Speaker 1: Twelve Ghosts is a production of I Heart three D
Speaker 1: audio and Grim and Mild from Aaron Bankie Headphones. Recommended
Speaker 1: listener discretion advised. I have heard the plaintive wailing through
Speaker 1: the winter nights for as long as I've had memories.
Speaker 1: As the days grow shorter and the nights creep in
Speaker 1: with their bitter edge, my parents grow uneasy. Their eyes
Speaker 1: become shadowed, and faces grow lean and hard. They eat
Speaker 1: less than They only speak to one another when they
Speaker 1: think I am not listening. I know, without being told
Speaker 1: that it is starting again. Father carves fresh runs into
Speaker 1: the doorway and around each of the window cells. As
Speaker 1: the winter dies and spring comes, those runes are sanded
Speaker 1: away as if they had never existed at all. Just
Speaker 1: this morning, my father was replacing the wood frame at
Speaker 1: the door, and he did not answer me when I
Speaker 1: asked why. As soon as I set about my chores,
Speaker 1: out came his boot knife, and I knew the ruins
Speaker 1: would be there again. Whatever they're intent, those ruins, those
Speaker 1: wards were not meant to be seen by the visitors.
Speaker 1: We have few and far between. When the weather is kinder.
Speaker 1: Every year, my mother bakes little cakes of oat honey
Speaker 1: goat's blood and acorn flour, and places a cup of
Speaker 1: wine outside on the windows ledge as soon as the
Speaker 1: first winter moon rises. This has always seemed like a
Speaker 1: strange excess, for wine and honey in our house were
Speaker 1: so very scarce and reserved only for the longest night
Speaker 1: and name days. The meaning behind these traditions kept at
Speaker 1: me enough that I asked about it once years ago
Speaker 1: and received only a brisk backhand from my father for
Speaker 1: the effort. Had spent the rest of the day nursing
Speaker 1: a bloodied lip and ringing ear, and had not asked
Speaker 1: again lest I received a similar answer. This night started
Speaker 1: as if by rope we had ourselves tucked inside well
Speaker 1: before sunset, my father brusque and restless, my mother setting
Speaker 1: about the stew simmering in the hearth as if it
Speaker 1: were the only thing that mattered. My parents, however, did
Speaker 1: not eat supper and did not seem to care at
Speaker 1: all that I only picked at mine. I knew that
Speaker 1: at any other time I would be chided for wasting food,
Speaker 1: but tonight it seemed to matter not. My mother ushered
Speaker 1: me up into the loft for bed, gave me a
Speaker 1: quick kiss on the cheek, her lips dry and nearly
Speaker 1: feverish against my skin. Her good night was a soft
Speaker 1: note murmured against my in They did not even feign
Speaker 1: that they would be going to sleep. I heard their
Speaker 1: quiet shuffling beneath the sleeping loft, caught the rich scent
Speaker 1: to the father's pipe, and knew that they were in
Speaker 1: their well worn chairs, staring at the door as they
Speaker 1: always did. That first night, the whaling started, as I
Speaker 1: knew it would, an awful sound, like a baby that
Speaker 1: would never tire, that had known a misery that was
Speaker 1: so deep and wide it would fill the sea and
Speaker 1: drown everything it touched. On and on it went, peaks
Speaker 1: and valleys of an inhuman cry that buried itself down
Speaker 1: into my marrow, leaving me shimmering, feeling ill at ease,
Speaker 1: and afraid to close my eyes, though somehow eventually I did.
Speaker 1: My dreams were filled with a twisted blue white face
Speaker 1: and escaping toothless mouth, and a sound like trees crashing
Speaker 1: me together. Through it all the whaling on and on,
Speaker 1: I thought, in my restlessness that I heard my mother
Speaker 1: sobbing quietly, but I could not be sure. There were
Speaker 1: strange heavy footsteps outside, as if something larger than a
Speaker 1: bare lumbered through the forest, paced alongside the house, but
Speaker 1: did not deign to come any closer. I huddled beneath
Speaker 1: my furs and my mother's well woven quilts, and waited
Speaker 1: for silence that never came. When I opened my eyes again,
Speaker 1: the fire in the hearth had burned itself to embers,
Speaker 1: and I could hear the quiet snoring of my father.
