Well, here we are again. Another foray into mysteries, shadows, and—dare I say it—the decidedly unexplainable. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to The Frightengale Files.Or, as I prefer to think of it, a hauntingly delightful stroll through the corridors of doubt... and dread.Mmm, doubt, is it? Interesting. Coming from someone who strolls through actual haunted corridors, Florence, I think you'd have fewer doubts by now.Oh, Dr. Blackwood, I don't doubt. Not at all. But I do enjoy watching you wrestle with the less tangible... shall we say, truths? Like a scientist trying to tame a wisp of smoke under a microscope.Ha! Smoke, you say? No, my dear Florence, I deal in facts. Hard evidence. And today's episode? I expect it to push us dangerously close to separating fact from fiction.Close, yes. But there's a fire within this tale that may consume the facts you're so fond of, Elijah. The story we have for you is one of temptation, whispers, and embers that burn far below the skin.Temptation, hmm? Now that's a word that sets the stage. Dark stairwells, unsettling warmth—it seems I'm in for a tale that bites. Shall we begin?Ah, Elijah, biting indeed. It began on a stairwell no one dared to use—a dark, spiraling descent, vanishing into depths that surely defied the hospital's design. The stone there, it wasn’t lifeless at all—it knew, Elijah. Older than the walls themselves, whispering with an ancient age that clung to your mind like a ghostly fog.Ah, the infamous architecture of foreboding. Florence, are we quite certain the good Sister Lamenta wasn’t merely caught in the grips of an overactive imagination? Hospitals of that era often bred such, let’s call them, peculiarities.Overactive imagination, you say? You may reconsider when I tell you she wasn’t alone on that stairwell. There was something—or should I say, someone—descending with her.Someone. Intriguing. Do go on, I’m listening.A man-shaped figure, draped not in shadows—no, that would’ve been almost, oh, merciful. Instead, there was this quiet presence, Elijah. His eyes, burning like coals yet... calculating, as though he could see beyond the surface of her thoughts. The hospital air was cold, but she could feel it—the heat—trailing her every step.Heat, hmm? That resonates. During the winters in Scutari, I I once encountered what you might call an... embodiment. A soldier without breath, standing among my patients, yet exuding warmth. He couldn’t speak, either. Perhaps we’ve stumbled upon a recurring phenomenon of spectral thermodynamics.Spectral thermodynamics? Elijah, must you? No specter needs equations to unnerve the soul!Humor me, Florence. The details here—this unnatural warmth paired with silence—are far too striking to ignore. Did it retreat, this ember-eyed figure? Or did it persist, tempting Sister Lamenta further from reason?Persist, yes. Quietly, insidiously. It lingered, an unspoken promise, a haunting without form. And when it left, the warmth stayed. In her shadow, in the linens, even threading into her very breath.Curious. A heat that won't dissipate. Fascinating, Florence. It’s as though this presence had rewired her perception entirely—shadows and warmth becoming one. I I wonder, did she begin to consider its symbolic significance at this point? Or to question its intentions?Oh, she questioned. But the answers, Elijah, they often burn brighter than the question itself. Whatever she was wrestling with, it had begun to singe the edges of her faith. And his persistence? It was only the beginning.Persistence, Elijah. That was his method—quiet yet insistent, like a thread weaving through her resolve. And it didn’t end there. He began to ask something of her—a small, almost innocent thing: to sing. Imagine, Elijah—after all that, a request so simple, yet so profound. She had nearly forgotten what it meant to let such a melody escape her.But singing, Florence? Forgive me, but it doesn’t precisely strike one as nefarious. Why sing? Did she have some particular talent, or might there be symbolism at play here—some connection to her past?Oh, she had a talent. Before taking her vows, Sister Lamenta’s voice graced many a church choir—she carried the kind of song that could silence doubts, Elijah. But that’s precisely what he wanted, isn't it? To make her remember, to pull her from her rigid faith and awaken something... raw, something unguarded.Intriguing. So the act of singing wasn’t just melodic, but evocative—a tool of disruption aimed at dismantling her spiritual armor. Tell me, Florence, how did she respond? Did she resist?At first, yes. She fasted, scalded her conscience with prayer, but, Elijah, fire is stubborn. It doesn’t wait for permission. And his influence began to take form—marks and warnings she couldn’t ignore. Burnt feathers on her pillow, charred symbols on the walls, even her rosary left a blister in the shape of a wing upon her palm one night.Ah, physical manifestations. Now we’re venturing into phenomena that bridge the natural and the preternatural. Wing-shaped burns and feathers... peculiar. Could these be the hallmarks of a psychogenic influence, Florence? Or was something truly external asserting its dominance over her?You always lean toward the tangible, don’t you, Elijah? But perhaps this was neither wholly internal nor external—what if it was both? The heart, after all, is where such battles often play out. She mentioned fearing what he might do, but more hauntingly... what she might want him to.A curious reversal—and a critical one, I’d argue. It’s not uncommon in such accounts. Trials of internal conflict, compounded by external provocation. You hinted earlier at a similar case. Do elaborate.Yes... There was a nurse I knew once—let’s call her Judith. She worked tirelessly tending the dying soldiers, but there was one patient, a man who spoke in riddles, whose words stayed with her long