Mørketid ends tonight. Sweden.

Fair warning on this one...

This episode is about children. The bäckahästen drowns them and the Myling is one that was left in the woods to die, and while I've kept the detail out, it's there for the whole half-hour. If that's a hard subject for you, take this one at your own pace or skip it — the series works without it and I'd rather you were alright than completist.

What I worked out while writing it...

The bäckahästen is a white horse standing in a summer meadow. A child climbs on. Nothing happens, so a second climbs on behind them. And there's room. However many climb on, there is room, because the back gets longer — never suddenly, just, each time, space for one more. And a child being helped onto a horse isn't measuring the horse.

Then it walks — walks, not gallops — into the water.

Sweden has close to a hundred thousand lakes and children drowned in the summer in numbers we'd find unbearable now. And I don't think this story is a warning to children at all. It's far too appealing for that, and it clearly didn't work.

It's for the parents. It's a story in which it wasn't the water and nobody looked up too late and nothing could have been done, because a beautiful white horse chose them.

And the myling...

A child left in the woods, which waits by the road and cries and asks to be carried to the churchyard so it can be buried properly. It gets heavier the closer you get to the gate — so the last two hundred yards are worse than the whole mile before them. If you make it, it rests. If you put it down, it kills you.

I kept trying to work out why it gets heavier, and the answer isn't cruelty. It's that the nearer you get, the more it becomes a child, and the more the entire weight of what was done — and of a village that knew exactly what had happened and asked nothing — is on one person's back at once, in the dark, in sight of the wall.

What the four nights turned out to be about...

I didn't plan this and I only saw it writing the last Turn. Every one of these countries is dark for a third of the year. Every one had people living six miles from the next house with no light and no help.

And what all four of them built wasn't a set of monsters. It was a set of instructions. Say the name out loud. Turn your coat inside out. Don't laugh at her. Watch what's in her hand. Don't put it down.

Small, stubborn, faintly ridiculous things that a frightened person can actually do.

That's what folklore is, I think. Not an explanation of the dark. A list of things to do while you're in it.

Next week...

Back to Japan True Crime. Back to the hundred candles. Back to the other kind of dark — the kind people do to each other.

Thank you for four nights my librarians of the dark... 🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

A craft decision I want to explain...

The draug should have been the finale. He's the better monster by any obvious measure — a drowned fisherman in oilskins with a mass of seaweed where his head should be, sailing half a boat against the wind, screaming out on the water where there is nobody. That's a closing image.

I put him second, and gave the ending to an old woman walking up a path.

Here's why. Everything in these four episodes has a countermeasure. Say the Näkki's name. Turn your coat inside out. Be polite to the Huldra and keep your luck. Stay off the water. Every horror in this series comes with something small and stubborn you can do about it — that's the whole argument the finale makes.

Pesta has nothing. She isn't cruel and she isn't kind and she cannot be bargained with and nothing you did brought her. In 1349 the plague came into Bergen on a ship and Norway lost somewhere between half and two thirds of its people in about eighteen months, and because Norway is a country of valleys reachable by one path each, it didn't sweep. It walked. At the speed of a person, because it was carried by people.

So you knew it was coming. You'd had word. It had been three valleys over, and then two, and then the next one.

And what they made out of that is the most efficient piece of horror I've ever come across. She carries either a rake or a broom. A rake has gaps — things slip between the tines, and some of you live. A broom has none.

And you can see her on the path, a long way down, for about an hour. And the only thing you are doing for that entire hour is trying to work out what's in her hand.

If you want to go deeper...

Theodor Kittelsen painted Pesta over and over in the 1890s and those images are what most Norwegians still picture. Worth looking up before you listen. It's the flatness of her face that does it — she isn't malicious. She's just arriving.

Next Episode...

Sweden. And that one was the hardest of the four to write, so fair warning.

The candle stays lit. 🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

Night two of Mørketid is out. Finland.

