screams for sustenance. I crawl on the ground and pluck iguanas from their dirt nests. Something in my head screams for me to stop, but it's distant and choked by its own hunger. I eat the iguana's hole. I feel their claws desperately scrape my throat. I relish the feeling of blood trickling into my gut. More there are none. I've eaten them all. Why now north? I can hear birds calling to me, thousands
and thousands of birds. They wake me, my ears ring from their whistling calls. They sit on every branch, yellow and red and black birds, shouting and flapping their wings a message, a warning. I grab a fallen branch wet with green moss. I can see them, thousands of birds greeting me as I enter the forest. I reach out for one on a low branch, and hundreds scatter in a rainbow cloud that moves like a sentient creature. I stumble around a tree, my nails clutch at the trunk, and
tear away back. The birds beckon me. Something is coming. I clutch the branch, heart racing, but I can't hear it over the chorus of birds. They're flapping their wings, and it's as if the forest itself is drawing in quick breaths. And then suddenly the birds are quiet. I see him, a man like me. I lurched toward him and reach out and tell him I'm marooned here, But my words come out in a drooling draw. I get closer, and I see through swollen eyes that something is wrong.
He looks like me, He is me? How how could it be possible? He swings a branch like a club, and I feel a bone in my shoulder crunch painfully, and now all I see is red. I must eat, and I scream in terror as the hunger repels me forward. The full weight of the creature falls on me, and we stumble backward. I try to push it away, but his rough skin is loose and thick like risen bread dough. My fingers slide inside. The creature's terrible jaws open just inches from my face, and I let out a cry. I am
to blame. Yes, I am the one who crashed our ship. I misread the navigational charts. Yes, and rather than help secure the sails, I leapt overboard, leaving my crew down a man at their most desperate time. And so I clawed at myself, ripping away my face. The birds begin chirping, flapping their wings with glee as the creature's nails tear at my
face. They're watching, They're entertained. They have done this before. They watch me devour the man who is me, and then they disperse, leaving me alone in the empty forest, and I fear I shall never again be the man I was, and all that remains is the evil I've carried all my life. Thank you for listening to episode number twelve h four. Today's authors were Alexis Dubon and Ken Browsky. Today's stories were told by Addison Peacock
and David Alt. I'm Daniel Foytech and I've been your host today. Our resident composer and executive producer is Nikov dazing Off. We talk of dreams. Artwork for today's episode was created by Greg Schaeffer. Our producers are Meg Williams and Daniel Foytech. To find out more about The Wicked Library and other Ninth Story shows, visit the Wicked Library dot com and Ninth Story dot com. If you'd like to help keep this collection of dark tales coming, please support
The Wicked Library on Patreon at Patreon dot com forward slash Wicked Library. You can also help by leaving a five star rating in short review in Apple podcasts. These ratings and reviews help other listeners find the show, which helps generate revenue to ensure no one contributing to the show works for free. The Wicked Library is created by Ninth Story Studios LLLC. All rights reserved.