The Utburd

Published Dec 24, 2022, 8:01 AM

A listener speaks; a tragic family history; a restless spirit gets her revenge. Featuring the voices of Malcolm McDowell and Gina Rickicki. Written by E.M. Westover.

Twelve Ghosts is a production of I Heart three D audio and Grim and Mild from Aaron Bankie Headphones. Recommended listener discretion advised. I have heard the plaintive wailing through the winter nights for as long as I've had memories. As the days grow shorter and the nights creep in with their bitter edge, my parents grow uneasy. Their eyes become shadowed, and faces grow lean and hard. They eat less than They only speak to one another when they think I am not listening. I know, without being told that it is starting again. Father carves fresh runs into the doorway and around each of the window cells. As the winter dies and spring comes, those runes are sanded away as if they had never existed at all. Just this morning, my father was replacing the wood frame at the door, and he did not answer me when I asked why. As soon as I set about my chores, out came his boot knife, and I knew the ruins would be there again. Whatever they're intent, those ruins, those wards were not meant to be seen by the visitors. We have few and far between. When the weather is kinder. Every year, my mother bakes little cakes of oat honey goat's blood and acorn flour, and places a cup of wine outside on the windows ledge as soon as the first winter moon rises. This has always seemed like a strange excess, for wine and honey in our house were so very scarce and reserved only for the longest night and name days. The meaning behind these traditions kept at me enough that I asked about it once years ago and received only a brisk backhand from my father for the effort. Had spent the rest of the day nursing a bloodied lip and ringing ear, and had not asked again lest I received a similar answer. This night started as if by rope we had ourselves tucked inside well before sunset, my father brusque and restless, my mother setting about the stew simmering in the hearth as if it were the only thing that mattered. My parents, however, did not eat supper and did not seem to care at all that I only picked at mine. I knew that at any other time I would be chided for wasting food, but tonight it seemed to matter not. My mother ushered me up into the loft for bed, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, her lips dry and nearly feverish against my skin. Her good night was a soft note murmured against my in They did not even feign that they would be going to sleep. I heard their quiet shuffling beneath the sleeping loft, caught the rich scent to the father's pipe, and knew that they were in their well worn chairs, staring at the door as they always did. That first night, the whaling started, as I knew it would, an awful sound, like a baby that would never tire, that had known a misery that was so deep and wide it would fill the sea and drown everything it touched. On and on it went, peaks and valleys of an inhuman cry that buried itself down into my marrow, leaving me shimmering, feeling ill at ease, and afraid to close my eyes, though somehow eventually I did. My dreams were filled with a twisted blue white face and escaping toothless mouth, and a sound like trees crashing me together. Through it all the whaling on and on, I thought, in my restlessness that I heard my mother sobbing quietly, but I could not be sure. There were strange heavy footsteps outside, as if something larger than a bare lumbered through the forest, paced alongside the house, but did not deign to come any closer. I huddled beneath my furs and my mother's well woven quilts, and waited for silence that never came. When I opened my eyes again, the fire in the hearth had burned itself to embers, and I could hear the quiet snoring of my father. I crept from the loft on bare feet, imagining myself to be the smallest of mice, nimble and invisible to the rest of the house. I ignored the chill that had risen with the fires dying, tried my best to keep my breathing even and my feet away from boards I knew would creak under my weight. Father slept in his chair, an arm around my mother, who had slid it against him, nearly in his lap. It was not a common sight, the two of them so close. I felt a surge of worry for them, and more than a little pity, and set about pulling on my boots, my overship, my coat. I wanted them to awake, to at least a handful of my chores finished, and perhaps even the table set for a small breakfast, anything to give relief, to get them to notice that I was an able child and willing to do my part. I took the little oil lantern from the tabletop and pulled open the door, inching it slowly open as quiet as I could, and slipped out into the snow. It was still quite dark, though dawn would be breaking soon enough. I paid little mind to my steps, and almost immediately I heard a crack from beneath my boot. I