Speaker 1: I crept from the loft on bare feet, imagining myself
Speaker 1: to be the smallest of mice, nimble and invisible to
Speaker 1: the rest of the house. I ignored the chill that
Speaker 1: had risen with the fires dying, tried my best to
Speaker 1: keep my breathing even and my feet away from boards
Speaker 1: I knew would creak under my weight. Father slept in
Speaker 1: his chair, an arm around my mother, who had slid
Speaker 1: it against him, nearly in his lap. It was not
Speaker 1: a common sight, the two of them so close. I
Speaker 1: felt a surge of worry for them, and more than
Speaker 1: a little pity, and set about pulling on my boots,
Speaker 1: my overship, my coat. I wanted them to awake, to
Speaker 1: at least a handful of my chores finished, and perhaps
Speaker 1: even the table set for a small breakfast, anything to
Speaker 1: give relief, to get them to notice that I was
Speaker 1: an able child and willing to do my part. I
Speaker 1: took the little oil lantern from the tabletop and pulled
Speaker 1: open the door, inching it slowly open as quiet as
Speaker 1: I could, and slipped out into the snow. It was
Speaker 1: still quite dark, though dawn would be breaking soon enough.
Speaker 1: I paid little mind to my steps, and almost immediately
Speaker 1: I heard a crack from beneath my boot. I staggered back,
Speaker 1: reaching out for the dwarf ring with one hand and
Speaker 1: holding the lantern out to get a better view. Mother
Speaker 1: had left the wine in the window still last night,
Speaker 1: as she always did. This was the first time I
Speaker 1: had ever seen the cup upon the ground. Wine colored
Speaker 1: the snow a deep crimson, and splashed across the door
Speaker 1: as well as if some one had thrown the cup
Speaker 1: against the door in a rage. In the low flickering
Speaker 1: light from my lantern, I could see that letters have
Speaker 1: been carved into the door, letters not born of my
Speaker 1: father's hand. I cannot hold back the unbecoming whimper that
Speaker 1: bubbles out of me as I traced them with my
Speaker 1: shaking fingers. Something terrible and angry had left its mark here.
Speaker 1: My trance is shattered when father staggers out of the door,
Speaker 1: jerking it inward away from me. I stand there, wide
Speaker 1: eyed and numb mouth, refusing to form any intelligent sentence. Child,
Speaker 1: What on earth are you doing out this early? We've
Speaker 1: told my name, I finally gasped, pointing at the door
Speaker 1: and nearly dropping my lantern. It has carved my name
Speaker 1: upon the door. Though I had no idea what it was,
Speaker 1: over and over into the letters had screwed over themselves.
Speaker 1: I had never in my life seen so much obvious
Speaker 1: rage displayed in written words. It was as if the
Speaker 1: thing had created something the very opposite of the warding
Speaker 1: ruins my family had carved. I knew, without knowing why,
Speaker 1: that whatever had done this was not a person. I
Speaker 1: knew also that it was certainly what had been howling
Speaker 1: in the night, and what our offerings and folk spells
Speaker 1: had been trying to keep away. They had failed at
Speaker 1: long last, and that meant something else entirely. My father
Speaker 1: grabbed my arm and pulled me into the house. He
Speaker 1: slammed the door behind us both. My mother was still
Speaker 1: blinking away sleep as my father lit into me, voice
Speaker 1: like acid. This foolish child, This foolish, damn child was
Speaker 1: nearly stolen away. How stupid are you risking everything for
Speaker 1: some silly jaunt about in the dark. I was not,
Speaker 1: I yelled back, shocking myself. I was not stolen, and
Speaker 1: I was not going about on some dalliance. You were
Speaker 1: both so upset. I thought I must make myself useful
Speaker 1: early as I could, to perhaps bring some levity into
Speaker 1: this awful dark house. Every winter is the same. This
Speaker 1: cloud fills your hearts, and you were miles away, and
Speaker 1: I do my best to ignore the strangeness and the
Speaker 1: awful nights. But no more I cannot. Your wards are
Speaker 1: not working anymore. And whatever it is you've been trying
Speaker 1: to scare away, it's leaving markings of its own. There
Speaker 1: are tears running hot down my cheeks, and any other
Speaker 1: time I would be shamed by them. Now I was
Speaker 1: too afraid and too angry. It too much to care.
