Morbid Morsals. Season 3. Episode 20. The Lantern

The dead do not always stay buried.
In the East, there is a month when lanterns burn through the night, and offerings line the streets.

A month when the veil between worlds grows thin... and the hungry dead are allowed to wander.
Most people know the rules.
Most people follow them.

But some warnings are written for a reason.
And some spirits never leave.
Tonight, step carefully into a chilling tale of ghosts, forgotten traditions, and the terrible price of being noticed by the dead.

Into the Abyss: Morbid Morsals podcast is a Darkshogun Production in association with Twisted Souls Media. Created and produced by Troy Bursch.

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THANK YOU, LEGION
Thank you for listening, supporting, and sharing the show. Word of mouth is how this strange little beast grows. Thank you for walking into the darkness with me — and helping this indie horror project reach places I never imagined.

And remember… whatever lurks in the shadows will be waiting… visiting you in your twisted nightmares… as you spiral into madness.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_02 0:00

Alright Legion, quick update. I've got some shadow swag sitting here, stickers. I want to get these into your hands, but I'm only mailing out a limited batch each week. If you want your mark of the Abyss, check your phone right now. At the top of the show notes, there's a link that says claim your free Legion gear. Tap it while you're listening. You'll get a quick form, name, address, your favorite episode, then send me your coordinates. Join the Legion, claim your gear and carry the mark. Alright, Legion listeners, you want free into the Abyss stickers, keychains, or air fresheners? There's only limited supplies. Once the bat ships, the shadows close. Support the show and save 10% on your entire order on WENERGY using the code Shadow Dweller. Or 20% off your entire order on Deut Snacking Dough. Use the code TROY 37488 at checkout. Send me a screenshot of your purchase and I'll upgrade your shadow swag pack with a keychain or an air freshener, along with some dope stickers as a way of saying thank you. If someone shows the mark of the abyss among the living, I'll give them a shout-out. If you do get a sticker, you must tag into the abyss morbid morsels podcast in a photo and post it on your socials. Place it somewhere, anywhere. A laptop, a bottle, lamppost, grocery store, schools, anywhere you can find a stick it. I'll repost every photo that I get. Some of these stickers are Legion links, QR codes to my link tree, and some for my Instagram page. Spread these like a virus. I'd love to see you rep them in any state that you're from.

SPEAKER_03 1:50

This episode contains mature language and adult situations. Listen to the squishy.

SPEAKER_04 2:42

Growing strong with your hands suffering. It was the poison of your darkest thoughts that suffered me. I am the shadow. Your tormentor. Your only companion till the abyss swallows you all. I am written between the nether and your fragile. My brothers and I are at last. And we come to enslave torment. To save the chorus of your screams. As you try as you stop now. You humans have such a talent for walking straight into places you were never meant to tread. And tonight, you've chosen a tale from the east. A place where the living and the dead share the same streets for one hungry month each year. Where lanterns glow not to guide travelers, but to warn them. Listen closely. The air is thin there. The veil is thinner. And the hungry ones. They do not appreciate being ignored. Step lightly, little wanderer. The dead are watching.

