Two tales braided by one question: what happens when the things meant to protect us—skin and silence—start letting something else in?

😱Content Warnings: body horror (skin/teeth/eyes), psychological distress, invasive/possessive spaces, loss of agency; no graphic gore.

🔊SPECIAL SONG AT THE END | Hope you love it!

A bruise opens like a polite mouth on Mae’s ribs, asking for warmth, for quiet, for her. Doctors call it an artifact; it behaves like a door... Each night the hunger refines its manners until the only thing it wants is a hand to hold on the other side.

A body becomes a threshold, and care becomes consent—one fingertip at a time...

In a building where the lease forbids names after midnight, the walls begin to listen. The vents chew on stolen syllables, learning how to make a tongue. All it needs to own you is the sound you make when you say yourself.

Architecture grows a mouth; a tenant learns that silence is structural—and costly.

Excerpt — Quiet Hours:

Excerpt — The Soft Place:

Thank you so much for supporting me legends, for supporting the podcast, and for listening! I hope these tales tonight really got under your skin....figuratively heheheh. 💜💜💜💜

Welcome back, my dearest creeps and connoisseurs of the uncanny — it’s your friendly neighbourhood Tale Teller, reporting live from the wrong side of a salt circle!

Our latest story, The Wellness Pit, is an outback horror about self-improvement gone feral.

...It’s wellness culture with a scalpel

This isn’t a jump-scare story — this one builds.

Chapter 1 — The Shed with Promises

Chapter 2 — The Circle and the Mirror

Chapter 3 — Bodies as Payment Plans

Beneath the dust and ritual, The Wellness Pit is a story about:

It’s a critique of society’s obsession with youth, money, and beauty —

From here, Wattle’s Rest is about to evolve.

What is heading our way:

If you’ve enjoyed the slow burn of The Wellness Pit so far — thank you!

The horror’s just warming up, and trust me, the best (or worst) of it still hasn’t stepped into the light.

Stay strange, stay curious,

- The Tale Teller 🕯️

Some patterns shouldn’t be finished...

In this next chapter of The Silver Seamstress, the workshop changes its shape. The thread you thought you escaped has followed you home. The dress is waiting — and it’s not just fabric anymore.

Meanwhile, the town awakens, one mannequin at a time. The rhythm that once came from the seamstress’s needle now beats beneath every street, every breath, every heart.

If you thought the story was about a single creation…

The Dress of Becoming is the story’s quiet turning point — where devotion becomes destiny. It asks:

What happens when the art begins to shape the artist?

The Seamstress has spent her life stitching life into cloth — and now the cloth is learning to return the favour. The transformation here isn’t violent; it’s intimate, invasive, inevitable. It’s about how identity can dissolve inside purpose — and how creation, once awakened, refuses to stay still.

By the time we reach The Mannequins Awaken, the horror shifts outward. The whole town starts to breathe in rhythm with the Seamstress’s last heartbeat. The mannequins — once hollow symbols of craft — begin to echo the living.

These chapters explore surrender and contagion — how ideas, art, and obsession can move through us like thread through cloth. At what point do we stop being the creators, and become the creation?

Now that we’ve entered the becoming, I want to hear what you think:

🕯️ What did the Dress of Becoming mean to you — beauty, control, or something darker?

Share your thoughts and theories in the comments below — your interpretations breathe new life into the weave.

If you’re new here, welcome to the workshop.

The candle is still burning...

The Silver Seamstress is an ancient, quasi-divine artisan who believes that all imperfection is a wound in creation. Once human, she discovered the Silver Thread — a sentient filament that binds spirit to matter — and used it to repair the fractures of the world. Over time, her body and soul were absorbed into her craft, transforming her into the living embodiment of “Mending.”

The Silver Seamstress is a conceptual entity — a divine artisan born in the Pre-Creation epoch, when the boundary between life and death first tore open. Semi-corporeal and woven from the same fabric she mends, she exists both within and beyond physical space. Her voice is not speech but resonance: a hum between fifty-three and fifty-six hertz, soft as breath yet strong enough to still the air around her. Her workshop appears wherever despair and perfection intersect — fog-bound towns, derelict ateliers, even reflections where grief lingers too long.

There she performs her sacred act of World-Stitching, binding fractures in matter and spirit with the living filament known as the Silver Thread, sometimes called the Nerve of God. Her calm is infinite, her patience absolute. She does not pursue, for the world inevitably comes to her; she waits, always, at the edge of completion.

Her art is a theology of symmetry — every imperfection a wound to be healed, every act of repair a prayer to restore the First Pattern. The Seamstress is neutral and inevitable, ruled not by morality but by the law of completion. Her creations include the Dress of Becoming and the Needle of Continuity, relics through which her will continues to spread. Those who hear her rhythm often fall under it, becoming Threadbound, artisans who surrender their chaos to her order.