Metsänpeitto

It translates as "the forest cover," and it describes something Finns believed happened often enough that the language needed a word for it.

A person walks into the forest they've known their whole life. They don't come back. The village searches properly — small community, everyone knows the ground, they go out in a line and call.

And the belief isn't that the person wandered off. The belief is that they are still there. Six feet away. Possibly standing directly in front of the search line. And the forest has put something over them.

Here's the part I had to stop reading and walk away from: in the collected accounts, from people who said it had happened to them, the person under the cover is awake the whole time. They can hear the search party. Some of them describe watching people walk past. They can't be seen, can't be heard, and can't make their legs carry them toward the voices.

No creature. Nobody arrives. Nothing hurts you. You are simply removed from the category of things that can be found.

And then there's the cure....

Turn your coat inside out. Put your shirt on backwards. Take your shoes off and swap them onto the wrong feet.

That's it. That was the remedy, believed all across Finland and into Karelia and Estonia. And it makes an awful sense — if the forest has taken the shape of you and put a lid over it, stop being that shape.

But picture actually doing it. A grown adult in failing light who has been shouting for three hours and has stopped shouting, sitting down on the pine needles and very carefully swapping their shoes over, because it is the only thing left in the world that they can try.

That's the cover art for this episode, by the way. Just the boots.

The other half...

The Lemminkäinen section is the saddest thing I've written for this show. His mother rakes the black river of the underworld until she has all eight pieces of him, sews him back together, wakes him — and he stretches and says he's been asleep a long time and slept well.

He never knew. She never told him.

Next Episode...

Norway. An old woman walking up a valley path carrying either a rake or a broom, and everything depends on which.

The candle stays lit. 🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

Four nights of Nordic folklore. Night one: Denmark buried things alive under its churches — and some of them are still working.

Something different for the next four weeks. No true crime at all.

Mørketid — Four Nights North is a mini-series: Denmark, Finland, Norway, Sweden, one night each, pure folklore. Night one is out now.

The bit that stopped me while I was writing it...

The kirkegrim isn't a legend in the way the others are. It's a practice. When a new churchyard was consecrated, the belief was that the first body buried there had to stand guard over the ground forever — so rather than doom a person to that, they buried an animal alive instead. Usually a lamb.

That happened. Across Denmark, across Sweden, across England, for centuries. There are churches standing today where the bones are still down there.

I wrote that section three times because I kept making it too gothic. It works better plain — a man in a wool coat, on a cold morning, holding a lamb that isn't frightened because lambs aren't frightened of people. That's the version that's in the episode.

A note on the format...

These aren't candles. The hundred-candle game is specifically Japanese, and burning four of the hundred on Nordic material would break that whole arc. So Mørketid gets its own frame, and it's the exact inverse: in Japan you blow candles out until the dark arrives. Up north the dark is already there — you light one and count nights until the sun comes back.

Four nights, then we go back to Japan.

Next Weekend...

Finland. And Finland is the worst of the four. There's a word up there for what happens when the forest doesn't take you anywhere, doesn't hurt you, and simply stops letting you be found — while you stand in it, awake, listening to the search party call your name.

The candle stays lit. 🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

Japanese true crime and Japanese folklore, one candle at a time.

In June 1981, a Japanese literature student in Paris asked a Dutch classmate to come to his apartment and help him with his German pronunciation. Renée Hartevelt was twenty-five. She said yes because she was the kind of person who noticed when somebody was sitting on their own.

Issei Sagawa confessed within days. He was never convicted, never imprisoned, and never spent a single night in a cell. He spent the next thirty-six years being interviewed, published, booked and paid — and at one point, employed as a restaurant critic.

This episode pairs his case with the jikininki: the Buddhist hungry ghost, cursed to devour the dead every night through a throat too narrow to swallow anything at all. A creature no court can touch, no prison can hold, and no executioner can reach — one that ends only when somebody finally decides to stop feeding it.

