Nice Story Studios Gain Story a Voice. Hi, this is Graham Rowett. Are you in the mood for something scary? Well, you're in the right place. This is The Wicked Library. Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast rereaded 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 Foytech, and I thank you for listening. A sincere thank you to those of you who are supporting the show. Without you,
the 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. All of our supporters get early access to episodes ad free shows and more. Today we present the last of our three special episodes for Halloween, featuring stories by Pippa Bailey, Lee Andrew Foreman, Brianna Morgan, and Mike Pilgrim. This year for Halloween, I wanted to recreate that special
experience of sitting around a campfire and listening to spooky tales. So bundle up, gather around, and grab a cup of hot apple cider or something a little stronger. For Volume three of Wicked Campfire Tales sh The Spoiler by Pipper Bailey. Whether you use a sack, bucket or a pillowcase, make sure you fill it to the brim, for on Halloween you'll always need to spare some of your haul, for when the Spoiler comes a creeping he might just
ruin it all. The Spoiler an ancient creature known by many names in many forms the world over. Some call him rots, others decay, black mold, creeping up damp walls, or maggots scavenging a corpse, sucking juice from the most succulent, desiccated eyeballs. You'll hear him on the breeze, whistling in the winds of winter and the blistering heat of summer. He is the sweat stains on the pants of a hot dog devouring trucker, and your cousin's
diaper blowout on your aunt's new dress. For now, he is the spoiler. His spinly oily fingers tug lightly at the wrappers, making foil warp, paper burn, and candy a turn all. Gray chocolate begins to weep and boil beneath his tender touch. Fetid ooze once jelly choose in silvery papers turn to mush, So kiddies, fill that bucket till it bursts for fear you'll lose it all, and make sure to leave the spoiler a mound of treats from your festive hall. Lace it at your doorway, beside your bin or
gate. Keep fresh bars, bites and morsels hidden out of sight. Every year the spoiler comes toe tapping around your house thrice. He'll turn and thrice once more. As quiet as a mouse, he knows the scent of sweets and treats. He can smell them miles around. With his elongated coiled snow he SLINKs along the ground. You'll never spot him coming as he drifts in on the breeze with spores and dirt and all dead skin and other things that
go unseen on Halloween this very year. Don't forget to spare some of your haul, for when the spoiler comes a creeping, he might just ruin it all. The thinning veil by Lee Andrew Foreman. I sit here with you this hallowey night, and all that comes to mind is my poor Lily. She passed away nearly three years ago. An unkind accident took her from this world and tucked her broken body neatly below the soil. Now it lies unseen and decay. Time its only companion. But her spirit is something time can't
seem to grasp. She isn't gone, she isn't in heaven or hell. Lily is right here with me. It isn't some comforting belief I've conjured that brings me to this conclusion. No, it's the nightly presence of her. The routine visits every night since her death. She's come to me, and on each of these nights, she's pulled me closer to her and further from my own body. The first time I saw her spectral form, tears welled
in my eyes and spilled forth in her honor. I was overjoyed to see my lily, to know that existence didn't end with bodily death, that her essence lived on My lily wasn't gone. But that jovial moment was soon obscured by the darkness that eventually covers all things. Her misty form hovered before me, and discomfort spread over my body. First it was only a tingling sensation.
Then I felt the pull, as if something inside were trying to break free, as if within me there were a thousand tiny magnets, each one tugging my flesh with its desire to join whatever force she carried. Just when the feeling became unbearable, she missed it away, like the smoke from a stubbed cigarette. I didn't sleep the rest of that night, only pondered what happened. After a day of musing, my heart raced at the thought of
seeing her again. I wondered whether she would return. I feared that first visit might have been her last good bye before taking the journey to wherever the next place might be. If only I were so lucky. She came back the next night, and like the first time, excitement filled my veins with hot blood. The rush of seeing my beloved once again elated me to the point of nearly bursting. She glided over to me, her smoky eyes stared
into mine, and again I felt the pull. This time it was harder, stronger, thought my torso would burst and my soul would escape into her arms. But again before I succumbed to that mighty drawing power, she left me alone in the dark with only my thoughts. This has happened every night since her death. Each time it's more painful. I know she'll come again tonight, just like she always does, and she'll pull me toward her. They say the veil is thinnest on Halloween, and it's a full moon.
My will has grown frail, my body weak. The want to let her take me grows with each visit Without her, I feel empty, despite my fear, I want this. Even as I tell you this tale, I wonder if it will be my last. That tonight she may pluck the soul from my moral body, and I'll join her wherever we may go. From the water by Brianna Morgan, the water flashes silver. That's how I know it's time. I pull hard on the rod, due turning over and over
itself as I draw in my catch. The line squeals and protests. I don't let up, Daddy, Brett says, I know. I tell him. Another few minutes of sweat and straining muscles brings the fish on board. I hold it in my hands, a wet, shiny thing, and marvel at the effort it took to capture such a tiny creature. Brett leans over my shoulder. He smells like sunscreen. Can I see it? He wants to hold it, just like always last time. I didn't let him.