Speaker 1: I winced as he stepped forward, expecting to be struck,
Speaker 1: but instead he growled, you will not go out in
Speaker 1: the dark. Your mother cannot endure another loss. Another, I asked,
Speaker 1: bring my eyes to my father's face. Both he and
Speaker 1: my mother looked startled, and before he can tell me
Speaker 1: to quiet, I ask again another another loss. This is
Speaker 1: the end of it. You will mind be silent, and
Speaker 1: when the sun rises, you will set about your work.
Speaker 1: When it sets, you will keep yourself indoors, and that
Speaker 1: will be the way of it until the days are
Speaker 1: longer and the snow melts. We have done all we
Speaker 1: can to make a refuge, and I will not have
Speaker 1: your carelessness erasing the work. I stared at his angry,
Speaker 1: twisted face and could see unacknowledged grief there. It was
Speaker 1: not what I expected. I tried once more, but my
Speaker 1: father gave an angry snarl and turned away. I avoided
Speaker 1: him the rest of the day, the difficult task in
Speaker 1: a house so small. As soon as the sun broke
Speaker 1: through the trees, I busied myself out of doors, caring
Speaker 1: for the animals and the small stable, searching our modest
Speaker 1: cellar for the roots and dried mushrooms my mother requested,
Speaker 1: gathering firewood, and even doing my mother's washing. She was
Speaker 1: upset as well, but not so loud and violent as father.
Speaker 1: She spent the day aimless, staring into nothing, and mending
Speaker 1: a shirt that did not need mending. It was late
Speaker 1: in the afternoon, and I had just come from the cellar,
Speaker 1: my arms full of the roots and mushrooms my mother
Speaker 1: had requested when I heard my father's voice loud and violent,
Speaker 1: too much to keep the damn thing away. If it
Speaker 1: weren't from me for these things I do, you would
Speaker 1: be long dead. It will never give up all that
Speaker 1: cursed wailing. This morning we wake to that stupid child out,
Speaker 1: my home befouled, and the offer being scattered, And yet
Speaker 1: you wanted named out loud. Shall we tempt it to enter?
Speaker 1: Will you not be happy until you have lost your life? Truly,
Speaker 1: you have done well enough. Husband. It was you who
Speaker 1: carried out the deed. It was you who insisted, told
Speaker 1: me my little one was too frail to see the spring,
Speaker 1: told me that my time and grief and love were
Speaker 1: wasted a sickly child that would soon die anyway, As
Speaker 1: if those hours of labor were nothing to me. Do
Speaker 1: remember that I did not want to cast my child
Speaker 1: out into the snow. Yes, husband, it is your hands
Speaker 1: that carved those runs, But it was your hands that
Speaker 1: did the burying as well. You stand here talking about
Speaker 1: my life in jeopardy, as if these wards do not
Speaker 1: protect you as well. And by the gods, how are
Speaker 1: you not more concerned that it's named our child? How
Speaker 1: everything I had thought possible, I had not dreamed of this,
Speaker 1: or I never you would never have what? Instead, Let
Speaker 1: the damned babe die slow and muling at your teeth
Speaker 1: all the pieces for months, and sit about unable to
Speaker 1: work for twice as long, or you would never have
Speaker 1: had any touch you again, lest you burn another useless
Speaker 1: curd and take our food and keep us beggars. There
Speaker 1: was a cruelty in his tone that filled me with vicious,
Speaker 1: foolish bravery. I ran from my corner and threw open
Speaker 1: the door, arms still loaded with my satchel of dried
Speaker 1: fungus and root vegetables. How dare you be so cruel
Speaker 1: to her? I shouted, throwing myself between my father, who
Speaker 1: was looming like an angry bear over mother, and she
Speaker 1: had backed into a corner nearest our hearth, a wooden
Speaker 1: spoon clutched in her white knuckled grip. I swung my
Speaker 1: satchel at him, unable to comprehend in that moment just
Speaker 1: how stupid the action would have been in any normal circumstance.
