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

• We’re talking sentient dungeon weird.

• We’re talking werewolf-therapy-session-from-hell weird.

• We’re talking, “if IKEA designed its own haunted house, and the instructions were written in blood,” weird.

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 —
where the walls watch, the floors bite, and your therapist might be a god.🕯️

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.

1. The Riddle of the Other Eight Ball
   A sinister puzzle begins with a simple pool hall game… but every shot hides a darker mystery. Can Blakestone untangle the deadly riddle before someone pays the ultimate price?

2. The Deathless Shot
   A gunman who cannot miss. A bullet that never fails. And a trail of bodies left behind. Is this uncanny marksman blessed by skill alone, or cursed by something far stranger?

3. The Knife from the Dark
   Murder lurks in the shadows, where a blade finds its victims before anyone can see the killer. Blakestone steps into the gloom, risking everything to reveal the unseen hand behind the terror.

🎧 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,
— Tale Teller

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:

• Legacy becomes a curse. Bloodlines hold more than wealth—they can chain you to horrors you cannot escape.

• The past refuses to die. A tomb is never just stone—it’s a womb for what should never return.

• The monstrous is inherited. Sometimes the real terror isn’t what you meet in the dark, but what was always waiting in your blood.

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 💜💜💜