Nine Story Studios, King Story a Voice, Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see. Edgar Allan Poe. This is Jessica macavoy and you're listening to The Wicked Library. Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created for a mature audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence, blood, betrayal, and inhumanity. Monsters win, people die, and hope is often shattered. There is also beauty,
heart, catharsis, and raw emotion. Fear may be deeply personal, but we all share it. If at any time a story takes you to a place too dark, turn on the lights, press pause, or press stop, and always remember that, unlike in the real world, these nightmares and your participation in them, are under your control. Welcome back to The Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytek, 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. 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 get premiere access to end Field Detective Agency currently in production. That's right, Frank is back in to your ears soon. You can support the show at Patreon dot com forward slash Wicked Library. Today we present the first of three special episodes for Halloween, featuring stories by Mike Pilgrim,
Victoria C. Blackthorne, and Caitlin Marceau. There's something special about spooky tales told around to campfire, So bundle up, gather around, and grab a cup of hot apple cider or something a little stronger for Volume one of Wicked Campfire Tales, and check back tomorrow for volume two. Sh The Devil and Jack by Mike Pilgrim. Jack was a bastard, a real bastard, as
the story goes, an irishman of the old Country. He liked nothing better than trickery, drinking, gambling, and all the things that follow trickery, drinking and gambling, if you catch my meaning. On the day of Jack's appointed death, the Devil came to the bar to collect the soul rightly owed him. Thinking quickly, Jack asked if he could at least finish his drink before being dragged off to hell for all eternity. Scratch, being a fellow of good humor, obliged him for as we all know, forever is a
very very long time. Indeed, they spoke while they drank, until at last the Irishman began to question the validity of the Devil's power. Jack dared the devil goaded him to prove his might by transforming into a silver coin Satan, being a creature of considerable pride and never one to be belittled by a mortal, instantly shifted form, Jack watched the shining devil coin as it spun on the counter. Then, before it even had a chance to fall flat,
he snatched it up in a scarred hand. He smirked at the cross shaped scar which held the angel locked within his grasp, and then he ordered another drink as he mocked the devil's stupidity, then another and another. After a time, Lucifer agreed to give Jack another year of life in exchange for his freedom, He would return to collect Jack's soul the following Halloween. Jack squandered his year, swearing he would repent his evils only on his deathbed and
outwit the devil one final time. When Lucifer returned, Jack challenged him to a game of dice. The devil, who has never passed up the opportunity to play dice very quickly took the game, even though the dice were of Jack's own design, But a scratch loomed. To collect his winnings, Jack threw the dice again. They yielded two threes and landed in such a way
as to make a tea cross on the table. The Christ sign crippled the angel for a second time, forcing him to grant the conniving Irishman yet another year of life. Cursing and bitter in his defeat, Satan vanished in a cloud of sulfurous smoke. Jack was never the kind of man to waste an opportunity. He lived hard that year, and gambled harder. He indulged himself in any vice that would have him, and forced himself on those that would
not. Despite all his trickery, Jack dropped dead without warning in the seeping blackness of the nether world. The devil was nowhere to be seen. Jack was alone in the dark after a seeming eternity. Navigating his way through the creeping dark of the Spirit Realm, Jack saw a light and followed it to
the gates of Paradise. No sooner had he arrived than the angel and attendant showed him away that chased him back into the dark, poking at the dead irishman with a flaming sword, Jack screamed in pain as he fled back into the shadows. Every step in the swirling pitch unsettling and yet more blackness. The creatures that dwelled within the shades followed him, hungry and silent. Jack
heard the weeping and wailing long before he saw the infernal gates. Lucifer smiled, a smile such as Jack had never seen, as he too, refused him entry. Jack cried, but he had no tears. He shrieked, and he begged, although it did nothing to slow the heavy darkness, which was fast closing in around him. Hungrily, what will I do? How can I see? Please, my Lord morning Stock, please help me, please, please please. Bored with all the begging, the dark angel threw
a burning coal at him. Taken by surprise, Jack caught it in both hands. The ember hissed. It seared away the flesh of his fingers and burnt through bone before it crashed onto the ground. Lucifer laughed as Jack writhed and cursed him. Things circling in the dark also issued coughing chuckles, which echoed like snapping bone. Eventually, Satan tired of the spectacle and withdrew back to his charge of the circles beyond the gates. The things in the dark