A pang of regret eclipses my train of thought, and I pass the wriggling fish to him without another word. It falls through his hand and lands with a smack against the deck. Brett peers down at the fish. Its mouth opens and closes, like Brett's did after I pulled them from the water. How can a whole year have passed? A lump rises in my throat. I find the strength to speak around it. It's a little guy. We need to put him back. I want to keep him, Daddy, I
know, but you can't. You have to. We need to let go. Brett twists his head towards me. I can see through him, but his eyes are as piercing as ever. They haunt me. I wish he'd stop hunting me. Why'd you come back here? Brett asks, you'll understand when you're a father. I don't reply. It stings. He'll never be a father, He'll never learn to shave, never take a girl to prom never learn to drive. The water took that away from him, away from
me. I look past Brett to the glow of the sun peeking on the horizon. Dawn spreads pink fingers across the sky, washing everything in a warm hue. I reach out to touch Brett in my hand, goes right through him, just like the fish. Another wave of guilt rolls over me. If only I hadn't been drinking that day, if only I'd put a life jacket on him. I came back for you, I say, I'll always come back for you, buddy. Tears distort my vision. Brett's form fuzzes
at the edges like smeared ink. We're running out of time. I kneel and scoop the fish into my hand again. It's breathing as shallow. It doesn't have long Let go, Brett says, he makes it sound so easy. I blink hard against another swell of tears. The fish's scales are cool on my skin. Before I can second guess myself, I stand and tip the fish from my hand into the water with a splash and another flash of silver. It's gone like it never existed. When I turn, so is
Brett. I won't pull him from the water anymore. Observations concerning the Thing that most definitely is not a cat by Mock Pilgrim. The thing is not a cat, not really, not at all. It may present the feline shape in the most convincing manner, masterfully mimicking this slinking ambulation, even the twitching tail, but those elements are nothing but camouflage, exceptionally executed camouflage,
but camouflage. Nevertheless, its tongue is as black as the devil's sphincter, and if you were to come under the sway of such a beast, you wouldn't know what had befallen you, not until it was far too late. It has no fur, which by cat standards, is not entirely uncommon, but just uncommon enough to make the creature notable. They spoilt, a color
not unlike that of raw chicken flesh. They are also always and without exception male, but that doesn't inconvenience their reproductive cycle as much as the interested observer might imagine. And no, they very much do not reproduce asexually, which is not the problem that one might imagine. The thing doesn't eat cat food,
which also is not an uncommon thing for the common house cat. Many normal cat owners are more than comfortable with spending the minister sum of money they have left in the world on food for their captive psychopath to tip out onto the floor. Just like regular cats. The thing will shit in a box, which may sound like a positive attribute, but really it puts them out in the open to ensure that you, its chosen surrogate, will be more
inclined to do your part. They have but two purposes on this plane. The first is to shit, the second is to breed, and you are untwined in both of these processes. The rank, black flecked turds are anything but what they seem to be. They give off for steady aura of intoxicating hormones, which are specifically designed to draw the attention of the human subconscious.
It won't be long before you awake mid te to discover the previously folded a box is now entirely bereffed of feces, and the only thing worse than the rank, oily taste in your mouth is the gritty texture of the brown chunks stuck in your teeth. Sometime not long after, often as soon as a few hours later, the kittens will arrive seemingly from nowhere, but be assured
they haven't. They came slithering up your gullet out into the world while you slept, And as with every part of this process, the tiny babies are designed to be the cutest thing your wee. The human senses have ever encountered. Every single thing about them, from the tiny little fingers on their jellybean paws, to the scent that comes off their bodies to the saccharine peep noise as they make. Is evolved to draw you in and keep you close.
There is no other current in nature that triggers such a torrential flood of serotonin and dopamine in the human brain. Not finding true love, not winning the World Cup, not even the birth of one's children comes close to this level of emotional impact. Prompted by the steady chemical release and supervised by the father cat, the foster human will birth up to twelve kittens over the next few days, then spend their every waking moment blissfully caring for and protecting the little
parasites from any in all threats. Sometimes, the cognitive dissonance of warring chemicals within their subconscious forces people towards suicide. This situation is, of course understandable for the long term, so once the kittens have grown large enough to feed properly, they will devour their carer fighting wildly over the cartilage tips of the bones. Thank you for listening to episode number twelve oh seven. Today's authors
were Pippa Bailey, Leandrew Foreman, Brionna Morgan, and Mike Pilgrim. Today's stories were told by Daniel fuy Tech. That's me and it's been my pleasure to be your host today. Our resident composer and executive producer is Nikovites 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. If you'd like to hear your own story on the Wicked Library. Submissions are now open. Check our website for more details and 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 that helps others find the show. The Wicked Library is created by Ninth Story Studios
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