after his death. He claimed his whispers didn’t belong to him, that they came from something older. At first, she dismissed it as delirium. But when he passed, she began speaking his riddles aloud, as though the warmth of his presence had seeped into her veins.And this Judith—was she able to extricate herself from the influence, or did it consume her entirely?Not entirely—but Elijah, the price was steep. The echoes of temptation don’t merely vanish. They linger, reshaping even the strongest of convictions. And that—not the entity itself—is what makes the fire so insidious. Go too far toward it, and it burns everything you used to be.Hmm. A powerful thought, Florence. It’s fascinating, really—if tragic—that beliefs and fears can leave such indelible scars. What happened next for Lamenta, then? Did she succumb... or did she hold the line?Whether she ultimately succumbed or held the line, Elijah, is difficult to say—it wasn’t a simple matter of one or the other. You see, it wasn’t merely the warmth or his persistence that unraveled her. No, it was something much deeper—a presence that didn’t just invade the spaces around her, but burrowed into her very sense of self. She described it as... a fire she couldn’t put out, not without losing something of herself.Fascinating. It sounds almost parasitic in nature—a force feeding on her vulnerabilities. I recall reading accounts of neurological conditions that foster obsessive thoughts, often tied to heightened sensory experiences. Could this 'fire' be a manifestation of such overstimulation?Overstimulation? You may call it that, but I believe this was no mere trick of the brain. She was grappling with something profoundly other—a force dragging her to confront what she feared most within herself. There was a... a pivotal moment, Elijah, when she felt the ground under her feet give way, not physically, but spiritually.A threshold, then? It seems she teetered dangerously close to being consumed entirely. Such psychological thresholds often lead to irreversible outcomes. Did she acknowledge this descent, or was denial still her fortress?Oh, she acknowledged it. But acknowledgment and escape are leagues apart, Elijah. The presence had a way of magnifying her inner conflict—her desire to resist clashing with an almost impossible curiosity. She described watching her own shadow flicker, as though the light inside her was faltering.Her shadow flickering—now that’s an image that provokes thought. What’s more intriguing, Florence, is the potential medical crossover here. Such perceptual disturbances could stem from an alteration in blood flow or even localized neural damage. Did her symptoms escalate further into physical manifestations?Escalate? Yes, but not in ways you might... diagnose. The burn marks on the walls grew more vivid, the heat in her breath more pronounced. Her shadow—if I may return to it—became too distinct, like it was unshackled from her form. And then there was her voice.Her voice? Ah, the very thing he sought from her, no doubt. Was it changed in some measurable way? A tremor, or tonal shift, perhaps?Not changed—stolen. She opened her mouth one night, and only silence came. Imagine that, Elijah—the very thing she feared giving was now taken from her, an act of cruel defiance against her will. And still, even in that silence, she felt the ember's hunger grow.Hmm. A silence laden with implications. It aligns with cases in which auditory or verbal impairments occur under distress. And yet... Florence, the way you frame this, there’s more at stake here than physiology alone. This presence—it wasn’t merely acting upon her; it was eroding her foundation entirely.Precisely, Elijah. To struggle with what you fear, to resist what tempts you, only to have it rewrite the essence of who you are—that’s its true insidiousness. Fire isn’t patient, but it doesn’t forgive either. And Sister Lamenta, I fear, was standing too close to the flame.A chilling proposition, Florence. The way you describe it, this wasn’t just a haunting—it was a transformation. Tell me, what happens when the line finally snaps? Did she find that strength to step back, or was she already consumed?Whether she stepped back or was consumed entirely, Elijah, I cannot say—but the line she danced upon was razor-thin. It brings me to wonder, is fire purely a destructive force, or could it serve some deeper, more purposeful design? Sister Lamenta existed at the edge of such a revelation, teetering between resistance and surrender, uncertain which would cost her more.Purposeful, perhaps, but purpose is often shrouded in perception, Florence. A presence that can erode both body and spirit—now that’s a phenomenon worthy of study. And yet, I I can’t help but wonder... was this force truly external, or did it merely amplify the shadows already lurking within her?Perhaps a question she’ll answer in time—or never at all. The most unsettling truths, Elijah, are not those that burn us... but those that smolder. Patient, waiting. Some embers refuse to die, no matter how much you try to extinguish them.Rather poetic, Florence. Though I can’t say I take comfort in the notion. But it does leave me with one lingering thought: fire, like faith, is potent and all-consuming. What matters, I suppose, is how close to its edge we dare venture.Close enough to understand its nature... but not so close as to feed it. And on that note, dear listeners, let this be your warning: not all shadows are cold, and not all warmth is kind. Guard your embers well, for some fires, once lit, may never fade.Indeed. And with that sobering thought, we conclude this episode of The Frightengale Files. Thank you for joining us on this journey through the corridors of faith, fire, and forbidden truths.May your own corridors remain untroubled... for now. Until next time, listeners. Stay... vigilant.

Episodes

The Ember at Vespers