Bright Story Studios Gain Story a Voice. I'm David Olt and you're listening to The Wicked Library. Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast creted 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. Before we get started today, just a quick thank you to those of you who are supporting the show. Without
your support, this show would not be possible. If you're not yet supporting the show and you'd like to do so, you can do that at patreon dot com forward slash Wicked Library. Today we present the second of three special episodes for Halloween. Today's episode features stories by l B Waltz, Christopher Long and mel Continuing our theme, these tales are told in the style of sitting
around a campfire and listening to spooky tales. So bundle up, gather around the fire, and sit back with some hot apple cider or something a little stronger for volume two of Wicked Campfire Tales, and check back tomorrow Halloween for a volume three, kindling by Christopher Long. Some folks don't do so well
out here on their own. That's what the park ranger had said to me when he'd seen me pull up. I'd tried telling him this wasn't my first time, whilst making a point of showing him all the kit i'd brought along. It's not cheap stuff, and I've used it plenty of times before. But did that impress the old boy? No, it did not. Not even my tent over there, and let me tell you that tent can survive storms. I guess he wasn't to know. Camping's in my blood. I
get it from my dad. We'd go camping together when I was growing up. It was our little escape. We'd sit around a fire and he'd tell me stories, stories about things like you. Now that I think about it, we'd get a lot of stupid deaths up in the hills. That Ranger had said obviously convinced I wasn't listening. Some people must just forget how to survive the night. He'd made it sound like he'd find some burnt body sprawled
in the ashes of their own fire and have himself a good chuckle. Now I have to wonder if he ever dreamt those people might have encountered something like you out here. And more importantly, I want to know how many stories those other hikers told you before they realized they were never getting home. Of course, that Ranger's warnings didn't stop me. I got my gear on and started walking, telling myself I'd be fine once I got moving, But I was far from fine. I was jumpy. It didn't help that I never
saw another soul out on the trail to distract me. I even got a little scared of the sound of my own footsteps. Once I was deep amongst the trees up here, they echo everything back at you. That's probably why I called it a day earlier than i'd planned. You must have seen how easily I got this fire going. I set it right in the middle of these old stones where it looks like a few other campers had lit their fires
before me. Ah, maybe that's where I went wrong, because I lit that fire and there you were sitting beside it, like you'd been waiting for me. At first, I thought you were just a trick of the light. I was pretty tired, and you stayed so quiet. You didn't whisper until you caught me looking at you. You didn't speak until the first time you knew. I'd seen you clearly, and I swear I did my best to ignore you. I tried telling myself you were just one of my dad's
old stories rattling around my head. Only you started asking me questions, and even though I knew deep down not to answer you, I also knew I could only resist for so long. I guess your sort depends on that. You started demanding your stories from me not long after I told you my name. That must be how it works. You've been drawing them out of me ever since. How long has it been. I'm sure I've not seen the sun rise yet, but it can't be the same night this all started.
We've been out here for days, haven't we. I know I'm losing my voice, and I know I'm running out of stories. I don't want to think about what's going to happen when the fire dies out, or how that old park ranger is going to find my body when the sun finally does come up again. The Coffin by L. B. Waltz. The question came in that silence between one collision and the next acts against trunk, trunk against ground, heart against ribs. What are you doing? I yeled, swore
too, though the bow's final groans did well to mask that. With twigs shattering like fingers beneath my feet, I spun around, and there was a child. To say I was alarmed would be to undermine both how perilously close this little one was to the yoak and the spontaneity with which they manifested. A dozen half formed reprimands caught in my teeth before I managed to hiss.
You might have been crushed, you full said, full blinked. They had odd eyes, pale eyes paler than pale, the color of the ghost that sprouted from unearthed roots. The gash that was their mouth wilted into a frown. What are you doing? They demanded again. Their voice was youthfully androgynous, and although I squinted. Neither did their form nor their features hint at a gender. I took a breath, gathered my thoughts, my patience, and my axe. Are you lost, i asked, I'm exactly where I
should be. The child insisted. With one spindly finger, they traced the oak's exposed rings. Why did you cut down that tree need of lumber? I sighed, I've been hired to make a coffin. A coffin. The word was repeated slowly, and that way the forest echoes all manner of hidden carnage. Crows shrieked in the distance. What is a coffin, Well, it's a vessel, I explained, thinking the child to be younger than previously assumed. Coffins house the dead. Only those who are properly buried can find
peace in God's kingdom. The child turned this idea over in the same way they did a leaf two leafs rustling through the toppled oaks foliage, They mused, So you murder the living to appease the dead and call it justified. The accusation saw me falter. I'd never considered my work in such terms before. Ours is a good Christian village, I told them a touch defensive. We know that unless a soul receives the necessary rights, they're not eligible for
salvation. Many things can be justified if resurrection is at stake. I see, they said, small hands growing still, an acorn lay cradled in their palms. On that at least we are agreed. And then the child was there, right there, nose to nose with me. Their fungle eyes, bright, chin sticky with amber, and cheeks scored with that. There were thirty thin rings around their white void pupils answered a question I didn't realize I had. I was given time to open my mouth, but not to scream.