SPEAKER_00 5:27

I didn't grow up believing in ghosts. My parents were practical people, immigrants who worked long hours, saved every dollar, and didn't have time for superstition. They didn't burn incense for ancestors, they didn't leave offerings, they didn't talk about spirits or rituals or the old festivals, but my grandmother did. She lived in a small apartment above a bakery in Guangzhou. And every summer when I visited, she would tell me stories. Stories about the Hungry Ghost Festival, Zhonggyuanjie, when the gates of the underworld opened and the dead wandered freely. Don't whistle at night, she'd say, Don't turn around when someone calls your name from behind. And never, ever follow a lantern that isn't held by a living hand. I laughed at those stories when I was young, I'm not laughing now. It happened last August, when I returned to Guangzhou for the first time in years. My grandmother had passed away, and I went to settle her affairs. I arrived during the seventh lunar month, the ghost month, though I didn't realize it at the time. The city felt different than I remembered, heavier, as if the air itself was holding its breath. People burned joss paper on the sidewalks, fake money, paper clothes, paper phones, sending them to their ancestors. The smoke curled upward, in thin, trembling lines. Small altars appeared outside storefronts, each with fruit, rice, and cups of tea. I watched an old man set out a bowl of noodles on the curb. For the hungry ones, he murmured, I didn't ask questions. I should have. My grandmother's apartment was exactly as she left it. The scent of jasmine tea still clung to the walls. Her slippers sat neatly by the door. A half-finished scarf lay draped over the arm of her chair. I spent the day sorting through her things, packing boxes, and trying not to think about the empty space she left behind. By evening, I was exhausted. I stepped out onto the balcony to get some air. That's when I saw it. A lantern. A single red lantern hanging in the alley below, swaying gently as though there was no wind. It glowed with a soft, pulsing light, too bright, too steady to be a candle. It looked almost alive. I leaned over the railing. There was no one holding it, just the lantern. Floating, waiting, a memory stirred, my grandmother's voice whispering warnings. I shook it off. It's just a decoration, I told myself. But it wasn't, because when I stepped back inside, the lantern moved. It drifted forward, following the line of the alley, and stopped directly beneath my balcony. As if it knew where I was. As if it was looking up at me. I didn't sleep well that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that lantern, its red glow pulsing like a heartbeat. I told myself it was nothing. A trick of the light, a festival decoration, a coincidence, but the next evening, it returned. I was walking back from the market when I saw it hovering at the end of the street. Same lantern, same glow, same slow, deliberate sway. I froze. The lantern drifted toward me. I stepped back. It stopped. I turned around and walked quickly toward the apartment. My pulse hammered in my ears. I didn't look back, but I heard it. A faint rustling. A soft scrape against the pavement. Like something dragging just behind me. I reached the building entrance and slammed the door shut. Silence. I waited, breath held, until my heartbeat slowed. Then I climbed the stairs. When I reached the landing, I glanced out the window. The lantern was there, hovering at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting. I didn't leave the apartment the next day. I told myself I was being ridiculous, that grief was playing tricks on me, that lanterns don't follow people. But when night fell, I heard something outside the door. A soft tapping. Tap, tap, tap one crept toward the peephole. Nothing, just a dim hallway. I exhaled shakily. Then the tapping came again. Closer, sharper. Tap. Tap. Tap one pressed my eye to the peephole and saw red, a glow. Soft, pulsing, filling the entire fisheye view. The lantern was right outside my door. I stumbled back, heart slamming against my ribs. The tapping grew louder. Tap, tap, tap. I grabbed my phone with shaking hands and called the building manager. He answered groggily. There's something outside my door, I whispered. What kind of something? A