Intro (Click to reveal)

Rusty Quill Presents:

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(Cassette tape is inserted into a tape recorder)

(Recorder clicks on)

Cole

Okay, ah... How do I start this?

I guess, um... entry 001? The author is... uh... unknown? And, recording by Cole Weavers. I, I think that's all that needs to be said. I guess, I guess we'll work on that.

(Recorder clicks off and is rewound)

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Cole

The orphanage was in an old, abandoned building that had been repurposed. It sat at the edge of a prairie forest, with thin, tall birch trees planted in uncomfortably symmetrical rows. Perfectly straight, perfectly thin. The type of forest that hurt your eyes as you ran through it because of just how unnatural it seemed as the trees whizzed by.

It was the type of unnatural forest, where something unnatural itself might live, hiding behind the thin, tall, sparse birch trees, almost nearly as tall itself, but more slender.

The children living at the orphanage loved it, though. The trees were that perfect distance from one another, where you could rip a branch from one tree and hang it across another two trees, and lean more branches and twigs and leaves against that - before long, you ended up with a tiny little humble getaway... from the crowded rooms, and the halls of the orphanage.

And at night, the little green coin-shaped leaves would all rustle, like a paper tambourine, and the wind wishing those children goodnight through their windows, all cracked open three fingers width. The children loved the sound of that odd little birch forest. They would've opened the windows wider if it weren't for the bars on the outside keeping the children in at night.

Now, life wasn't perfect, but the children were happy. They made their own games, and invented their own worlds - told each other stories, and, they were fed. They had a bed to sleep in and a roof above their heads, and while the love they recieved was tough, and they existed knowing that one day they might be taken away from their friends... or even worse, never leave at all. They were still happy at the end of each day.

But that orphanage no longer sits at the edge of that odd, unsettling prairie forest filled with children. And there is no more love, no little children tucked into bed, listening to the rustling jazz of birch leaves blowing in the wind. The brick walls have all crumbled, the shingles have all fallen from the roof, and the wood bones of it have rotted clean through.

It's been many years since all those children died out there. And many stories have been told about who did it, and it seems the further away it is in time, the more stories you hear, but... I-I know the truth.

Do you want to know who killed every last child at that orphanage?

I'll tell you.

The killer stalked the halls, moving silently as it crept along. Room after room as the children slept and drempt of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters - the killer moved unheard. Killing one after another after another. The rooms were filled tight with children sleeping in bunk beds - one atop another seperated by metal bedframes and thin, lumpy mattresses.

Not one child moved, or woke, as the killer entered the room, taking the breath of the adolescent sleeping closest to the door and moving its way inwards.

Police didn't arrive until the sky was already filled with the sickly yellow prelude to dawn, and, by that time there was nothing they could do. According to the incident report released by police there were eighty-six victims - all but two of them were children. They died one by one, until the rest died all at once.

I wish I could say it meant something. That it was all part of a larger story, or that there was justice served after all those lives were cut short, but it wasn't, and there could never be.

The fire spread slowly, and everyone should've been able to evacuate. A-And they could have, if there was a fire alarm, or sprinklers, or someone hadn't fallen asleep with a cigarette limply pinched between their fingers. The building was just too old, and there was just too little money to spend on orphans and not enough staff, and the staff they did have were old and tired and worn out.

Someone fell asleep. It's as simple as that.

Eighty-six lives were lost. Not to the slender thing in the woods hiding behind the birch trees, but, to a cigarette, an overworked janitor, and a ratty old carpet. A-At least that's what the incident report released by police claimed, but... I'm inclined to believe it.

After all, what else could it have been?

(Recorder clicks off)

(Recorder clicks on)

Mark

Wow.

Cole

Wow?

Mark

Yeah... wow. That was... not what I expected.

D

Yeah, same.

Cole

Not what you were expecting in a good way, or a bad way?

D

I-I just wasn't expecting that ending.

Mark

Yeah. Same.

D

I mean, most scary stories have monsters, or...

Mark

Or some satanic doomsday...

D

But this one was just... I-I don't know, it... made me sad? But it also like, made me terrified, thinking about how much of my own safety is left to others? Like, I-I just trust that the bus driver had a good sleep last night while I stare at my phone, you know?

Mark

If that actually happened, who would you blame? Like, if this happened to you, in your town, who do you think everyone would point the finger at? The janitor?

D

I'd personally blame the administration who didn't pony up the cash to hire more staff.

Cole

Uh, how so?

D

Clearly someone made the decision to cut the budget.

Mark

Ooh, nameless Data Entry Intern #4 was the killer all along!

D

Basically.

Mark

(Sigh) In all seriousness, though, this very well could've just happened any number of times. Of course, it wouldn't be headline news, because there's no 'Flash Killer' or headline beyond, uh, I dunno, 'Tired Janitor Drops Cigarette After Being Horribly Overworked.'

Cole

Well, I mean, that's all great feedback, but... but was it... was it a good way to start things off?

D

Oh, yeah, definitely.

Mark

Eh, well, yeah - you know, personally, I liked it a lot.

Cole

Good. ...Good.

(Recorder clicks off)

Outro (Click to reveal)

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Tiny Terrors is an anthology horror podcast produced by Pulp Audio, and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

This episode was directed by Cole Weavers, with sound production and editing by Mike LeBeau.

This episode featured Mike LeBeau, B. Naar, and Cole Weavers.

To find additional information, or to join our Patreon for additional content and ad-free episodes, visit our website www.tinyterrorspod.com.

Follow us on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook @TinyTerrorsPod.

Or join the Pulp Audio Discord by clicking the link in the description below.

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And finally, thanks for listening.

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End Outro