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 Blacksmith
Deep in the Tennessee Hills, where ancient shadows linger and forgotten places hide dark secrets, we follow the harrowing journey of Chris OB, a talented blacksmith whose passion for transforming scrap metal into art leads him down a path of unimaginable horror.
When a mysterious caller offers Chris a treasure trove of metal at an abandoned house deep in the woods, he can't resist the opportunity despite his wife Kimmy's ominous warning. His artist's eye sees potential in doorknobs, spigots, and weathered sheet metal—the beauty in what others discard. But as he ventures into the decaying house with its sagging porch and vacant windows, a sense of dread begins to build. The discovery of a basement promises riches of discarded metal, yet reveals something far more sinister: an ancient witch with filed teeth, surrounded by strange markings, bones, and jars filled with unidentifiable objects.
What follows is a masterclass in horror as Chris finds himself paralyzed but fully conscious as the witch reveals her true intentions. His strong hands that once shaped metal, his beating heart that once fueled his creative passion—all become components in her own disturbing collection. The story's power lies in its stark reminder that sometimes we become the very thing we seek, transformed from artist to medium, from creator to creation, in the most horrific way imaginable.
This chilling tale explores the dark consequences of ignoring intuition, the prices we pay for our passions, and the ancient evils that may still lurk in isolated places, waiting for unwary travelers to stumble upon their domain. It's a reminder that not all treasures are worth the cost of acquisition, and sometimes the most important warnings are the ones we choose to dismiss.
Have you ever ignored a warning from someone who cared about you? What happened? Share your thoughts and join us next week for another story that explores the shadows where reality and nightmare blur into one.
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 Tennessee Hills held Chris, obo Brian in their rough embrace. His calloused hands, stained with soot and the grime of the forge, were more accustomed to shaping iron than holding a phone. But the voice on the other end, raspy and low, had snagged his attention like a stray piece of valuable or got a place for you blacksmith. The voice had croaked, the line crackling with static. Deep in the woods. Old house loaded with metal, everything you could want.
Exxa:Ob, a man whose artistic soul yearned for the forgotten beauty and discarded things, felt a familiar thrill Water spigots, doorknobs, even the promise of weathered sheet metal. It was a treasure trove. His wife, kimmy, a woman whose intuition was as sharp as any of OB's tools, had pleaded with him Chris, don't go. Something about that voice, it ain't right. But the lure of free scrap, the potential for his next masterpiece, was too strong. He kissed Kimmy goodbye a fleeting peck that didn't quite reach his worried eyes and set off in his beat-up pickup truck, the directions from the stranger scribbled on a greasy napkin. The drive took him deeper into the woods than he usually ventured. The air grew heavy, the sunlight choked by the dense canopy. When he finally found the rutted track leading to the house, a shiver traced its way down his spine. The house itself was a skeletal silhouette against the fading afternoon light, its windows like vacant eyes staring into nothingness, rotting wood sagged and the porch listed precariously to one side. An unsettling stillness hung in the air, broken only by the rustling of unseen things in the undergrowth. Obi hesitated, his hand hovering over the rusted gate. Kimmy's words echoed in his mind, but the sight of a tarnished brass doorknob glinting faintly on the front door was enough to push his apprehension aside. He told himself it was just an old, forgotten place. He told himself it was just an old, forgotten place, nothing to be afraid of. The front door creaked open with a groan that sounded suspiciously like a sigh. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that pierced the gloom. The air inside was thick with the smell of mildew and something else, something faintly acrid like burnt herbs.
Exxa:Obi moved through the decaying rooms, his boots crunching on fallen plaster. He found some interesting hinges, a few lengths of copper pipe, but nothing substantial. Then he saw it a dark, gaping hole in the floorboards of what must have been the dining room, a set of rickety of what must have been the dining room, a set of rickety wooden stairs led down into the blackness, the basement. He hadn't even considered a basement. His heart quickened. This was where the real hall would be.
Exxa:He pulled out his flashlight, its beam cutting a weak swathe through the oppressive darkness. The air in the basement was colder, heavier. The acrid smell was stronger here, almost stinging his nostrils. His light landed on piles of discarded junk, broken tools, rusted buckets and, yes, stacks of sheet metal. He grinned, a wave of excitement washing over his earlier unease.
Exxa:He started sifting through the debris, his mind already envisioning the intricate sculptures he could create. Then he saw her huddled in the far corner. Amidst a disturbing collection of murky glass jars filled with unidentifiable things floating in viscous liquids and bundles of dried brittle weeds hanging from the damp ceiling beams sat an old woman. Her face was a mass of deep lines, each one etched with what looked like years of bitterness and something far darker. Her eyes, the color of a moonless night, were fixated on him with unsettling intensity, a predatory gleam within their depths. Her hair, sparse and the color of dead leaves, was pulled back in a tight, uneven knot, revealing a scalp covered in strange raised markings. She wore a threadbare dark garment that concealed most of her frail frame and a faint, sickly sweet odor like overripe fruit, mixed with the scent of iron, clung to her.