lantern. Silence. Then a long, slow exhale. You should not open the door, he said quietly. Not during Ghost Month. I didn't plan to. Good, stay inside. Do not speak to it. Do not acknowledge it. It will leave. Next morning, the lantern was gone. I opened the door cautiously. The hallway was empty, no scorch marks, no wax, no string, no sign that anything had been there at all. I almost convinced myself I imagined it. Until I saw the offering bowl, someone had placed it on the floor outside my door. Rice, fruit, and three sticks of incense burned down to ash. A peace offering, or a warning, I didn't touch it. The lantern returned. But this time, it wasn't alone. I was sitting in the dark, trying to distract myself with old photos of my grandmother when I heard a faint sound outside the window. A whisper, not words, just breath. Soft, hungry, I stood slowly and approached the window. The lantern hovered inches from the glass, and behind it, barely visible in the red glow, was a shape. A face, pale, hollow, eyes, sunken deep into shadow, mouth open too wide, as if unhinged. I stumbled back, choking on a scream. The lantern pressed against the window. The glass trembled. The whispering grew louder. I covered my ears. Go away, I whispered. Whispered. Please, go away. The whispering stopped. Silence. I waited. Minutes passed, then hours. Finally, I dared to open the curtains. The lantern was gone. But the glass was fogged with breath. A single handprint smeared across it. I knew I couldn't stay. I packed my things in a frenzy, shoving clothes and documents into my suitcase. I didn't care about the rest, I just needed to leave. I called a taxi and waited by the door, suitcase in hand, heart pounding. When the driver arrived, I bolted down the stairs. The street was empty, too empty, no people, no cars, no sound, just a lantern, floating in the center of the road, blocking my path. The taxi driver stepped out, frowning. What is that? He asked. See it too? Of course I see it. Why is it? The lantern flared. The driver froze mid-sentence, his eyes went wide, his mouth opened, and he ran. He didn't look back. He didn't grab his car. He just ran. The lantern turned toward me. I stepped back. It drifted forward. I turned and sprinted down the street. The lantern followed. Slow. Steady. Relentless. I ducked into an alley, weaving between trash bins and hanging laundry. My lungs burned, my legs shook. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to get away. But the lantern always found me. Every turn. Every corner. Every shadow. Its glow crept along the walls like blood. I stumbled into a courtyard and collapsed to my knees. I'm sorry, I gasped. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please. The lantern stopped. It hovered inches from my face. The air grew cold, the shadows deepened, and a voice, thin, brittle, ancient, whispered, You forgot us. I froze. You forgot the offerings. Forgot the rites. Forgot the ones who came before you. My breath hitched. Didn't mean to. You left us hungry. The lantern flared. Pain shot through my skull. Images flooded my mind. Faces I didn't recognize. Hands reaching from darkness. Mouths open in silent screams. Ancestors. Mine. Starving. Forgotten. I'm sorry. I whispered again. Tell me what to do. The lantern dimmed. The courtyard fell silent. Then the voice whispered. Remember. And everything went black. I woke up in my grandmother's apartment. The morning sun streamed through the window. Birds chirped outside. The city hummed with life. For a moment, I thought it had all been a nightmare. Then I saw the offering bowl. Fresh fruit. Fresh rice. Fresh incense. Placed neatly on the table beside me. My hands were covered in ash. I don't remember lighting the incense. I don't remember preparing the offerings, but I must have, because the lantern never came back. I returned home a week later, but I didn't forget. Every year now, during the seventh lunar month, I set out offerings: rice, fruit, tea, incense. Not because I believe in ghosts, but because I've seen what happens when you forget them. And sometimes, late at night, when the air grows still, and the shadows stretch long across the floor. I see a faint red glow outside my window, not threatening, not hungry, just watching, just waiting, just making sure I remember, and I do, I always will.

