0:04

9th Story Studios, giving

0:06

story a voice. This

0:16

is Addison Peacock and you're listening

0:18

to The Wicked Library. Warning.

0:32

The Wicked Library is a horror

0:34

fiction podcast, created for a mature

0:36

audience. Our stories contain

0:38

graphic descriptions of pain, murder,

0:41

violence, blood, betrayal,

0:44

and inhumanity. Monsters

0:46

win, people die, and

0:48

hope is often shattered. There

0:51

is also beauty, heart, catharsis,

0:55

and raw emotion. Fear

0:57

may be deeply personal, but

0:59

we all share it. If

1:01

at any time a story takes you to a place

1:03

too dark, turn on the lights,

1:05

press pause, or press stop.

1:09

And always remember that

1:11

unlike in the real world, these

1:14

nightmares and your participation in

1:16

them are under your control.

1:32

Welcome to The Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Foytak and

1:34

I thank you for listening. A sincere thank you

1:36

to those of you who are supporting the show.

1:39

Without you, this show would not be possible. This

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season, all episodes are heard first by

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Patreon supporters, and later shared with

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the full audience. When you support

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the show, you can choose between ad-free

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episodes, early access to the stories, and

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at higher levels of support, you'll get

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premiere access to Enfield Detective Agency, currently

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in production. That's right, Frank is

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coming back. to your ears

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soon. You can support the

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show at patreon.com/wicked library. A

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lot of hard work and money goes into making

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the Wicked Library, and I really do rely on

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this support to help me pay the authors, voice

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actors, composer, and artists, so that none of the

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Wicked Library's contributors work for free. For as little

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as $3 a month, you can

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help make the show you

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love possible at patreon.com/wicked library.

2:25

Now let's get wicked with today's

2:27

dark tale told by Addison Peacock,

2:29

featuring a custom score by Nico Vittese

2:31

of the Inky Paw Print. Her

3:24

drowned envy by

3:26

Alexis DuBon. Spears

3:30

of grass all damp with dew clung to

3:32

my bare feet. Grass

3:35

so wet it feels like it should be

3:37

cold, but nothing is

3:39

cold anymore. The

3:41

dawning sun hangs swollen in the

3:44

sky, mirroring my

3:46

overripe belly, making

3:48

my blood-enameled thighs glow in

3:50

the orange light. I

3:54

lacquer the field in crimson with

3:56

each step, marching across

3:58

the endless green. toward the

4:01

birthing pond, trying

4:04

not to crumple in pain halfway

4:06

the way so many women do.

4:10

Careful not to slip on

4:12

the ruby slick landscape already

4:14

soggy and oversaturated, cutting

4:17

through thick swampy air. I

4:20

have to make it to the pond. Birth

4:24

the baby underwater, wait

4:26

for it to rise. His

4:29

face will cut through the surface. His

4:32

round baby belly will be a smooth

4:34

little island. Only

4:37

the strongest will surface. The

4:40

ones who can survive this new

4:42

world. This

4:44

wet sky and weighty

4:46

damp. There

4:49

hasn't been a baby strong enough to float for

4:51

as long as I can remember, not

4:54

since I was a child myself. Not

4:58

a single baby born with the

5:00

lungs to buoy them to life.

5:05

I've pictured this moment a thousand times and

5:07

now that it's here, I am

5:10

more certain than ever. I

5:13

will be the one. I will

5:16

know motherhood, prove

5:19

that life can persist,

5:21

that this dampness won't

5:23

drown out mankind. My

5:27

baby will mean there's a future. I will

5:31

be the woman who ushers in hope for

5:34

humanity. So

5:37

many have been denied, but

5:40

not me. I

5:43

refuse to fail. I

5:45

will not return without a child. I

5:49

am owed that much. Fruitless

5:52

births are expected. And

5:55

though the women who carried these doomed

5:57

things inside of them, who hoped for a new world, I will

5:59

be the one. For a child and bled

6:01

and cried for nothing, returned

6:03

home in defeat, at

6:06

least they have people to return to. I

6:11

have nothing, no

6:13

one. I

6:16

have always been alone. And

6:21

here I stand at the mouth of the

6:23

birthing pond, in the

6:25

middle of an empty pasture, unafraid

6:28

of the solitude that surrounds

6:30

me. Most women

6:32

say that's the worst part. But

6:37

I am as alone anywhere else as I am here.

6:41

Alone in this silent morning. Alone

6:45

in the shallow water. My

6:49

body quakes. It's

6:52

coming soon. I

6:54

am alone for the last time. It's

6:59

bent toward me, too sodden to stand

7:01

upright, collapsing under the weight of

7:03

the air. They

7:05

look as if they are bowing. They

7:09

bow to my baby as it crowns,

7:11

defiant and determined and

7:14

ready to breathe. You

7:18

will live, I say,

7:20

between cries. You

7:23

are the one. Seeds

7:26

of salt water drop from my brow and into

7:28

the freshwater pond that's seen so many should-be

7:31

mothers and their sweat, so

7:34

many grieving women and their tears.

