🦉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!

----------------------------

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.

----------------------------

**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 💜💜💜

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:

• Invisibility: Cannot be directly perceived by human eyes, only through indirect signs (shadows, disturbances, breath, water consumption).

• Vitality Drain: Slowly drains life energy, causing fatigue, hallucinations, paranoia, and eventual madness.

• Possession Influence: Compels its victim into irrational acts, bending the will until they can no longer resist.

• Heightened Fear: Victims report overwhelming dread and paranoia in its presence, amplifying its control.

• Unclear Defenses: Traditional protections (holy symbols, medicine, reason) fail against it.

• Fire: In the tale, the victim attempts to destroy it through burning—though whether it works remains ambiguous.

• Awareness: Recognizing its existence is both a curse and a potential defense—those ignorant of it may fall more easily.

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:

• Maupassant wrote this tale in 1887, during a time when his own mind was unravelling—he suffered terrifying hallucinations, paranoia, and eventually descended into madness. Many believe The Horla was his way of writing directly from that breaking point.

• The story predates Lovecraft, yet contains the very seeds of cosmic horror—an unknowable, unstoppable entity that cannot be fought, only endured.

• Some scholars link The Horla to the 19th-century fascination with mesmerism, hypnosis, and the fear of invisible forces controlling the body. It’s both a ghost story and a reflection of scientific dread.

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.

• Origin & Era: Broadcast in 1944, Creeps by Night was a Columbia Network series, airing in the U.S. during the final years of WWII. It was designed to provide listeners with chills, often exploring the darker corners of human psychology rather than relying purely on supernatural scares.

• Style: Unlike monster-of-the-week shows, Creeps by Night specialized in psychological suspense. Ordinary people in familiar settings would find themselves unravelling, stalked by paranoia, guilt, or invisible forces. The series played with the idea that fear doesn’t need fangs — it only needs doubt.

• Legacy: Sadly, the show ran only a short time (March–August 1944) and only a handful of episodes survive today. Despite that, its mix of psychological tension and Karloff’s involvement makes it a cult favourite among OTR fans.

• Origin & Era: Produced by the Far East Network of the U.S. Armed Forces Radio Service, Macabre was created by servicemen stationed in Tokyo. It aired from late 1961 to early 1962, with only 8 known episodes produced.

• Style: True to its name, Macabre was gothic, eerie, and often philosophical in its treatment of death, fate, and horror. Unlike many American OTR shows, which leaned into either pulp scares or family-safe chills, Macabre wasn’t afraid to be morbidly poetic. It explored themes of finality, inevitability, and human weakness.

• Legacy: With only a half-year lifespan, it might’ve been forgotten—but its rarity and haunting scripts have given it lasting recognition among OTR collectors and horror enthusiasts. It’s often referred to as a “hidden gem” of Old Time Radio horror.

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,
— The Tale Teller

Hello my wonderfully curious listeners, supporters and friends! 💜

Snow doesn’t just fall in Larch Hollow—it clings. It buries sound. It muffles truth. And if you listen too long, you’ll hear it breathing back.

Once, this town thrived. A logging camp in the north, filled with the songs of saws and sermons. But hunger is a patient predator. It sank its teeth into every home, every church pew, every prayer whispered into the wind.

And when the famine came, one priest starved himself for salvation.
But hunger does not bargain.
Hunger consumes.
And what it leaves behind is something that should never have walked on two legs again.

Detectives Malary Left and Dogdin Right arrive too late for salvation. What they find is a chapel smeared with claw marks, a mill that breathes with stolen lungs, and a creature older than snow itself—a Wendigo, but not as legend tells it. This one does not just feed on flesh. It feeds on memory. On regret. On the grief you try to bury, but never really do.

This is not just a hunt. This is a descent into hollow hunger.

So ask yourself… what would it whisper, if it called you by your name?

👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹

Description:
The Bonehowler is tall, skeletal, antlered, its ribcage gnawed open from within. Where its heart should be is a knot of gnashing teeth, beating like a clock. Its body is frozen but alive, dripping snow instead of blood, its face always shifting into the visages of loved ones.

Behaviour:
It hunts grief, regret, and starvation. It speaks in the voices of the dead. It can wear the shape of guilt itself. The more you doubt yourself, the more it grows stronger. Survivors often die not from its claws, but from surrendering to its whispers.

Theme Symbolism:
The Bonehowler represents emptiness—not hunger of the stomach, but of the spirit. It is grief made flesh, faith hollowed into frost. It asks the question: what happens when you starve your soul until even silence has teeth?

Much love, Legends! 💜💜💜💜
Thank you for keeping the fires burning in these frozen tales—your support keeps the darkness at bay, and ensures there will always be another story waiting in the snow…

👹👹👹👹👹👹👹