The moment my lips parted, a fist shoved past them, dirt, bitter, rough, cold, ramming a lump down my throats. That lump fell into my belly. Consciousness followed, and that's when you found me alone. It seems no child, nor any evidence of one. Nothing but the trees there was. I fear, never anything but the trees. I shouldn't fear them, the trees. I mean, if anything, I should fear how much of the day I wasted collapsed in the woods, and here in
bed I can't be putting down roots on this mattress. I need to get up. There are blueprints to finalize laughs, to saw planks, to shape. Coffin. Building is a sacred task. I've always treated it as such. I have no intention of doing otherwise. Now, even with this pressure in my belly, this rootling squirm doesn't Matteralvation is what matters. Resurrection is what matters. That requires a coffin. I will make a beautiful coffin. Slice the thread by Mel. I was never superstitious, but I was always
a good child, no matter how absurd. You don't question your parents in a Korean household. Don't wear black to weddings, don't eat the tips of chicken wings, cover your thumbs around sand mimetaries. Never give a knife as a gift. One evening, I sat across from my mom and finally asked her where the knife omen came from. Her body stilled, blade in hand against a ratish who was peeling it cuts into the flesh as clean as a
butcher, and so shallow. The skin looked paper thin. Her eyes lifted and she laughed lightly, as if this were tea time and I was being droll in old custom. She finally spoke, too ominous to gift a knife to someone you love, you'll quarrel with them forevermore. Her eyes tightened at my laugh. One day, your doubt is going to get someone hurt.
My mood soured. Did she have to take this so seriously? There were hundreds of American superstitions that she never adhered to, so why did I need to follow any I had a friend who I cooked with weakly, meal prepping together, our way of still seeing each other despite their hectic married life. I told myself I wasn't bitter, that I wasn't angry when I saw the cuts on their fingers. Their spouse too cheap to use the household funds to
buy a proper knife. They got a new wound daily when the cheap doll blades slipped and nicked their finger. They explained, since it's dull, I never hurt myself too badly. I was fed up enough so that as much as my family superstition clawed at my gut, I ordered a good knife for their birthday. I bit my lip as I watched for my friend's reaction and for some ancient god to smite me for daring to disobey my parents in some contract. I had signed by being born to uphold tradition, but it didn't
happen. My friend was overjoyed. They used it immediately, and the smile on their face was everything. That and the fact that they weren't cutting themselves raw and doll blades anymore. I felt so proud of my choice until it went wrong. What used to be friendly texts about our interests turned to the snipes about how I always looked at things in black and white. Friendly conversations soured into venting sessions where I either had to listen on and on or join
in and rub my emotions dry. Our weekly sessions became a mockery of camaraderie.
I could do nothing right. Our mutual aggravation sharpened until I begged them to stop the snipes and the complaints, but they pressed harder until I had to look away and finally noticed it a thread hanging loose above My eyes followed it up, and I saw a red robed figure holding it like a rope or a noose, watching us. He followed me everywhere I went, and I thought my mind was searching for a gruesome way out, that my stress was telling me to end it all. I would end it, but not
that way at home. I grabbed my butcher's knife. I used it to hack at the thread in question, keeping grim eye contact with the apparition. I thought it would take hours. It took one single cleave, like cutting through air, as if the thread had been fragile all this time, and I had just needed to push to slice. The man disappeared, and the ends fell and sat heavy and worn at my feet. I never heard from my friend again. Thank you for listening to episode number twelve oh six.
Today's authors were Christopher Long, lb Waltz, and Mel Today's stories were told by David Alt and Daniel Foytek. That's me. It's been my pleasure to be your host today, and we hope you'll join us again tomorrow for part three. Our resident composer and executive producer is Nikovitez at the Inky Pop Print. Artwork for today's episode was created by Greg Schaefer. Our producers are Meg
Williams and Daniel Foytek. To find out more about The Wicked Library and other Ninth Story Studio shows, visit the Wickedlibrary dot com and Ninth Story dot com, and if you'd like to hear your own story on the Wicked Library Submissions are now open. Check our website at the Wickedlibrary dot com for more details and requirements. To keep this collection of dark tales coming, please support the
Wickedlibrary at Patreon dot com forward slash Wickedlibrary. You can also help us by leaving a five star rating and short review on Apple Podcasts, which helps other folks find the show. The Wicked Library is created by Ninth Story Studios LLC. All rights reserved.