Greetings, my dearest creeps, connoisseurs of atmosphere, and candle-lit listeners —
it’s your friendly neighbourhood Tale Teller stepping softly through a creaking doorway tonight…because this episode...well...
This one comes straight from the dusty, shadowy vaults of old-time radio royalty.

We are diving into one of the great macabre institutions of the 1940s:

The famous creaking door opens…
and what slips through is a tale thick with guilt, paranoia, and deliciously human dread.

“The Death of Mr Putnam” is a classic slow-burn thriller:
no monsters, no fangs, no fireballs —
just people facing the echo of their own secrets
as fate taps its long, bony fingers against the window.

Expect:

• 🕯️ Whispered suspicions

• 🖤 A death that doesn’t add up

• 🔍 Guilt turning into something almost supernatural

• 🎙️ That iconic Inner Sanctum dark humour

• 🩸 And the creeping sense that someone in that room is lying

This one was a joy to remaster and narrate, and I hope it brings you the same delicious unease those early radio fans felt huddled around their sets in the 1940s.

Inner Sanctum’s “The Mysterious Death of Mr. Putnam” is classic old-school spooky fun — not with ghosts or ghouls, but with people being… well, people. The whole episode leans into awkward silences, weird vibes, and side-eyed tension as everyone tries a bit too hard to act normal after Mr. Putnam suddenly drops dead under circumstances that feel just slightly off. Putnam becomes this kind of “presence” even though he’s not there anymore — his absence tells you everything you need to know, and absolutely nothing at the same time.

Everyone around him feels twitchy, defensive, or oddly rehearsed, and the story slowly tightens around those reactions until guilt and paranoia start spilling out everywhere. It’s not about what lurks in the shadows — it’s about what people hope no one ever finds out.

And of course, it wouldn’t be Inner Sanctum without that creaking door and Raymond popping in with his trademark “I shouldn’t be laughing at this but I am” style of humour. The episode moves at a snappy pace, building the tension bit by bit, until the final reveal lands with that deliciously ironic, poetic justice the series was known for. Nothing flashy, nothing supernatural — just a good, tight psychological mystery about people cracking under pressure.

“The Mysterious Death of Mr. Putnam” is one of those stories that reminds you why Inner Sanctum still holds up today: it’s eerie, clever, character-driven, and proves that sometimes the scariest stuff is just the quiet truth people are trying way too hard to hide.

Thank you so much for listening legends!!! All the love and I really enjoyed remastering this one 🌞💜💜💜💜🌞

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.

• Bodies & buildings as doors. Thresholds that remember the hands that open them.

• The price of comfort. When safety speaks in your voice, can you tell keeping from taking?

• Names as architecture. Some beams are load-bearing; remove one and the house learns to bite.

Excerpt — Quiet Hours:
“Who are you?” the duct asked, using everyone’s voices. She could have said nobody. She whispered her name instead, and the wall flexed—just enough to suggest muscle.

Excerpt — The Soft Place:
Her finger slipped through the bruise like water parting for a prayer. On the other side, something matched her shape and pressed back, grateful as a neighbor who’d been alone too long.

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 a tale of a small, sunburned town called Wattle’s Rest, where the road kills dry faster than the gossip, and a mobile wellness clinic rolls in with big smiles, bigger promises, and a very particular brand of body transformation.

...It’s wellness culture with a scalpel
....Self-care with a summoning circle
...A horror story wrapped in customer service and sold at an introductory price.

This isn’t a jump-scare story — this one builds.
Like heat under tin...
Like hunger under skin...

Chapter 1 — The Shed with Promises
A mysterious “Wellness Clinic” sets up shop in the red dust just outside Wattle’s Rest.
It’s shiny, sterile, and smells faintly of citrus and lies.
Locals wander in, curious. There are jars labelled Youth, Clarity, Ascend.
And out back? A shallow pit that steams… even when the night goes cold.

Chapter 2 — The Circle and the Mirror
Business is booming. People step inside and come out lighter — in more ways than one.
The clinic’s routines are half beauty treatment, half quiet ritual.
Salt rings, candles, a mirror that seems to breathe.
Everyone looks better.
No one looks quite right...

Chapter 3 — Bodies as Payment Plans
The town gets hooked. The transformations turn precise — too precise.
Skin reorganises. Faces perfect themselves.
People start sweating geometry...
It’s not gore — it’s worse. It’s order....

Wattle’s Rest becomes a community of the almost-perfect,
and perfection, as it turns out, has a terrifying appetite.

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

• Vanity and desperation — how far people will go to feel seen, wanted, “fixed.”

• Body horror and capitalism — when your own skin becomes the payment plan.

• Fame, filters, and decay — the worship of the self until nothing human’s left to adore.

• Small-town isolation — because when the world forgets you,
  you’ll welcome anything that promises to remember your name.

It’s a critique of society’s obsession with youth, money, and beauty —
told through the lens of outback horror and quiet apocalypse.

Just people… getting exactly what they paid for.....well.....maybe more...

From here, Wattle’s Rest is about to evolve.
The clinic’s reach extends, the mirror deepens, and the townsfolk begin to realize that perfection isn’t a destination — it’s a hunger.

What is heading our way:

• The rituals to grow bolder.

• The humour to get darker.

• And the mirror… to start watching back.

If you’ve enjoyed the slow burn of The Wellness Pit so far — thank you!
It’s one of those stories that crawls rather than runs, that takes its time peeling back the skin to show what’s underneath — both literally and metaphorically.

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,
and for the love of everything sacred and symmetrical —
don’t stand too close to the mirror.

- The Tale Teller 🕯️

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.
Some say the garments she creates can’t be worn by anyone human.

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.
It’s about creation — the cost of it, the obsession behind it, and what happens when art demands too much of the artist.

The Seamstress represents control — the need to craft, to mend, to make sense of chaos by stitching it into form. But the story asks:
At what point does creation begin to consume its maker?
When does devotion become surrender?

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?
🧵 Do you feel sympathy for the Seamstress, or fear her?
💭 And do you think the “you” inside the story could ever truly leave that shop behind?

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.
The hum hasn’t stopped.
And the story… is only half-sewn.
And the shop… never sleeps.

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.
Some find comfort.
Others find a seam where their heartbeat used to be.

And always, always — the whisper of her working:
Through. Pull. Knot. Tighten.

🦉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 💜💜💜