Speaker 1: It caught him in the arm as he reached for
Speaker 1: my wrist, and he yelled, snatching the bag from my
Speaker 1: grip and throwing it angrily to the wall overhead. Your stupid,
Speaker 1: worthless child, I should have locked the door against you
Speaker 1: and let the damn creature take you. Perhaps then it
Speaker 1: would be satisfied and we would know some peace out
Speaker 1: my mother howled, pulling herself to her feet. You will
Speaker 1: not take another child from me. What sort of man
Speaker 1: have you become? What a cowardly thing to say to
Speaker 1: your only surviving child, A simpering dog and an oat bird.
Speaker 1: Oh how proud my ancestors must be of my get
Speaker 1: he responded, his face ugly and reddened in anger. With
Speaker 1: those words and the gasp from my mother in response,
Speaker 1: he turned upon his heel and charged out of the house,
Speaker 1: the very walls shaking with the force of the door
Speaker 1: slamming behind him. I watched him through the snow. I
Speaker 1: saw him turn the corner, and knew from the sound
Speaker 1: of the cellar door he was searching for his rifle,
Speaker 1: and would most likely go out into the wood to hunt,
Speaker 1: as he had many times when his temper had gone
Speaker 1: too high. Very well, I thought, still full of righteous anger,
Speaker 1: Bring home a rabbit or two, and be useful. That
Speaker 1: was a silly thing standing between us. You know your
Speaker 1: father has a bear's temper, my mother finally said, Collecting
Speaker 1: the turnips that had rolled from my satchel across the floor,
Speaker 1: he said about cutting them and a few onions we
Speaker 1: had hanging by the hearth, and tossed them with snow melt,
Speaker 1: mushrooms and a handful of dried herbs into the large
Speaker 1: iron pot hanging above the harth fire. It was a
Speaker 1: silly thing, him screaming at you about things you cannot control,
Speaker 1: I replied darkly. A child, I finally asked, looking sideways
Speaker 1: and feeling braver without my father there to reprimand me
Speaker 1: all the reasons for this awful traditional I hadn't thought
Speaker 1: a baby would be would be? Why, oh, little one,
Speaker 1: if only your elder sister had stayed just that in
Speaker 1: her death. She did not, And whilst it was not
Speaker 1: me that left her there in the forest, I could
Speaker 1: have tried hard to prevent it. Not a day passes
Speaker 1: that I do not wish I had been stronger. That
Speaker 1: perhaps this terror is my own making, and I am
Speaker 1: simply reaping the seeds of what I sowed, in my weakness.
Speaker 1: What the same thing have happened to me had I
Speaker 1: been born sickly? I asked softly, Would he have left
Speaker 1: me out in the cold as well? I could not
Speaker 1: bear to let that happen again. Do you truly think
Speaker 1: you could have stopped him I before today? Perhaps? No.
Speaker 1: I do not want us to live this way. I
Speaker 1: am so tired of the wailing of saving for months
Speaker 1: for the luxuries, not for you nor I, but to
Speaker 1: offer up to the undying the footsteps every winter it comes,
Speaker 1: and it will do so forever until it is satisfied.
Speaker 1: Why does it? What does she want? I asked quietly.
Speaker 1: The thing she has become. She wants rest, a proper
Speaker 1: burial and a proper grave. Only I do not know
Speaker 1: where she was left. And your father claims that upon
Speaker 1: his attempt in spring defined the body to give it
Speaker 1: that rest, it was gone, carried off by animals. There
Speaker 1: are no bones to bear rry. It is a restless
Speaker 1: thing now. That wood bird that would have been your sister.
Speaker 1: I had thought what it wanted was my life, and
Speaker 1: I had nearly come to peace with that. But it
Speaker 1: has carved your name on the door, and I cannot
Speaker 1: allow it to take you, my only surviving child. I
Speaker 1: will not stand by again. She reached out for me,
Speaker 1: and I stepped forward and into a near crushing embrace.