SPEAKER_04 15:15

You humans learn so slowly. But you learn. The dead do not ask for much. A bowl of rice. A cup of tea. A whisper of remembrance. Forget them, and they will remind you. Oh how they will remind you. But honor them, feed them, acknowledge the thin places where their world rushes yours. Then they will watch over you, even if their lanterns glow a little too close for comfort. Until next time, my legion tread carefully. The hungry month is never as far away as you think. Browser listening makes you transient. It makes you drift. If you are listening on a browser right now, consider this your directive. Optimize your listening experience. Close that browser tab and open a dedicated listening tab. Hit subscribe and follow on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or your favorite dedicated podcast platform.

unknown 17:14

Don't let the algorithm decide when you get to feed on the next story.

SPEAKER_04 17:20

Lock it in so every new drop hits your device automatically. If you truly want to watch this empire horror grow.

SPEAKER_01 17:31

Into the Abyss, Morbid Morsels Podcast is a Dark Shogun production in association with Twisted Souls Media. Hi, I'm Troy Birch, creator and producer of this horrific show. If you want to help this nightmare spread like a virus to more unsuspecting souls, remember to like, subscribe, download, follow, turn on notifications, share the show with anyone who enjoys a little darkness in their lives. And if you really want to help summon new Legion listeners, please consider leaving a five-star rating and review wherever you listen. It doesn't have to be long, just honest. Reviews are lanterns in the dark. They help more people find this indie horror anthology podcast, and it only takes a moment. Drop me a question or a comment on Spotify's QA feature in the comments section. I read them all and I'll respond. Since your suffering and screams are like a chorus to my ears, check out my link tree, linktr.ee slash into the abyss podcast. Follow the show's bloody trail across the digital wasteland. Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, Threads, X, TikTok. You can also leave a recommendation or review on Facebook or Instagram to help guide other twisted souls toward the show. My Buzzsprout website is https colon slash slash feeds.buzzsprout.com slash 215 2031.rs. You can support my show there if you'd like to help out, as well as listen to every episode in the catacombs. I'm always lurking in the dark, posting, connecting, and searching for new unsuspecting souls to torture. Listen on your favorite podcast platform. Shout out to DJ Trillium and We Are Legion for the dope music that keeps your heads nodding. I've also got free stickers to rep the Shadow Dweller. Follow me on socials, leave a review, and when I find it, I'll give you a shout-out. Or maybe even name a character after you in a future episode. If you want a sticker, DM me on Instagram at into underscore the underscore abyss underscore podcast. Or email the Darkshogun at MSN.com. Or into the AbyssPod at gmail.com. I'll make sure one finds its way to you. Got an idea for a future show? Tell me what kinds of stories you want to hear. Horror genres, strange tales, whatever is creeping into your mind. Tell me what you're liking, what's haunting you, and what sticks with you long after the episode ends. Thank you for listening, supporting, and downloading. Please share the show with friends, family, or anyone who loves horror stories. Word of mouth is the best way we grow. Thank you for walking into the darkness with me, and for helping this strange little show reach places I never dreamed it would. I'm truly grateful for every single listener with the first time. I just started a substack called Whispers from the Void. This will be a blog/slash newsletter for the Into the Abyss Morbid Morsels podcast. It will feature behind the scenes two episodes, the show, characters, and story plots. I will also talk about what it takes to make an indie horror anthology audio drama and future ideas for upcoming episodes. Go ahead and subscribe if that's something you'd be interested in. Just copy and paste the link in the show notes or in my link tree. And remember, whatever darkness lurks in the shadows will be waiting. Visiting you in your twisted nightmares as you spiral into madness.

SPEAKER_05 22:14

Don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_06 22:20

Don't come around here no more. Whatever you're looking for. Hey, don't come around here no more. I've given up, stop. I've given up stop.

SPEAKER_08 22:49

Given up stop. I'm waiting any longer. I've given up on this look getting stronger. Hey, don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_06 23:10

Hey, don't come around here no more. Don't come around here no more.

unknown 23:20

Don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_05 23:26

Don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_07 23:38

I don't feel you anymore. You don't get my door. Whatever you're looking for.

unknown 23:49

Hey, hey!

SPEAKER_06 23:50

Don't come around here no more. I'll give it up, stop, I'll give it up, stop.

SPEAKER_08 24:08

Stop. You tangle my emotions. Hey I've given up, honey, please.

unknown 24:19

Admit it's over.

SPEAKER_08 24:22

Hey, hey, don't come around here no more. Hey, don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_05 24:29

Hey, don't come around here no more. Hey, don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_07 24:35

Stop walking down my street.

SPEAKER_05 24:38

Don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_07 24:41

Who did you expect to be? Don't come around here no more. Whatever you're looking for. Hey, don't come around here no more. Hey, honey, please, honey please, don't come around here no more. Whatever you're looking for.

SPEAKER_08 25:02

Hey, don't come around here no more.

SPEAKER_05 25:20

Don't come around here no more. Don't come around here no more.