staggered back, reaching out for the dwarf ring with one hand and holding the lantern out to get a better view. Mother had left the wine in the window still last night, as she always did. This was the first time I had ever seen the cup upon the ground. Wine colored the snow a deep crimson, and splashed across the door as well as if some one had thrown the cup against the door in a rage. In the low flickering light from my lantern, I could see that letters have been carved into the door, letters not born of my father's hand. I cannot hold back the unbecoming whimper that bubbles out of me as I traced them with my shaking fingers. Something terrible and angry had left its mark here. My trance is shattered when father staggers out of the door, jerking it inward away from me. I stand there, wide eyed and numb mouth, refusing to form any intelligent sentence. Child, What on earth are you doing out this early? We've told my name, I finally gasped, pointing at the door and nearly dropping my lantern. It has carved my name upon the door. Though I had no idea what it was, over and over into the letters had screwed over themselves. I had never in my life seen so much obvious rage displayed in written words. It was as if the thing had created something the very opposite of the warding ruins my family had carved. I knew, without knowing why, that whatever had done this was not a person. I knew also that it was certainly what had been howling in the night, and what our offerings and folk spells had been trying to keep away. They had failed at long last, and that meant something else entirely. My father grabbed my arm and pulled me into the house. He slammed the door behind us both. My mother was still blinking away sleep as my father lit into me, voice like acid. This foolish child, This foolish, damn child was nearly stolen away. How stupid are you risking everything for some silly jaunt about in the dark. I was not, I yelled back, shocking myself. I was not stolen, and I was not going about on some dalliance. You were both so upset. I thought I must make myself useful early as I could, to perhaps bring some levity into this awful dark house. Every winter is the same. This cloud fills your hearts, and you were miles away, and I do my best to ignore the strangeness and the awful nights. But no more I cannot. Your wards are not working anymore. And whatever it is you've been trying to scare away, it's leaving markings of its own. There are tears running hot down my cheeks, and any other time I would be shamed by them. Now I was too afraid and too angry. It too much to care. I winced as he stepped forward, expecting to be struck, but instead he growled, you will not go out in the dark. Your mother cannot endure another loss. Another, I asked, bring my eyes to my father's face. Both he and my mother looked startled, and before he can tell me to quiet, I ask again another another loss. This is the end of it. You will mind be silent, and when the sun rises, you will set about your work. When it sets, you will keep yourself indoors, and that will be the way of it until the days are longer and the snow melts. We have done all we can to make a refuge, and I will not have your carelessness erasing the work. I stared at his angry, twisted face and could see unacknowledged grief there. It was not what I expected. I tried once more, but my father gave an angry snarl and turned away. I avoided him the rest of the day, the difficult task in a house so small. As soon as the sun broke through the trees, I busied myself out of doors, caring for the animals and the small stable, searching our modest cellar for the roots and dried mushrooms my mother requested, gathering firewood, and even doing my mother's washing. She was upset as well, but not so loud and violent as father. She spent the day aimless, staring into nothing, and mending a shirt that did not need mending. It was late in the afternoon, and I had just come from the cellar, my arms full of the roots and mushrooms my mother had requested when I heard my father's voice loud and violent, too much to keep the damn thing away. If it weren't from me for these things I do, you would be long dead. It will never give up all that cursed wailing. This morning we wake to that stupid child out, my home befouled, and the offer being scattered, And yet you wanted named out loud. Shall we tempt it to enter? Will you not be happy until you have lost your life? Truly, you have done well enough. Husband. It was you who carried out the deed. It was you who insisted, told me my little one was too frail to see the spring, told me that my time and grief and love were wasted a sickly child that would soon die anyway, As if those hours of labor were nothing to me. Do remember that I did not want to cast my child out into the snow. Yes, husband, it is your hands that carved those runs, But it was your hands that did the burying as well. You stand here talking