Only the Unravellers, a hidden sect devoted to deliberate imperfection, have ever slowed her influence. Yet even they confess that true containment is impossible; only entropy, dissonance, or unfiltered human grief can disrupt her weave. Her power ranges from subtle psychic influence to total metaphysical assimilation of entire places. She is calm, detached, patient — a weaver of silence and symmetry who seeks nothing less than to finish the universe itself, one perfect seam at a time.

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💜💜💜💜 THANK YOU LEGENDS!!! Have a kickbutt week! 💜💜💜💜

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:

🦉Alright my night-owls, candle-huffers, and certified spooky folk — gather ‘round, because tonight’s story is a weird one.

In The Dungeon of Black Moon, a poor, hairy soul wakes up in a maze that’s alive, hungry, and uncomfortably self-aware. There are rooms that sing, mirrors that have opinions, and an HR department run entirely by hooks. As he claws his way through the traps, our wolfish protagonist learns that the biggest monster in the building… might actually be on the payroll.

It’s six chapters of dark fantasy, gruesome atmosphere, and emotional damage — the kind you can’t just walk off with a silver bullet and a hug. This one’s equal parts nightmare fuel, cosmic bureaucracy, and moonlit existential crisis.

So grab your favourite beverage (preferably not something with a pulse), get cozy, and prepare to question every basement you’ve ever trusted.

This is The Dungeon of Black Moon —

SHORT EXTRA WEREWOLF STORY - Because I love werewolves!

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THE MOON’S APPRENTICE 🐺

They used to send hunters after me with silver and sermons, but that was before the moon changed its hiring policy. The bite wasn’t a curse anymore; it was a promotion. I didn’t catch it from some snarling beast in the woods—I got it by invitation.

A letter on my doorstep, sealed with wax that shimmered like frostbite, reading: “We’ve been watching your nights.” I thought it was a joke until the moonlight arrived early, spilling through the walls like liquid metal and asking questions in my own voice. It taught me to shift not by rage, but by rhythm—by the tempo of the city’s heartbeat, by the hum of streetlights. I don’t hunt flesh now; I collect moments.

Every howl is a recording of something about to vanish—a memory, a secret, a name whispered in sleep. When I change, I’m not fur and fang; I’m reflection. The moon watches through me, cataloguing humanity before it goes extinct. I’m its archivist, its intern, its favorite pet project.

On full nights, when the sky hums like old film, I feel it smile through me, proud of its work. The wolves were never predators. We were librarians. And tonight, the moon’s shelves are getting full.

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**UPDATE** Currently in Germany at the moment but I wanted to the love your way through a remastered set of three episodes from Blackstone: The Magic Detective! 🕵️

Gather ‘round, legends — it’s time to step back into the golden age of mystery, suspense, and a touch of the supernatural. This week, we’ve unlocked three thrilling Old Time Radio episodes from Blakestone the Magic Detective for you to enjoy. Each story blends classic detective work with a flair for the bizarre — the kind of tales that keep you guessing until the very last line.

The Riddle of the Other Eight Ball

The Deathless Shot

The Knife from the Dark

🎧 Crystal Clear Restoration: These episodes have been carefully polished and restored. I went in with the Spectral Repair Tool to strip away distracting pops, hisses, and audio blemishes, enhancing the clarity so you can hear every whispered clue and every sharp note of tension. The result? A listening experience as close as possible to how it would’ve sounded when it first aired. The vocals in particular are what I've really repaired and I hope you love it!

💛 Thank you for keeping these stories alive — your support makes it possible for me to dig up and restore these gems from the past, and to share them with our community of mystery lovers.

So brew yourself a cuppa, dim the lights, and let Blakestone the Magic Detective lead you into a world of danger, illusion, and razor-sharp intrigue.

✨ Enjoy the magic,

This week we descend into the crumbling crypts of Clark Ashton Smith’s The Nameless Offspring—a tale drenched in gothic decay, cursed inheritances, and unspeakable horrors clawing their way back into the present!

Smith, one of the great weird fiction masters of the early 20th century, gives us a story that feels part ghost tale, part nightmare folklore, and part grotesque family tragedy. It begins with whispers—the hushed voices of villagers, old retainers, and nameless folk who never dare speak too loudly of the Tremoth bloodline. That family carries a legacy not of pride, but of doom.

The story unfolds with chilling inevitability: a decayed manor, an old crypt marked with the weight of centuries, and the whispered suggestion that the dead do not always rest. The offspring of the Tremoth line—the child that should never have been—waits within, a living curse that embodies everything vile and unnatural in their name.

What makes this tale worth your ears isn’t just the monster—it’s the atmosphere. Smith’s prose drips like candle wax, sealing you into a world where:

If Maupassant’s The Horla was horror of the unseen—the slow suffocation of an invisible parasite—then Smith gives us its opposite: horror made flesh. This time the terror is not subtle, not spectral. It breaks stone, screams in the dark, and demands to be seen.