Speaker 1: We both sobbed. She stroked my hair, the idea of
Speaker 1: my mother gone, as distant as she often was, it
Speaker 1: was unbearable. I did not want to be left alone
Speaker 1: with my father, the man who had called me worthless.
Speaker 1: I was so upset I very nearly missed the faint
Speaker 1: cry from outside. It came again and again, the scream
Speaker 1: followed by the crashing of trees falling in the forest.
Speaker 1: Father once more, and a terrible crashing, too loud to
Speaker 1: be anything natural, that walked the forest, as though something
Speaker 1: heavier than stone had rolled through the stand of trees
Speaker 1: that bordered our homestead. An ominous sound. Don't my mother
Speaker 1: rasped when I slipped from her and made for the door.
Speaker 1: The gods above do not open that door. It is
Speaker 1: nearly dark. Father needs help. He is of war and cruel,
Speaker 1: but I am not, and I cannot just ignore him.
Speaker 1: Angry as I was, he was still my father, and
Speaker 1: I was better than he. I did not leave my
Speaker 1: family alone in the snow. Nearly has come and gone, child,
Speaker 1: and you cannot help him now the gods below and
Speaker 1: above have left him. Another scream, and something heavy was
Speaker 1: thrown against the door. I cried out, hands to my mouth,
Speaker 1: do not open that door, my mother screamed, reaching from
Speaker 1: my shoulders, pulling me back from the shuddering wood. We
Speaker 1: stood pressed against the far wall, shivering for hours, too
Speaker 1: afraid to move. Something large and dark lurked outside, and
Speaker 1: sometimes its shape could be seen through the window. It
Speaker 1: did not try to enter after that first rush at
Speaker 1: the door, though it did wail and scratch. The noise
Speaker 1: became like a storm, rising and falling through the night,
Speaker 1: shaking the windows. I grew too afraid to look. When
Speaker 1: the sun lit the window, I struggled to my feet
Speaker 1: and took a few halting steps to the door. Mother
Speaker 1: made a sound as if to stop me, but she didn't,
Speaker 1: and so I kept on, pulling open the door and
Speaker 1: peering out into the early dawn. Father's head lay on
Speaker 1: its right cheek, soaked him blood there in front of
Speaker 1: the door, the stump where his neck had been with
Speaker 1: a jagged and wet but frozen A pool of frosted
Speaker 1: blood spread across the little walkway, I had myself dug
Speaker 1: out that morning before, after the discovery of the wine
Speaker 1: and the cup. We're still. As I took a shaking
Speaker 1: step around the terrible sight, I saw his body, or
Speaker 1: rather the torn stump of his neck, as if something
Speaker 1: had planted him like a tree into the earth yards
Speaker 1: from the house, and then plucked his head like a
Speaker 1: fruit and tossed it carelessly aside. I slumped to my knees,
Speaker 1: ignoring the immediate bite of freezing snow as it soaked
Speaker 1: through my pants and chilled my skin and ute bird. Indeed,
Speaker 1: and it had done precisely what those stories over fires
Speaker 1: had said, forced my father into the earth with its
Speaker 1: awful weight, as it had not gotten what it wanted
Speaker 1: from him, and never could. I knew that his death
Speaker 1: would not be enough. It was not my father's name
Speaker 1: that had been written, after all, and murder was no
Speaker 1: end of this curse. There was nobody to bury, no
Speaker 1: sacred ground it wanted. Instead in exchange, Father had simply
Speaker 1: made the foolish choice to get between the thing and
Speaker 1: its quarry. I had never felt so small and so unprepared.
Speaker 1: I stood there, paralyzed with a dread I had not known.
Speaker 1: I was capable of viewing, staring at the desecrated remnants
Speaker 1: of my father. My mother's grip around my arm was
Speaker 1: like iron and pulled me from the snowy path, dragging
Speaker 1: me back towards shelter. Your foolish child, she murmured. I
Speaker 1: told you, I told you. Nothing left by the outward
Speaker 1: is anything you need lay eyes on. It wants me,
Speaker 1: I rasped, and I felt as though the cold could
Speaker 1: never be driven from my bones. And no, little one,
Speaker 1: silly bird, my mother chastised, The thing does not want you.