again drew silent. Jack's eyes could not see them scuttling all around him, but he felt their gaze. Unable to cry, Jack scrambled blindly through the thick shadows for the longest time. His aching fingers eventually found something round growing in the dirts. He knew it by smell. Shattering a fingertip, he used the freshly sheared bone to hallow the turnipout. Jack carved the holes of a face into its flesh so he would not feel so alone that he tipped
the damned coal inside. Jack has wandered the dark space between ever since, with a throat that cannot drink, a belly that cannot eat, and lips that cannot kiss, although it has never stopped him from trying for love of the dark ones. By Victorious Blackthorn. On a cold fall night, deep in the woods of the ancient Appellachians, as the mountains swallowed the sun and blackness bled through the trees, an old man with tattered clothes and time worn
eyes, stumbled into a camp of hunters. He told them he was not from these parts and had become disoriented by how early the sun sets in those mountains, losing his way back to his camp. The hunters nodded, understanding, and invited the stranger to join them by their campfire, and poured him
some coffee and whisky to help ward off the cold. As he sat sipping his drink, warming his hands, he thanked them and offered to tell them a story that would send shivers down their spines in exchange for their hospitality. So the old man, once warmed by the fire the rich coffee and good whisky, began to weave his eerie tail, his voice a raspy whisper that seemed to echo through the woods. Eons ago, he began these woods,
this very land. It was a different place, my friends. Dark force is ancient and malevolent, lurked just beyond the veil of reality, waiting for an opportunity to cross over. In those days, this place sat at the threshold between one reality and another. That other, darker reality was sown from the fabric of the original dark Cosmos. Before what you see around you had
been fashioned into existence. That older original reality, being a place of endless shadows and darkness, can only bleed through the veil into this world when the sun is hidden beyond the ridge of those ancient mountains. The hunters exchanged anxious looks and leaned in closer with anticipation, as the old man's voice cantinued to carry the tail you see back then, I was not the man you see before you. I was something else, something quite beyond your comprehension. I
practiced at fashioning things from the dark threads of the universe. Like any new craftsman, I faltered and failed more times than I succeeded. The things I wove and wrought from the ether had a great hunger. They were malevolent and thrilled at creating terror and chaos. Undeterred, I worked on new patterns. I created many things, marvelous and terrible, but they all hungered, and
nothing I forged from darkness could sate their terrible desires. Many, many trials later, I found a way to crush the darkness to a point so dense that it created something new. Light. The old Man's eyes glistened in the firelight as he continued. Reflected flames danced unnaturally across their surface. But I did not create the universe out of benevolence. It was a twisted design, the cosmic experiment, designed to feed the insatiable hunger of entities that I had
created Before the birth of this universe. My creatures thrived on devouring light, the essence of life, and I had crafted a cruel and endless buffet for them. As he spoke, the woods around them seemed to transform, the moonlight dimming and the air growing heavy with an unnatural chill that the fire couldn't vanish. Shadows deepened, and the atmosphere became suffused with a palpable sense of dread. It was as if a dark portal had opened to a world beyond,
and the very fabric of reality began to unravel. The old man's voice carried on an unsettling mixture of regrets and malevolence. My creation was a perfect prison. You see, life in all its forms was the offering to these ancient beings, a never ending feast, and they have feasted on the essence of life since time immemorial. The campfire's glowed dimmed further, and a sinister
presence seemed to loom just beyond the firelight. The old Man's gaze bore into the hunters as he revealed the most chilling truth of all tonight, in these very woods, you are the offering. With a horrific hiss, the dark entities emerged from the shadows, their grotesque forms twisting the very fabric of our reality as it strained to contain them within our three dimensions. Bony fingers stretched
out, and they descended upon the hunters. The air was filled with the hunter's anguished cries as their life forces were extinguished, their souls devoured by the very forces that the old Man had created. The old Man rose from his seat and fear finish the last of his whisky, a sinister, malevolent grin on his face. His mission was complete, and for a while at least,