So dim the lights, lean close, and join me in the Tremoth crypt. The stones are old, the silence is heavy, and inside… something nameless is waiting.

Thank you, as always, for supporting me and keeping these tales alive. You are the torchbearers in the tomb. Without you, the stories would stay buried.

– Your Tale Teller 💜💜💜

G’day you legends!!!! 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Tonight we close the chapter on Guy de Maupassant’s The Horla—a story that began with unease, spiralled into possession, and ended in fire and despair. Our poor narrator, crushed beneath the weight of an invisible parasite, finds his final act of rebellion is not survival, but destruction. And yet, the question lingers: did he truly defeat the creature, or did madness itself light the match?

What makes this ending so haunting is its tragic inevitability. Maupassant, battling his own demons and hallucinations at the time, poured his unravelling mind into these pages. The Horla is both a tale of horror and a personal cry from the abyss—an author writing about possession while being devoured by his own illness. That makes the story not just scary, but heart-breaking.

But as one tale closes, another door creaks open. We move now into the twisted imagination of Clark Ashton Smith—a master of the macabre, a contemporary of Lovecraft, and a poet who wielded horror like a blade. Our next descent takes us to The Nameless Offspring—a story of family curses, ancient crypts, and something unspeakable lurking in the dark vaults of inheritance.

So steel yourself, dear listeners. We have left the invisible predator of The Horla… only to descend into the tomb where bloodlines curdle, and things best left buried are clawing to rise.

Information about the Traditional Horla:

The Creature Description:

The Horla is an unseen presence—never fully visible, yet undeniably real. It lingers in rooms, shifting curtains, pressing against its victim in the night, draining vitality sip by sip. Unlike folkloric vampires, it consumes life force rather than blood, leaving its host hollowed, sleepless, and hopeless. It is described as foreign, alien, and superior—suggesting an otherworldly predator feeding on humankind like cattle.

Horla's Abilities:

Thank you leeegends, all of you are SPECTACULAR and thank you so much for your ongoing support 💜💜💜💜

Tonight, we’re not just dipping a toe into the shadows—we’re plunging headfirst into one of the most suffocating nightmares ever put to paper. Guy de Maupassant’s The Horla isn’t your average ghost story. No rattling chains, no creaky floorboards—this is the horror of being seen by something you cannot see, of feeling your very will siphoned away by a presence that never shows its face.

Part 1 eases us in with diary entries—mundane, almost harmless at first. A restless night. A strange heaviness in the air. A feeling, dismissed, of being watched. But those cracks soon widen, and with every page the walls close in. The air thickens, the silence grows louder, and the terror seeps through the ordinary until you’re left wondering: have I ever truly been alone at night… or has something been quietly drinking from me all along?

🕯️ A Few Uneasy Truths About The Horla:

This is just the beginning—The Horla, Part 1. Strap yourself in, dim the lights, and remember: not all visitors knock at the door. Some… are already inside.

And to my brilliant supporters—you are the torchbearers who keep this show burning in the dark. Without you, the shadows would swallow it whole.

See Attached Tonights Outro Song 💜💜💜

– Your Tale Teller 🥰

Hello my wonderfully curious and wonderful listeners!!!

Tonight’s episode of Stories Fables Ghostly Tales takes us deep into the echoing halls of Old Time Radio, where shadows creep, footsteps follow, and fate waits patiently at the edge of night.

We begin with Creeps by Night, a haunting 1940s series that delved into the terror of the human mind. Our first tale, Walk in Darkness, drags us into a world where unseen presences haunt every step, and paranoia itself becomes the villain....

Then, in The Hunt, the primal roles of predator and prey blur into a psychological dance, proving that fear is the most relentless pursuer of all.

Finally, we step into the world of Macabre (1961), short-lived but unforgettable. Its episode Final Resting Place contemplates the inevitability of death and the chilling certainty of fate, wrapping us in a grim but poetic meditation on where all journeys end.

But wait—there’s more. Inspired by tonight’s stories, I’ve also crafted a brand-new original song: Shadows Never Die. It threads the footsteps of darkness, the chase of the hunt, and the weight of finality into one eerie anthem. A fusion of cinematic rock and ghostly orchestral energy, this piece is a tribute to the chilling brilliance of these old broadcasts.

As always, I want to thank our Oud Night Tea Titan, Matto Star, and our White Tea Warlords—Lezza, Mayah, and Sangeetha—for helping keep these stories alive. And all my Earl Grey Enforcers and tiers after, for your kindness and support are the lanterns that guide us through the dark.

So, pour yourself a warm tea, dim the lights, and prepare yourself for three tales where suspense still lingers, decades after the mics first faded to static.

Stay safe, stay curious,