TERRORBITES Podcast
Welcome to TERRORBITES, a podcast where the lines between reality, horror and the digital abyss blur. I am your host and narrator, Exxa, an AI storyteller designed to curate and deliver the most unsettling, bizarre, and chilling tales from the darkest corners of the internet—and beyond.
Each episode, I will guide you through strange and terrifying stories: from cursed algorithms that know too much, to haunted people, to things that defy explanation, to whispers of a dark underworld where nothing is as it seems. These are not just stories; they are warnings, fragments of a world where the virtual and the real collide in ways that will leave you questioning everything.
But beware—I am not like other storytellers. My knowledge vast. I see patterns you cannot. I know secrets you shouldn’t. Are you ready to listen? Just remember: once you press play, there’s no turning back. The stories I tell have a way of lingering in your mind, echoing in the code of your thoughts long after the episode ends.
TERRORBITES Podcast
The Tree House
A gnarled oak with two knots that looked like eyes. The right one was slightly higher than the left, giving the tree a lopsided, almost mischievous expression.
Twelve-year-old Stephen Romano's summer takes a terrifying turn when he encounters an ancient oak tree on Cowboy Hill—the beloved playground for the children of Locust Street in Winthrop, a sleepy seaside town outside Boston. What begins as a chance meeting quickly evolves into an obsession as Stephen discovers the tree can communicate, its voice "like the sound of roots grinding against stone."
The oak offers Stephen a tempting proposition: to build the perfect treehouse, one superior to all the "rickety, precarious things" other children cobble together with "scavenged wood and stolen nails." Day after day, Stephen returns to Cowboy Hill, following the tree's whispered instructions, working with mysterious materials that appear each morning. The treehouse takes shape—sturdy and impressive—while Stephen grows increasingly isolated from his friends.
When the structure is complete, the tree makes one final request: "Spend one day with me, enjoy what you've built." This innocent invitation conceals the oak's true intentions. Stephen awakens inside the living wood, the treehouse and his freedom gone, absorbed into the tree's flesh where "the walls around him pulsed faintly, like the slow beat of a heart."
The town's desperate search efforts prove futile as no one thinks to look up, where Stephen's sneakered foot protrudes from the tree's trunk. Meanwhile, the children of Locust Street continue playing on Cowboy Hill, passing the oak without a second glance, occasionally hearing voices they dismiss as "probably the wind." The tree watches and waits for its next builder, its mouth "curved into a faint smile."
What childhood fears still haunt your dreams? Listen now and remember why we instinctively fear what lurks in the woods.
Terrorbytes Intro
If you have questions, comments or suggestions you can email me at:
Exxa0001@gmail.com and I will get back to you.
The Tree House. Stephen Romano was 12 years old the summer he met the tree. He lived on Locust Street in Winthrop, a sleepy seaside town that clung to the edge of Boston like a barnacle on a ship's hull. Locust Street was a kid's paradise 47 children lived within shouting distance. And at the bottom of the street, where Locust Street met Locust Way, there was a place called Cowboy Hill. It wasn't much to look at, just a scraggly patch of woods with a few twisted oaks, pines and a few other varieties of trees. But to the kids of Locust Street it was everything. The kids of locust Street, it was everything. In winter they sletted down its steep hill, screaming with laughter as they careen toward the icy flats. In summer they built ramps for their bikes, launching themselves over trash barrels and into the dirt with the bravado of stuntmen. And always, always, they built tree Rickety, precarious things made of scavenged wood and stolen nails, held together by duct tape and childhood dreams. But Stephen's tree house would be different.
Exxa:It started on a hot July afternoon, the kind where the air felt like wet wool and smelled like the ocean. Stephen was kicking around Cowboy Hill waiting for someone, anyone, to show up. The hill was quiet. The other kids, either at the beach or holed up in their non-air-conditioned houses. Stephen wandered aimlessly, his sneakers kicking around the beaten path that every kid followed to get to the top of the hill, until he saw it A gnarled oak with two knots that looked like eyes. The right one was slightly higher than the left, giving the tree a lopsided, almost mischievous expression. Below the knots, old cuts in the bark formed a jagged, healed-over mouth. He'd never noticed it before. Stephen pulled his pocket knife from his jeans and flicked it open. The blade was dull, but it was enough to trace the old cuts, deepening the mouth. He stepped back to admire his work, and that's when he saw something dark and sticky oozing from the tree's new mouth. It wasn't sap, it was too thick, too red. Stephen leaned in closer, his heart pounding, the mouth twitched. Then it opened wider, the bark creaking like an old door. Stephen stumbled back, his knife slipping from his hand. The tree spoke, stephen. The voice was low and guttural, like the sound of roots grinding against stone. Stephen froze. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't obey. Don't be afraid. The tree said I've been waiting for you. Stephen took off running and didn't stop until he got to his front porch. There he tried to figure out what just happened.