7:37

So much salt and sacrifice,

7:40

so much blood and death and

7:43

never new life in return. But

7:47

today is different. Today

7:50

is mine. All

7:52

the breath rushes from my lungs as

7:54

I push and contract, push

7:56

and wail into the suffocating

7:59

air. That

8:01

thick, foggy air as heavy

8:03

as glass, shattering

8:06

to liquid shards against the force

8:08

of my screams. I

8:11

duck down beneath the pond water, lie

8:14

flat against its silty bottom, paint

8:17

it red. Blood

8:19

spools from my body, dissipating

8:21

like smoke, rising

8:24

and dancing in the ripples of

8:26

my contractions. Sanguine

8:28

flames engulfing me until all

8:31

I am is inferno.

8:35

One last scream boils from my mouth

8:37

as bubbled chaos explodes against

8:40

the stifled air above. The

8:44

baby is out and I drag

8:46

myself above the surface, gasping for

8:48

breath, waiting

8:51

for him to meet me. Slowly,

8:55

he floats to the

8:57

algae-freckled surface, rising

8:59

like mercury. His

9:02

back breaks through to the wet air above,

9:06

turned the wrong way. He

9:09

doesn't scream. He

9:12

doesn't breathe. I

9:16

lift his tiny body heavier

9:19

than it should be. His

9:23

face is slack, gray.

9:28

His eyes are swollen and

9:31

his lips are cold. Nothing

9:35

is cold anymore, except

9:39

my son. I

9:41

try to shake him to life, but his

9:44

head only lols loose. The

9:52

baby is dead. The

9:56

pond rises with my tears. Reeds

10:03

shake behind me, announcing that I am

10:05

no longer alone, not

10:07

even a moment to spend with my misery. I'm

10:11

going to bury the baby in the bank of the pond.

10:16

It's a rushed job, Fluffy, but

10:18

the intrusion jars me with panic. I

10:22

suck sounds of grief back into my

10:24

mouth and hide. A

10:26

woman approaches, fighting

10:29

her way through the wet canary grass. Whales

10:32

like bolts of lightning slice through

10:34

my fresh anguish, my sorrow

10:37

overshadowed by bellowing hope. Still

10:41

searing with the pinyon of a torn

10:44

body, still trailing blood,

10:46

I keep silent.

10:50

The woman enters the water, unaware

10:52

of my eyes on her, and

10:54

sits with her knees bent into

10:57

herself shoulder deep. I

11:00

don't need to see her face to know, even

11:02

from behind she's unmistakable. I

11:06

lean, those cries

11:08

that sound like birdsong, that

11:11

hair that waterfalls down her back, soft

11:14

and clean, silky, even

11:16

in the dense, disgusting air.

11:21

If it wasn't for all

11:24

this water, this constant, hovering

11:26

vapor, Fae Leen would have seen what

11:28

everyone else could see, but

11:31

mirrors have long since become

11:33

obsolete, too beaded with dewy specks

11:35

of condensation to show anything

11:37

but a clouded silhouette. Like

11:42

Fae Leen, I've never seen my

11:44

own face, but

11:47

I know enough to be envious. With

11:50

fingers that were never quite as long

11:53

and slender as hers, I've

11:55

traced my features, lashes

11:58

that don't feel rich and loose. the

12:00

way hers are. Lips

12:02

easily lost beneath my touch, not

12:05

like the plump pink pillows that stretch

12:07

across Phalene's face when she smiles, which

12:09

is all the time. Besides,

12:14

I can tell from the way

12:16

people look at me that I'm

12:18

no great beauty. Phalene has everything,

12:22

and now she will have a baby too. It

12:27

was always going to be her. This

12:30

baby will be the one, the

12:33

baby born of Phalene's perfection,

12:36

born of a woman whose life has

12:38

never known sorrow or

12:40

failure or want. It

12:45

should have been me. Screams

12:50

shake the earth for hours, and

12:52

I stay stone still, out

12:54

of sight, hidden beneath the drooping

12:56

reeds. I am

12:59

folded too, quietly quivering from

13:01

the pain of birth that shreds my body,

13:04

but I'm too focused on this

13:06

endless aching moment to succumb and make

13:08

a sound, not even a whimper

13:10

leaves my lips. I

13:13

will be a mother. I

13:16

just have to be patient. Not

13:19

until the sky turns black does

13:21

Phalene deliver. Her

13:24

cries halt for a moment, and

13:27

everything is silent with anticipation. The

13:31

air, for once, is light,

13:35

made of a million angels all holding

13:37

their breath. The

13:40

darkness of a moonless night blankets the pond,

13:44

Phalene. But when

13:47

an unfamiliar pitch ruptures the

13:50

emptiness, I know

13:52

exactly what it is. Victory.