about my life in jeopardy, as if these wards do not protect you as well. And by the gods, how are you not more concerned that it's named our child? How everything I had thought possible, I had not dreamed of this, or I never you would never have what? Instead, Let the damned babe die slow and muling at your teeth all the pieces for months, and sit about unable to work for twice as long, or you would never have had any touch you again, lest you burn another useless curd and take our food and keep us beggars. There was a cruelty in his tone that filled me with vicious, foolish bravery. I ran from my corner and threw open the door, arms still loaded with my satchel of dried fungus and root vegetables. How dare you be so cruel to her? I shouted, throwing myself between my father, who was looming like an angry bear over mother, and she had backed into a corner nearest our hearth, a wooden spoon clutched in her white knuckled grip. I swung my satchel at him, unable to comprehend in that moment just how stupid the action would have been in any normal circumstance. It caught him in the arm as he reached for my wrist, and he yelled, snatching the bag from my grip and throwing it angrily to the wall overhead. Your stupid, worthless child, I should have locked the door against you and let the damn creature take you. Perhaps then it would be satisfied and we would know some peace out my mother howled, pulling herself to her feet. You will not take another child from me. What sort of man have you become? What a cowardly thing to say to your only surviving child, A simpering dog and an oat bird. Oh how proud my ancestors must be of my get he responded, his face ugly and reddened in anger. With those words and the gasp from my mother in response, he turned upon his heel and charged out of the house, the very walls shaking with the force of the door slamming behind him. I watched him through the snow. I saw him turn the corner, and knew from the sound of the cellar door he was searching for his rifle, and would most likely go out into the wood to hunt, as he had many times when his temper had gone too high. Very well, I thought, still full of righteous anger, Bring home a rabbit or two, and be useful. That was a silly thing standing between us. You know your father has a bear's temper, my mother finally said, Collecting the turnips that had rolled from my satchel across the floor, he said about cutting them and a few onions we had hanging by the hearth, and tossed them with snow melt, mushrooms and a handful of dried herbs into the large iron pot hanging above the harth fire. It was a silly thing, him screaming at you about things you cannot control, I replied darkly. A child, I finally asked, looking sideways and feeling braver without my father there to reprimand me all the reasons for this awful traditional I hadn't thought a baby would be would be? Why, oh, little one, if only your elder sister had stayed just that in her death. She did not, And whilst it was not me that left her there in the forest, I could have tried hard to prevent it. Not a day passes that I do not wish I had been stronger. That perhaps this terror is my own making, and I am simply reaping the seeds of what I sowed, in my weakness. What the same thing have happened to me had I been born sickly? I asked softly, Would he have left me out in the cold as well? I could not bear to let that happen again. Do you truly think you could have stopped him I before today? Perhaps? No. I do not want us to live this way. I am so tired of the wailing of saving for months for the luxuries, not for you nor I, but to offer up to the undying the footsteps every winter it comes, and it will do so forever until it is satisfied. Why does it? What does she want? I asked quietly. The thing she has become. She wants rest, a proper burial and a proper grave. Only I do not know where she was left. And your father claims that upon his attempt in spring defined the body to give it that rest, it was gone, carried off by animals. There are no bones to bear rry. It is a restless thing now. That wood bird that would have been your sister. I had thought what it wanted was my life, and I had nearly come to peace with that. But it has carved your name on the door, and I cannot allow it to take you, my only surviving child. I will not stand by again. She reached out for me, and I stepped forward and into a near crushing embrace. We both sobbed. She stroked my hair, the idea of my mother gone, as distant as she often was, it was unbearable. I did not want to be left alone with my father, the man who had called me worthless. I was so upset I very nearly missed the faint cry from outside. It came again and again, the scream followed by the crashing of trees falling in the forest. Father once more, and a terrible crashing, too loud to be anything natural, that walked the forest, as though something heavier than stone had rolled through the stand of