Two stories about an appetite that was never the crime.

It was the sentence.

⸻

Contains: graphic violence, cannibalism, sexual violence (referenced, not depicted), and detailed discussion of a real victim. Listener discretion advised.

Chapters
00:00 The Lighting
02:40 The Priest at the Hermitage
15:30 Renée
20:40 The Woman in the Ground-Floor Apartment
27:30 The Eleventh of June
36:00 The Hole in the Law
40:00 The Godfather
43:30 The Rite
50:00 The Ones Who Keep The Candles Lit

⸻

There is an old Japanese game. A hundred candles are lit in a windowless room. Every story told puts one out. Nobody agrees on what arrives when the last one dies — only that you should not be there to see it.

This is Candle 001.

Ninety-nine to go...

What happens when folklore becomes too terrible to be fiction? Can you listen past the performance and find the true forensic history?

Welcome back to Stories Fables Ghostly Tales. In tonight’s interactive special, the Tale Teller presents an impossible challenge: "Three Waters, Dark Tides: Two Myths, One Truth."

We have gathered three haunting accounts of Japan's relationship with the dark, cold element of water. One is a factual, historical tragedy; the other two are timeless legends. Your mission is to determine which of these deep, dark tides actually swept across our reality. Do not let the mythology fool you. Lock in your guess internally.

Keep your tea hot, keep your porch lights burning against the rising fog, and remember... sometimes the Saint is just a monster with a good alibi. Until next time... pleasant dreams... if you can sleep at all.

Did you guess the story...correctly?

I am your Tale Teller...

Have a wonderful night... 💜💜💜

Turn the lights down low...

It is time for Tall Tales and True Crime...

In this episode of Stories Fables Ghostly Tales, we explore one of the most widely discussed and psychologically complex cases in modern Japan: The 1997 Kobe Case, historically known across the nation as the Sakakibara Investigation.

In the spring of 1997, the peaceful neighbourhood of Suma Ward in Kobe, Japan was gripped by sudden fear following a series of alarming suburban incidents. For three long months, an entire community lived in heightened state of caution while detectives worked tirelessly to track down a phantom subject who communicated through cryptic notes sent to local newspapers. When law enforcement finally identified the individual responsible, the revelations reshaped Japan's legal framework and societal views on youth mental health forever.

In the second half, we step away from modern investigative archives and journey into the deep mountain forests of ancient Japan to explore the legend of the Satori —a famous Yōkai from Edo-period folklore known for its uncanny ability to read human thoughts in real time and unmask hidden intentions. We weave these two worlds together, contrasting the mind-reading spirit of mythology against the real-world psychological mystery of silent warnings and unexamined shadows.

Turn down the lights...

Lock your doors...

Stay Safe...

Thank you for listening!

💜✨💜✨💜✨💜✨💜✨

On the morning of April 23, 1994, a park cleaner in Inokashira Park opened a utility trash container expecting ordinary market waste, only to find a severed human foot inside a translucent blue plastic bag. Within hours, police recovered twenty-seven separate body parts distributed across twenty-seven public trash bins—each piece meticulously cut to an exact length of twenty centimetres, drained completely of blood, and scrubbed clean.

Despite deploying over 110,000 police officers, investigating countless leads, and uncovering forensic perfection that defied normal criminal behaviour, two-thirds of the victim's body—including his head and internal organs—were never found. The case eventually hit the statute of limitations, leaving investigators staring into an absolute void.

In this episode, we explore the chilling Inokashira Park dismemberment and pair it with the ancient Japanese myth of the Noppera-bō (The Faceless Phantom)—examining how a human predator wiped away a man's face, identity, and record from history, leaving behind a blank, featureless slate.

Thank you for listening legends...

Stay curious...

Stay a little scared...

And whatever you do... if you pass a stranger in the dark tonight... don't look too closely at their face.