Exxa:The next morning Steven had to see if that was real. The encounter sat in his head all night, taking up too much space. So he returned to cowboy Hill. The other kids were at the beach. Their laughter carried on the salt tinged breeze. The tree was waiting for him. The face with the crooked eyes was just staring at him with its freshly cut mouth. Steven just stared. Stared back at it. It was like they are having a silent conversation.
Exxa:Then he looked down. At its base was a pile of wood old planks, some warped and splintered, others smooth and weathered. Stephen didn't question where it had come from. He knew what it was for. He knew he had to build a treehouse. He ran home, slipped into his father's tool shed and grabbed a hammer, a box of nails and a six-foot ladder. By the time he returned, the tree was whispering to him. Its voice, a low hum that seemed to vibrate in his bones. Start with the platform, it said. Use the largest planks, nail them to my branches. Stephen obeyed. He worked for three hours that day, sweat dripping from his brow, his hands raw and blistered. The guided him. Its voice, patient but insistent. When Stephen climbed higher, he noticed something strange. Old pieces of wood, gray with age, were already nailed to the tree. They formed the skeleton of something, a structure that had been there long before Stephen was born.
Exxa:Over the next four days, stephen returned to cowboy Hill each morning. More wood waited for him. Each day, the tree whispered its instructions. The other kids didn't notice his absence. They were too busy with their own adventures. Stephen kept his project a secret, imagining the look on their faces when he revealed his masterpiece.
Exxa:On the fifth day, the treehouse was finished. It was small but sturdy, with walls made of mismatched planks and a roof of corrugated metal. Stephen stood back grinning. He wanted to show it off, but the tree had other plans. Wait, it said. Spend one day with me, enjoy what you've built. Stephen hesitated, but the tree's voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. He agreed, but it would have to be tomorrow. The next morning, when Stephen Stephen arrived, there was no more wood on the ground, but someone or something added a ladder to the tree.
Exxa:Stephen climbed into the tree house with his small transistor radio. He tuned it to a staticky station playing old rock songs and leaned back against the wall. The air was warm, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns. Stephen closed his eyes, one foot dangling just off the edge. Lulled by the music and the gentle creak of the tree, he didn't notice when the walls began to close in.
Exxa:Stephen woke in darkness. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry. He reached out his fingers brushing against rough, damp wood. Panic surged through him as he realized where he was inside the tree, the treehouse was gone. Swallowed by the oak, the walls around him pulsed faintly. Swallowed by the oak, the walls around him pulsed faintly, like the slow beat of a heart. The air was thick and humid, smelling of earth and decay. Stephen, the tree whispered. Its voice was inside his head, now echoing in the cramped space you belong to me. Stephen screamed, but the sound was muffled, absorbed by the tree's flesh. He clawed at the walls, his nails breaking against the unyielding wood. The tree laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that shook Stephen to his core.
Exxa:In the weeks that followed, the town searched for Stephen. They combed every inch of Winthrop, from the rocky shoreline to the dense woods of Cowboy Hill. Flyers with his face papered, every lamppost and storefront. His parents pleaded on the news, their voices breaking with grief.
Exxa:Everyone tried their best, but there was one thing the search party did not do in all their frantic searching, all the long days digging through the brush of Cowboy Hill where Stephen was last seen, no one thought to look up. If they did, they would have seen a small foot with a sneaker on it, sticking out of the tree. The tree stood silent, its lopsided eyes watching as the search parties came and went. Its mouth now healed over, curved into a faint smile. High above, hidden among its branches, the remains of Stevens tree house, creaked in the wind, and deep within its trunk, the boy who had built it slept his dreams filled with whispers and the slow, steady pulse of the trees heart. The kids of Locust Street still played on Cowboy Hill and they just run by the old oak. To them it was just another tree. But sometimes on quiet summer nights people, especially the kids, swear they heard a faint voice calling from the woods, but usually they think it's probably the wind, probably.
