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. 💜💜💜💜