13:57

Phalene dissolves into laughter. All

14:01

the stars that hid in the black sky,

14:03

waiting with hope and worry, reveal

14:06

themselves and shine down on her,

14:10

the pond dances in celebration

14:12

under their twinkling light. She

14:17

is the first mother of the New World.

14:21

Her blood, red as rose

14:23

petals, blooms in the water,

14:25

its feckened fragrance concealing the

14:27

sharp tang of my congealing

14:30

placenta, rotting

14:32

in the marsh, unceremoniously discarded

14:34

in my hurry to hide. The

14:38

salt of phalene sweat joins the

14:40

sweet smell of birth blood, earthy

14:43

and rich, swallowing the vinegar

14:45

stench of denied motherhood. I

14:49

emerge through the reeds at last, wielding

14:52

the rock I've been gripping for what

14:54

feels like forever. I

15:02

return to town, met with

15:04

thunderous applause, tears

15:07

streamed down, faces already

15:09

beaded with moisture, sprays of

15:11

water fly from clapping hands.

15:15

I hold new life in my arms.

15:19

Humanity may yet survive because

15:21

of me. I

15:24

will never be alone again because

15:26

of him. They

15:30

all watched through the windows, too devastated

15:32

by habit to hope as

15:34

two women left for the pond. But

15:37

they are used to women not returning, and

15:40

no alarms are raised when phalene does

15:42

not follow my arrival. Childbirth

15:45

is perilous, even in easy times.

15:49

They might not even notice she's still gone.

15:54

Phalene has never been overlooked. If

15:56

only she were alive to see it,

15:58

to feel the invisibility. All

24:01

the way across the field. Over

24:03

the wet grass and deeper into

24:05

the mist, through the Saudis shield

24:07

of read. Back. To

24:09

where we first came into each other's

24:12

lives. Here. At

24:14

the ponds as far as.

24:18

Seats suspended liquid turn the

24:20

air to glass. Have

24:23

the almost solid with moisture. The

24:26

papers that hover around me pick up

24:28

a little gleam. stars. Offer and reflect

24:31

their light. Making a mirror

24:33

as a haze. My

24:38

reflects first time. He.

24:42

My own body. The

24:46

baby wales in my arms. But I'm

24:48

struck by the speculation. I barely

24:50

hear him. Secure.

24:54

before me as of it cause he

24:57

just clear enough to see them. Street.

25:01

My lips or fall and slump

25:03

perform. Any. Noise

25:06

Or my. Unlike

25:08

any I've ever seen. The

25:11

Chiefs. Have some can blow

25:13

even in the darkness of the

25:15

nine, a glitter like my skin.

25:18

Is made of do drop. In

25:22

the mirror of the far my

25:24

babies. So much more so. Than

25:26

when I look down at the kicking boy and

25:28

my. Own. In

25:31

the mirror is swimming. Is

25:34

smaller to. Like

25:37

when he was new. May

25:39

be reached. Grabs at the reflection,

25:43

Smile is another says his night

25:45

to cry. Smile

25:47

maker than has ever seen.

25:51

As. Whales or take off Now. Stretches.

25:55

forward toward the fog eager

25:57

little fingers His

26:01

reflection does not mirror his impatience.

26:05

Stowbound by my own beauty, I

26:07

lean in to inspect the blurry image

26:09

more closely. He

26:12

squeals with joy as my movement brings

26:15

him nearer. Even

26:18

at this distance, it is difficult

26:20

to make out the details of my face

26:22

in the gossamer glass.

26:25

I am too forward, too mesmerized

26:27

to notice the tangle of reeds at

26:29

my feet. Caught

26:32

in the knot, I tumble forward, shattering

26:34

the mist. With the baby in

26:36

my arms, I can't use my hands to break the

26:38

fall. I will not let him go.

26:41

My arms clasp tighter around him to shield

26:43

him from the impact, and I plunge through

26:46

the surface of the pond, down

26:48

to the bottom, where a

26:51

red-stained rock waits for me. A

26:54

hollow thud drums against my skull,

26:57

and my vision goes black as the night. Cracked

27:02

bone leaks brain fluid. Blood

27:05

swells my eyelid shut. Still,

27:07

I cling to the baby. I cling

27:09

to him until there is no strength

27:11

in my arms. Until

27:14

something pulls him away, and he

27:17

is gone. I

27:20

am so tired of it, and silt and silt

27:22

fill my lungs, and all

27:24

I feel is cold. All

27:28

I hear is the sounds of

27:30

laughter, layered

27:32

laughter, mirrored giggles,

27:34

a voice I

27:37

know. It

27:40

like hurts, so

27:43

much more beautiful than mine. A

27:46

harmonized blur of happy sounds falling

27:49

farther and farther away until

27:52

they vanish. From

27:56

left with familiar scent

27:58

to the pond.