Speaker 1: It's me. It seeks you are simply it was my name,
Speaker 1: my name on the door. It seeks to harm us both,
Speaker 1: my little one, But it's me who agreed to let
Speaker 1: her freeze, is it not. You must promise me to
Speaker 1: stay inside this night, no matter what you hear, no
Speaker 1: matter what you may see, you must stay inside. I
Speaker 1: cannot lose you. What are you going to do? I
Speaker 1: asked her. She did not answer, but instead busied herself
Speaker 1: over the fire with breakfast. For the rest of the day,
Speaker 1: my mother stayed silent, and she would not let me
Speaker 1: tend to the animals that she did herself. I ceered
Speaker 1: through the window curious and watched as she walked a
Speaker 1: wide circle around the torn stump of my father's neck.
Speaker 1: I could not, for the life of me find his
Speaker 1: head through my narrow view, and I was not bold
Speaker 1: enough to ask her about it. When she finally returned
Speaker 1: to me, we sat in the early evening, drinking Valerian
Speaker 1: root tea and picking out a stew I normally loved tonight, however,
Speaker 1: it was wood, pulp and soil on my tongue. I ate, steady,
Speaker 1: silent as the sun slipped away. Betrayal I felt I
Speaker 1: could not forgive, as shadows grew long and a pit
Speaker 1: opened wide and heavy within me. She's here, I whispered, breathless,
Speaker 1: though I had not heard the cries no child, not yet.
Speaker 1: My mother paced by the door, but she will be.
Speaker 1: I need you to promise me, no matter what happens
Speaker 1: this night, no matter what you see, you do as
Speaker 1: I tell you to do. She shifted her gaze from
Speaker 1: the door to me, and beneath the weight of that stare,
Speaker 1: I could not help but gift a slow nod. Mother.
Speaker 1: I have always thought that I obeyed you well enough,
Speaker 1: no matter what Father thought. I started, and she shook
Speaker 1: her head you must obey me exactly this night, little one,
Speaker 1: or you will not live to see another for me.
Speaker 1: You must promise that you will see dawn. I nodded
Speaker 1: again and sat back in my chair. A piercing while
Speaker 1: broke the quiet. The thing sounded hungry, ancient, and hollow.
Speaker 1: Worst of all, as the heavy footsteps brought it ever closer,
Speaker 1: it sounded alluring. I wanted to go outside in a
Speaker 1: way that I had not before. It began howling my
Speaker 1: name syllables, twisted, dragged through the soil and snow. I
Speaker 1: found myself standing, walking towards the door, with a little
Speaker 1: anguish cry falling from my lips. No, my mother was there,
Speaker 1: grabbing my shoulders and forcing me into a chair. Do
Speaker 1: not listen. But I could not help it. I could
Speaker 1: not resist. The very foundation of our little cottage was
Speaker 1: shaking with a wailing, and I could not tell my
Speaker 1: mother's cries from those outside it. Before the door, arms outstretched,
Speaker 1: taking one step and then another out into the snow,
Speaker 1: the horrible thing stood there in the dark of the night,
Speaker 1: the trees blotted out for its monstrous size. I could
Speaker 1: not even glimpse its head. I could not see the
Speaker 1: mouth that burst those cries. I took a step forward,
Speaker 1: ignoring my mother's scream, and then Dame brilliant, red and black,
Speaker 1: and I felt to my knees, splintered wood from my
Speaker 1: favorite chair raining down around me. My mother had struck
Speaker 1: me down. Before I could protest. She was there, wrapped
Speaker 1: in her shawl, loaming in her own way, sturdy and
Speaker 1: warm and firm, You damned foul thing. My mother stood
Speaker 1: betweing us, a candle held high in her hand, glaring
Speaker 1: up in the amorphous, angry face and its cold black eyes.
Speaker 1: I wish then that I had not looked, for the
Speaker 1: weight of that gaze took residence somewhere in me forever.
Speaker 1: You've hunted us for years. We've given everything we could.