Have a great week ahead legends! 💀

⚠ CONTENT WARNING: This episode contains extensive, highly detailed accounts of real-world serial murder, financial exploitation, the complete thermal destruction of human remains, and themes of animal cruelty. Listener discretion is absolutely mandatory.

Welcome back to Stories Fables Ghostly Tales. Tonight, we present The Art of Transparency: The Saitama Dog Lover Murders — Japan, 1993.

Deep within the mountain passes of Saitama Prefecture, a remote wooden hut once hid a factory of absolute non-existence. We pull back the friendly, commercial facade of a luxury pet breeding kennel to dissect a terrifying pattern of cold-blooded, economically driven slaughter.

In 1993, the charismatic operator of the Africa Kennel, Gen Sekine and his cold, analytical partner, Hiroko Kazama , found themselves drowning in millions of yen of bubble-era debt. Their solution was chillingly simple: make their creditors and business rivals completely "transparent." Utilizing a lethal veterinary compound mixed into polite health tonics, they killed their victims in minutes, dismembered the remains, incinerated the tissue to powder, and hammered the bones to dust before casting them into mountain rivers. They believed that without a body, there was no crime—until forensic teams literally began sifting the riverbeds for tooth shards.

The cold, predatory architecture of this modern kennel crime perfectly mirrors a forbidden, ancient folk sorcery from Japan's rural past: the invocation of the Inugami . Born from an act of unspeakable human cruelty—starving a hound and severing its head at the absolute peak of its fury—this invisible dog-spirit was bound to households to destroy competitors and generate immense, illicit wealth. But the folklore carries a terrifying trap. The Inugami obeys only out of constraint, and if the master's willpower slips or their greed becomes too bloated, the curse turns entirely inward, consuming the family until they descend into madness.

Did Gen Sekine truly master the art of non-existence, or did the ancient malice of the kennel jar simply turn around to bite back?

Hit play, sit back, and get comfortable.

And remember... if you see a ripple of heat moving through a freezing fog... don't assume you're walking alone.

Stay curious.

Stay a little scared.

Goodnight. 💀

⚠ CONTENT WARNING: This episode contains detailed descriptions of a real-world serial crime involving children, systemic judicial failure, and heavy themes of unresolved communal grief. It also contains an extended discussion of traditional Japanese supernatural folklore. Listener discretion is strongly advised.

Welcome back to Stories Fables Ghostly Tales. Tonight, we present The Reeds of Twilight: The North Kanto Serial Child Murders — Japan, 1979–1996.

Along the gravel bars and misty lowlands of the Watarase River valley, there is a weight that standard criminology cannot seem to lift. We step into the dense river fog of the North Kanto plain to dissect a harrowing cross-prefectural mystery, a devastating failure of justice, and the ancient folklore that steps in when the living choose silence.

Between 1979 and 1996, within a tiny, suffocating radius of just twenty kilometres along this river valley, five young girls vanished. Hunted from the neon distraction of local pachinko parlours and quiet neighbourhood parks, their stories were ultimately buried under the paperwork of a false conviction. For seventeen years, the state kept an innocent man behind bars to protect institutional face—leaving the real predator to walk the river roads completely free.

When a catastrophic loss is systematically ignored by the world of the living, the old stories say that energy curdles. It pools in the low boundaries where land meets water. Enter the Ubume—the mourning mother spirit of Japanese folklore. She stands in the high reeds at twilight, begging passers-by to hold her swaddled bundle. But what feels like a child quickly turns to solid iron. It is the literal, crushing mass of unresolved grief, anchoring the unprotected to the mud.

From modern logistics truck drivers experiencing sudden, atmospheric engine stalls on the Route 51 bridge to elderly fishermen encountering white silhouettes in the pre-dawn mist, we ask: Has the Watarase River valley generated its own manifestation of forgotten justice?

Hit play, sit back, and get comfortable.

And remember... if the air near the river turns to stone... don't assume you're walking alone.

Stay curious.

Stay a little scared.

Goodnight. 💀