this sacrificial offering to his first children had sated their appetite. As the old Man walked into the luminal space between our reality and the vast darkness, the creatures followed, retreating to the other side of the portal, leaving no trace of the hunters behind. The woods return to their normal state, as
if nothing had ever happened. But sometime soon, around another campfire, an old man will come forth, seeking warm coffee, good whisky, and bringing with him a tale of dark things that wait closer to that exceedingly thin veil than you think. It has a way of messing with you too. By Caitlin Marceau. I remember the end of August in ninety seven like it happened just yesterday, even though it's been more than twenty years since it came and went. The sun was hot, but the wind was cool, the final
days of summer bleeding into the first days of fall. I could feel her eyes on the back of my head as I dragged my pocket knife across the top rail of the back porch, severing one of the spider's spindly legs from its inky black body. As I waited for my dad to get home from the factory. You should leave it alone, she told me sternly. When you mess with nature, it has a way of messing with you two. I waved her off with a hand and dragged the pen knife back across the
spider's path, slicing off another one of its legs in the process. I watched its struggle to get away, its progress slow and unsteady before stabbing the metal tip of my small weapon through its body, pinning it to the wooden banister like a butterfly to a corkboard. I didn't know it at the time, but I had anchored myself to that moment too. The rest of the night passed uneventfully. My dad came home from work, We ate dinner as
a family, and I watched reruns of sitcoms in my pajamas. Once my eyes started closing on their own volition, my parents sent me to bed, and I was eager to obey. As I stared up, my eyelids getting heavy, I saw it scuttle across my ceiling, a spider. I jumped out of bed and called for my dad to get it, worried that it was going to decide to jump in my hair or crawl in my mouth. He grumbled all the way upstairs and complained even louder when, after he turned
the lights on, neither of us could find the bug. Eventually, he made his way back down to the living room, and I tried to fall asleep, convinced that it had been my imagination. As soon as my head hit the pillow, the spider was back, only this time the eract and was hanging several inches above my face. I realized with a start that it
was missing several of its legs. I bellowed for my dad, terrified the force of my breath would be enough to knock it off its web and onto me, but it clung to the thin strip of white as it watched me. My dad barged in and threw the lights on, not hiding his annoyance at missing the opening monolog from his favorite late night TV host. He loomed over me, frowning as I white knuckled the bed frame. Get it, I begged, Get what he asked. I gestured to the spider hanging in
front of my face, but he just shook his head. There's nothing there, kiddo. Now go to bed. But Dad, it's right if you see it again, take care of it yourself. He headed back to my mother in the living room, turning off the lights as he left. The second he was gone, the spider continued its descent. I swatted at the bug, but my hands just passed through it as it journeyed towards me. I could feel its ice cold legs on my flushed skin, but I couldn't
touch it. As I screamed and cried, I noticed them, a hundred black dots crawling across my ceiling. I threw the covers off and slammed on the light, not understanding how the rays of the fluorescent bulb passed through the translucent bodies of a million tiny spiders that weren't really there. I stayed awake all through the night, waiting for the swarm to go away. But they never did, not that night, or the one after, or the one after that. Even now, I can see them the campfire, casting shadows
on their bodies on the trees around me. I can feel them, their wispy legs against my skin as they writhe and wiggle under the collar of my shirt, their bodies crunching underfoot when I walk, and getting caught between my teeth when I eat. Not that anyone ever notices them but me. I wish i'd listened to my mom. I wish I'd known that when you mess with nature, it has a way of messing with you too. Thank you for listening to episode number twelve oh five. Today's authors were Mike Pilgrim,
Victoria C. Blackthorne, and Caitlin Marceau. Today's stories We're told by Daniel Fluytec. That's me and it's been my pleasure to be your host today. Our resident composer and executive producer is Niko Vitees at the Inky Pop Print. Artwork for today's episode was created by Greg Schaeffer. Our producers are Meg Williams and Daniel Floytech. To find out more about The Wicked Library and other Ninth Story Studio shows, visit the Wickedlibrary dot com and ninth Story dot com.
If you'd like to hear your own story on The Wicked Library, submissions are open. Check out our website for more details on recar requirements. 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 and short review in Apple Podcasts. The Wicked Library is created by Ninth Story Studios LLC. All rights reserved.