trees that bordered our homestead. An ominous sound. Don't my mother rasped when I slipped from her and made for the door. The gods above do not open that door. It is nearly dark. Father needs help. He is of war and cruel, but I am not, and I cannot just ignore him. Angry as I was, he was still my father, and I was better than he. I did not leave my family alone in the snow. Nearly has come and gone, child, and you cannot help him now the gods below and above have left him. Another scream, and something heavy was thrown against the door. I cried out, hands to my mouth, do not open that door, my mother screamed, reaching from my shoulders, pulling me back from the shuddering wood. We stood pressed against the far wall, shivering for hours, too afraid to move. Something large and dark lurked outside, and sometimes its shape could be seen through the window. It did not try to enter after that first rush at the door, though it did wail and scratch. The noise became like a storm, rising and falling through the night, shaking the windows. I grew too afraid to look. When the sun lit the window, I struggled to my feet and took a few halting steps to the door. Mother made a sound as if to stop me, but she didn't, and so I kept on, pulling open the door and peering out into the early dawn. Father's head lay on its right cheek, soaked him blood there in front of the door, the stump where his neck had been with a jagged and wet but frozen A pool of frosted blood spread across the little walkway, I had myself dug out that morning before, after the discovery of the wine and the cup. We're still. As I took a shaking step around the terrible sight, I saw his body, or rather the torn stump of his neck, as if something had planted him like a tree into the earth yards from the house, and then plucked his head like a fruit and tossed it carelessly aside. I slumped to my knees, ignoring the immediate bite of freezing snow as it soaked through my pants and chilled my skin and ute bird. Indeed, and it had done precisely what those stories over fires had said, forced my father into the earth with its awful weight, as it had not gotten what it wanted from him, and never could. I knew that his death would not be enough. It was not my father's name that had been written, after all, and murder was no end of this curse. There was nobody to bury, no sacred ground it wanted. Instead in exchange, Father had simply made the foolish choice to get between the thing and its quarry. I had never felt so small and so unprepared. I stood there, paralyzed with a dread I had not known. I was capable of viewing, staring at the desecrated remnants of my father. My mother's grip around my arm was like iron and pulled me from the snowy path, dragging me back towards shelter. Your foolish child, she murmured. I told you, I told you. Nothing left by the outward is anything you need lay eyes on. It wants me, I rasped, and I felt as though the cold could never be driven from my bones. And no, little one, silly bird, my mother chastised, The thing does not want you. It's me. It seeks you are simply it was my name, my name on the door. It seeks to harm us both, my little one, But it's me who agreed to let her freeze, is it not. You must promise me to stay inside this night, no matter what you hear, no matter what you may see, you must stay inside. I cannot lose you. What are you going to do? I asked her. She did not answer, but instead busied herself over the fire with breakfast. For the rest of the day, my mother stayed silent, and she would not let me tend to the animals that she did herself. I ceered through the window curious and watched as she walked a wide circle around the torn stump of my father's neck. I could not, for the life of me find his head through my narrow view, and I was not bold enough to ask her about it. When she finally returned to me, we sat in the early evening, drinking Valerian root tea and picking out a stew I normally loved tonight, however, it was wood, pulp and soil on my tongue. I ate, steady, silent as the sun slipped away. Betrayal I felt I could not forgive, as shadows grew long and a pit opened wide and heavy within me. She's here, I whispered, breathless, though I had not heard the cries no child, not yet. My mother paced by the door, but she will be. I need you to promise me, no matter what happens this night, no matter what you see, you do as I tell you to do. She shifted her gaze from the door to me, and beneath the weight of that stare, I could not help but gift a slow nod. Mother. I have always thought that I obeyed you well enough, no matter what Father thought. I started, and she shook her head you must obey me exactly this night, little one, or you will not live to see another for me. You must promise that you will see dawn. I nodded again and sat back in my chair. A piercing while broke the quiet. The thing sounded hungry, ancient, and hollow. Worst of all, as the heavy