Speaker 1: You've taken your father, but you will not take your sibling.
Speaker 1: Have at me, beast, have at me, and no rest
Speaker 1: at last. I am the mother who cast you out.
Speaker 1: I am the one who bade you freeze in the
Speaker 1: winter me. She turned at me, and then his little
Speaker 1: one run and do not look back. I watched in horror.
Speaker 1: This hand came from the shadows, wrapping its thick, unearthly
Speaker 1: pale spirit, blesh around my mother, lifting her up into
Speaker 1: the dark. She did not scream or struggle, and I
Speaker 1: was torn between terror and wonder at her strength, summoned
Speaker 1: from its hiding place at last, I found my legs then,
Speaker 1: and I staggered to my feet, her words still ringing
Speaker 1: in my ears, and taking nothing. I ran. I imagined
Speaker 1: myself a wolf cup to them, flinging myself through the
Speaker 1: trees I've grown up in my entire life. I imagined
Speaker 1: I could run for ages, that I was nothing but wind,
Speaker 1: and I willed it so fiercely that I could not
Speaker 1: say I had not shifted form. I was far enough
Speaker 1: away than when the thing drove Mother into the earth,
Speaker 1: and I only felt the slightest tremor beneath my feet
Speaker 1: and heard merely a wisp of a cry. Gone. They
Speaker 1: were both gone, and from the sounds that followed, my
Speaker 1: home was gone too. I did not stop. I could
Speaker 1: not afford the seconds that would to allow grief to rise,
Speaker 1: and so I pushed it down. I ran. I ran,
Speaker 1: as though I could outrun a curse, outrun memory, and
Speaker 1: for a time, for many years, perhaps I believe I
Speaker 1: did it. Just went to her again. The longest night
Speaker 1: I have spent years haunting cities, taking odd jobs, and
Speaker 1: never stopping from long. I have never settled, and very
Speaker 1: if you ever know my name, and the name I
Speaker 1: give them is not the name of the ute bird
Speaker 1: carved upon the door, an ill omen to give anyone
Speaker 1: a cursed name. I am older now, and I do
Speaker 1: not quite have it in me to run as I
Speaker 1: once did. I hear her cries upon the wind, and
Speaker 1: I wondered just what anyone near must think, or if
Speaker 1: her horrible howls, or for my ears alone, whiling is
Speaker 1: coming closer, and certainly it is not my donation. I
Speaker 1: opened my door, taking a deep breath, and step outside
Speaker 1: to wait. And then you were here in this forest,
Speaker 1: running from her, and you saw the light and ran
Speaker 1: towards it. And here you are so tired, so tired.
Speaker 1: It is time now, Annabelle, Finally your tormentor will not
Speaker 1: follow you into leave anymore. Thank you. Twelve Ghosts starring
Speaker 1: Malcolm McDowell as the Innkeeper and Gina Rikiki as Annabelle.
Speaker 1: Episode of Leven the up Bird written by E. M.
Speaker 1: Westover with additional writing by Nicholas Takowski, editing by Chris
Speaker 1: Childs and Stephen Perez, directed by Nicholas Takowski. Original score
Speaker 1: and sound design by Chris Childs. Executive producers Aaron Manky,
Speaker 1: Matt Frederick, Alexander Williams and Nicholas Takowski. Supervising producer Josh Say.
Speaker 1: Producers Chris Child's and Stephen Perez. Casting by Sunday Bowling
Speaker 1: cs A and Meg Mormon c s A. Production coordinator
Speaker 1: Wayna Calderon. Recorded at Lantern Audio in Atlanta, Georgia, engineered
Speaker 1: by Chris Gardner Arrows Sound and Recording in Ojai, California,
Speaker 1: engineered by Ken Arrows. Twelve Ghosts was created by Nicholas Takowski.
Speaker 1: That is a production of iHeart three D Audio and
Speaker 1: Grim and Mild from Aaron Mankey. Learn more about the
Speaker 1: show at Grim and Mild dot com and find more
Speaker 1: podcasts from my Heart Radio by visiting the I Heart
Speaker 1: Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your
Speaker 1: favorite shows.