Exxa:Ob froze, his flashlight beam fixed on her. He hadn't expected anyone. Ob froze, his flashlight beam fixed on her. He hadn't expected anyone, ma'am. He said, his voice a little rough, a tremor of unease. Already present you alright.
Exxa:The old woman didn't answer, she just stared, a faint, disturbing smile, twisting her lips. It wasn't a smile of greeting. Greeting but something unsettlingly pleased, something that sent a fresh wave of dread, colder than the basement air, through ob. Then she spoke. It was unnatural, like something right out of a horror movie, except this was real movie, except this was real. Then he noticed the strange markings scratched into the packed earth floor around her, looping symbols that seemed to writhe in the weak light, and the unsettling collection of bones, some small and delicate, others larger and disturbingly human-like, scattered amongst the jars and herbs and the air, thick with that acrid sweetness, seemed to steal the breath from his lungs, making his head swim. Suddenly, the old woman's smile widened, revealing teeth that looked as though they had been meticulously filed to sharp points, like the teeth of some nocturnal predator. Her voice, when it came, was like the whisper of wind through dry bones laced with a chilling amusement.
The Witch:You've come to my collection, haven't you, blacksmith?
Exxa:Before Obi could react, the old woman's hand, surprisingly strong for its age, shot out and clamped onto his wrist. A jolt of icy coldness, deeper than the chill of the basement, seemed to seep into his very marrow, numbing his hand. He tried to pull away, but her grip was like a vice, unyielding and unnatural. What are you talking about, he stammered? His free hand instinctively reaching for the hammer at his belt. His free hand instinctively reaching for the hammer at his belt, his fingers closed around the familiar weight of the tool. A small comfort in the growing terror. The old woman let out a dry, wheezing laugh that scraped against his nerves the sound echoing eerily in the confined space.
The Witch:Oh, I've been waiting for a sturdy one, someone with strong hands, someone whose components will add a certain resilience to my work.
Exxa:Her dark eyes glittered with a horrifying intent, a hunger that went beyond mere physical need. Then he saw it tucked away in another shadowed corner a rough-hewn table made of thick planks stained with dark crusty patches that looked sickeningly familiar, and laid out on it were various tools, all of which sent a fresh wave of nausea through OB. There was a long, slender knife with a wickedly sharp, curved blade, a set of heavy-duty shears that looked capable of slicing through thick metal or bone with ease, and a collection of thin pointed instruments that resembled dental tools but somehow more sinister. As a blacksmith, ob knew the properties of steel, the force required to cut and shape it. These tools, though unfamiliar, spoke a grim language he understood all too well when applied to flesh and bone. Understanding crashed over OB, cold and brutal. This wasn't just an eccentric old woman. This was something deeply wrong, something malevolent.
Exxa:He tried again to wrench his arm free, but the old woman's grip remained impossibly strong. Her pointed teeth bared in a silent snarl. With surprising force she pulled him closer, her other hand, surprisingly agile, snaking around his back, pressing against his spine with unnatural pressure. As her fingers dug into the muscles of his back, a wave of dizziness washed over him more potent than the stale air could account for. He felt a strange weakness creeping into his limbs, a leaden heaviness that made even the thought of movement feel impossible. Then a sudden ringing in his ears. He tried to call out, but his vocal cords seemed frozen, his tongue thick and unresponsive. The old woman's eyes bored into his and he felt a chilling emptiness begin to spread through his mind, a creeping paralysis that started at his extremities and moved inward. Then she spoke again, her voice, a low, hypnotic drone that seemed to bypass his ears and resonate directly within his skull.
The Witch:Such strong hands, they will make beautiful additions. And your heart, they will make beautiful additions. And your heart, ah, your heart beats with such a vigorous rhythm.
Exxa:It will sing for me. Before OB could even register the full horror of her words, the old woman's sharp teeth plunged into his cheek, tearing through flesh. He cried out in silent agony, the taste of his own blood, thick and coppery, filling his mouth. He tried to fight, to pull away, to lift his hammer, but his body remained stubbornly unresponsive, trapped in a prison of his own flesh. The paralysis was complete. He could feel everything the tearing of his skin, the wetness of his blood, the cold, clammy touch of her hands. But he was utterly unable to move, gave way. Tears welled in his eyes, but he couldn't even blink them away. He watched helpless as the old woman began to… work.
Exxa:With deliberate, horrifying precision, she picked up the long, curved knife from the table. Obi's mind screamed in protest, recognizing the tool for what it was an instrument designed for flaying. He could feel the cold steel as she pressed it against his forearm, the sharp edge biting into his skin. The pain was unimaginable, a searing inferno that threatened to consume his consciousness. Even as his body remained trapped and unmoving, he could only whimper a small pathetic sound that was swallowed by the oppressive silence of the basement. The acrid, sweet odor in the air seemed to thicken, mingling with the stench of blood and fear, creating a suffocating miasma of horror. Chris O'Brien's life ended in the cold, dark basement, not with the bang of a hammer on an anvil, but with the methodical, horrifying work of a witch and the chilling realization of her gruesome intentions.