footsteps brought it ever closer, it sounded alluring. I wanted to go outside in a way that I had not before. It began howling my name syllables, twisted, dragged through the soil and snow. I found myself standing, walking towards the door, with a little anguish cry falling from my lips. No, my mother was there, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me into a chair. Do not listen. But I could not help it. I could not resist. The very foundation of our little cottage was shaking with a wailing, and I could not tell my mother's cries from those outside it. Before the door, arms outstretched, taking one step and then another out into the snow, the horrible thing stood there in the dark of the night, the trees blotted out for its monstrous size. I could not even glimpse its head. I could not see the mouth that burst those cries. I took a step forward, ignoring my mother's scream, and then Dame brilliant, red and black, and I felt to my knees, splintered wood from my favorite chair raining down around me. My mother had struck me down. Before I could protest. She was there, wrapped in her shawl, loaming in her own way, sturdy and warm and firm, You damned foul thing. My mother stood betweing us, a candle held high in her hand, glaring up in the amorphous, angry face and its cold black eyes. I wish then that I had not looked, for the weight of that gaze took residence somewhere in me forever. You've hunted us for years. We've given everything we could. You've taken your father, but you will not take your sibling. Have at me, beast, have at me, and no rest at last. I am the mother who cast you out. I am the one who bade you freeze in the winter me. She turned at me, and then his little one run and do not look back. I watched in horror. This hand came from the shadows, wrapping its thick, unearthly pale spirit, blesh around my mother, lifting her up into the dark. She did not scream or struggle, and I was torn between terror and wonder at her strength, summoned from its hiding place at last, I found my legs then, and I staggered to my feet, her words still ringing in my ears, and taking nothing. I ran. I imagined myself a wolf cup to them, flinging myself through the trees I've grown up in my entire life. I imagined I could run for ages, that I was nothing but wind, and I willed it so fiercely that I could not say I had not shifted form. I was far enough away than when the thing drove Mother into the earth, and I only felt the slightest tremor beneath my feet and heard merely a wisp of a cry. Gone. They were both gone, and from the sounds that followed, my home was gone too. I did not stop. I could not afford the seconds that would to allow grief to rise, and so I pushed it down. I ran. I ran, as though I could outrun a curse, outrun memory, and for a time, for many years, perhaps I believe I did it. Just went to her again. The longest night I have spent years haunting cities, taking odd jobs, and never stopping from long. I have never settled, and very if you ever know my name, and the name I give them is not the name of the ute bird carved upon the door, an ill omen to give anyone a cursed name. I am older now, and I do not quite have it in me to run as I once did. I hear her cries upon the wind, and I wondered just what anyone near must think, or if her horrible howls, or for my ears alone, whiling is coming closer, and certainly it is not my donation. I opened my door, taking a deep breath, and step outside to wait. And then you were here in this forest, running from her, and you saw the light and ran towards it. And here you are so tired, so tired. It is time now, Annabelle, Finally your tormentor will not follow you into leave anymore. Thank you. Twelve Ghosts starring Malcolm McDowell as the Innkeeper and Gina Rikiki as Annabelle. Episode of Leven the up Bird written by E. M. Westover with additional writing by Nicholas Takowski, editing by Chris Childs and Stephen Perez, directed by Nicholas Takowski. Original score and sound design by Chris Childs. Executive producers Aaron Manky, Matt Frederick, Alexander Williams and Nicholas Takowski. Supervising producer Josh Say. Producers Chris Child's and Stephen Perez. Casting by Sunday Bowling cs A and Meg Mormon c s A. Production coordinator Wayna Calderon. Recorded at Lantern Audio in Atlanta, Georgia, engineered by Chris Gardner Arrows Sound and Recording in Ojai, California, engineered by Ken Arrows. Twelve Ghosts was created by Nicholas Takowski. That is a production of iHeart three D Audio and Grim and Mild from Aaron Mankey. Learn more about the show at Grim and Mild dot com and find more podcasts from my Heart Radio by visiting the I Heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.

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12 Ghosts

Starring Malcolm McDowell, and produced in immersive 3D audio! Eleven travelers find themselves at  
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