There’s a shop on a street that doesn’t appear on any map. Its window glows long after the rest of the town has fallen asleep. Inside, a lone seamstress works by candlelight — needle flashing, thread whispering, her hands moving with a rhythm that sounds far too alive.

No one remembers when she arrived. No one remembers when she stopped.

Welcome to The Silver Seamstress, a new gothic horror story for the season — eerie, intimate, and stitched from the very fabric of nightmare. If you love haunted atmospheres, tragic mysteries, and stories that feel like whispered confessions in candlelight… this one is for you.

This episode isn’t just about monsters or magic.

The Seamstress represents control — the need to craft, to mend, to make sense of chaos by stitching it into form. But the story asks:

Throughout, you’ll hear echoes of loneliness, legacy, and transformation. The idea that beauty — true beauty — might require something terrible in return. It’s horror not through violence, but through inevitability.

And yes, the story’s final image lingers long after the last word.

Now that we’ve reached the midpoint, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the journey so far:

🕯️ Which moment from Chapters I–III struck you most — the first glimpse of the workshop, the mannequins’ breath, or the thread that refuses to break?

Share your theories, your interpretations, your unease — I read them all, and they often shape how future episodes unfold!

If you’re new to the Patreon, welcome to the workshop. Here, you’ll find early access, behind-the-scenes notes, and small secrets that didn’t make it into the recording.

The candle’s still burning.

All the love and all the hugs from your Tale Teller...

And now for some Seamstress Lore!

No one remembers the seamstress’s first breath, nor the day she took her last — if she ever did. Her name was once Mirelle Anson, a tailor’s daughter in a town that has since slipped out of geography and into rumour. When her mother fell ill, Mirelle discovered that her own blood could mend cloth better than any dye or oil. The first time her needle pierced her fingertip, the thread shimmered silver and refused to break.

Her gift became her curse. Each garment she repaired took a fragment of memory, a pulse of warmth, a moment that would never return. Soon the townsfolk whispered that her creations never aged — nor did the dead who wore them. The boundary between fabric and flesh began to blur.

When her body failed, her hands did not. They kept moving long after her breath stopped, pulling threads through time itself. The shop became a space between worlds — where creation and decay are the same motion seen from opposite sides.

They say her workshop still appears in places where grief lingers too long. The candle never burns out, the thread never tangles, and the air tastes faintly of iron and jasmine.

Those who enter her door leave changed.

And always, always — the whisper of her working: