Pseudopod - the horror podcast magazine

Flash: Famine to Feast

2007-03-01T04:17:00Z

By Stephanie Campisi.

Read by Stephen Eley.

The boy's face was a thick, fluid rendering of blowflies. They crusted his eyes like false lashes, and crawled around his chapped, broken lips, their shimmering wings vibrating against their fat black bodies. The boy's stomach was distended; he looked like a spoon, with the bulging, swooping curve of his gut leading into his rail-thin upper body. His ribs protruded; it were as though he had swallowed a birdcage that was pushing out from within.

Happy Thanksgiving, and bon appetit!

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Pseudopod 012: Skinwalker: Deception

2007-03-01T04:13:40Z

By M. B. Nelson.

Read by Mur Lafferty.

Delores took a long swallow of tea. It scalded her throat, but she didn’t care. Pain was her friend now, and physical pain at least gave her the feeling she was alive, that she still continued. The cicadas hummed, the sheep bleated to be out of their pens, the dogs barked, the world went on whirling, and Monty was dead. It didn’t seem possible that this day would arrive, and now that it had she felt — what?

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Pseudopod 011: Killing Jars

2007-03-01T04:09:37Z

[Ed. note: Pardon my slackness at updating these blog postings. I'll catch up. Promise.]

By Matt Wallace.

Read by Ben Phillips.

His three judges, each face lit by two candle flames, are suspicious, and in and around them It seizes on that suspicion. It craves blood the color of their priestly robes.

He lies, the divine's voice sounds inside his own skull, though it is not him speaking. The devil that dwells within him spits upon the one true God's deliverance. He will destroy you. They will see the Holy Church to ash.

"Heresy! Heresy!" Words of fervor and hot spittle that teem like maggots in the divine's beard.

And this pious man feels the power of a tyrant, terrifying and intoxicating and It pushing him closer towards the moth-to-flame lure of that feeling. When they haul Reimbauer towards the vaulted ceiling, a gothic mockery of ascension, spiked collar around his neck peeling the top layer of flesh with every spasmodic jerk of his head, red veined salmon pink beneath.

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Pseudopod 019: Through the Many Corridors

2007-01-05T22:02:08Z

By Douglas F. Warrick

Read by Ben Phillips

It was weird, wasn’t it? Weird how little it impressed him. It was an alien world, after all, a whole new planet, a landscape that held only a vague familiarity with the world he’d been born in, the atmosphere he’d inhaled for twenty-nine years. Maybe that’s it. It was just congruent enough to orient yourself, to fool yourself into thinking you were okay here. Up was up, down was down, you could breathe the air. But you weren’t okay here. You were drawn into this landscape by a different artist using a different pallet and a different technique and you just weren’t okay here.

Art took the cigarette out of his mouth and pointed up ahead. “Chalkie.”

It was at the very edge of the road with its long doughy fingers wrapped over the top of the metal barrier. Its skin was dry, dusty, cracked and curling like old paint, and dull white like chalk. Its tiny black eyes were set deep into its face, which was long and snoutish and bald. Even when nothing on this planet seemed to reflect the glow of that big red moon, the bleeding moon, those eyes picked it up like deep black wells.

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Pseudopod 018: Oranges, Lemons and Thou Beside Me

2007-01-05T21:56:58Z

By Eugie Foster
Read by Paul S. Jenkins

With fingers still lightly dusted with confectioner’s powder, Khloii reached for the I/O wire that would meld them together, letting them share the memories of the last eight years. As children, after their implants had been installed, the learning programs downloaded and processed, they had double interfaced mind-to-mind. Their minds so similar, forged together now by circuitry and wire, sharing sensation, thoughts, memories, and emotions, they had become closer than brother and sister, even twins of the same womb. They spent hours silently communing, at last not even trying to hide their obsession with each other. Sabin caught her hand before she could press the needle-thin plug into the port at the base of his skull. “You want to live eight years of war?”

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Pseudopod 017: Upon the Midnight Clear

2006-12-24T02:13:14Z

By Stephen Dedman
Read by J.R. Blackwell
Music provided by the HP Lovecraft Historical Society

She was mercifully quiet for a while, as though thinking of something to say. “Must be difficult, though, travelling on your own. Dangerous, even.”

I laughed, probably for the first time since the plane landed. I’d heard that too often before, too. “Dangerous? This place?” She looked and sounded sincere enough, though it was hard to be sure with that make-up and accent. “I teach jeet kune do and self-defence. The scariest thing I’ve seen since I got here was Phantom of the Opera. I admit, I didn’t actually plan to be making this trip alone, but my fiance dumped me in November, and I was stuck with the ticket. I’m enjoying it more than I expected. So, what have you got around here that’s dangerous? Serial killers? Or just drunks?”

She was silent for a moment. “Are you superstitious?”

I laughed. “I’m not even Californian.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

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Pseudopod 016: Medicinal

2006-12-16T03:27:24Z

By Peter King

Read by Ben Phillips and Mur Lafferty

When this first started I would scream or panic or even go for the window. The only thing I can do now is whisper.

To her. To me.

"That's not the guy, Lorainne," I say under my breath, but it does me no good because the thoughts keep coming.

-transverse cervical-

"Besides, you're dead, Lorainne. And I'll never find him. That guy over there- that's not the guy."

It does no good, because my head still goes all swimmy. Whatever is trapped up there; it can wait no more.

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Pseudopod 015: Regis St. George

2006-12-16T03:22:11Z

By Maria Deira

Read by Mur Lafferty

“Lisa, Lisa, Lisa. Regis St. George hell,” he moaned.

“Yeah, I sent you to hell,” I said.

“Why, please, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa?” He looked at me, his crooked fingers pulling at his hair. I almost felt sorry for the little bastard.

Almost.

“Because that’s where you belong.”

“Lisa, Lisa, Lisa. Deal. Regis St. George. Deal. Hell not deal,” he said, shaking his head.

“First of all, you ate my cat,” I said.

Regis St. George grinned at me, baring a mouth full of sharp, little teeth.

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Pseudopod 014: Virginia Woods

2006-12-16T03:19:43Z

By Janni Lee Simner

Read by Christiana Ellis

The wind brushed her cheek - had it ever stopped? It whistled through the leaves, high and sharp, crying like an animal in pain.

No, not an animal. Ice trickled down Eleanor's spine. A child. Her child.

"Virginia?" The wind continued to cry. "Virginia, where are you?" Eleanor started forward, in the direction of the voice, then stopped when she felt herself trembling. Would she really find her daughter? Or just another mangled body, nothing human left to it?

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Pseudopod 013: Redmond's Private Screening

2006-12-16T03:17:04Z

By Kevin J. Anderson

Read by Scott Sigler

Redmond laughed nervously. His face had too many freckles, his skin was too pasty, his personality too slippery. "A lot of people are trying to get into this new movie business, but not usually by killing themselves on film." He sheathed the blade and handed the slim katana back.

Michael frowned at how low he himself had fallen, how disappointed the spirits of his own dead family must be. "Most directors do not wish to photograph such a spectacle either, and most patrons do not wish to see the result. But there are exceptions everywhere." He gave Redmond a cold stare. "You and I know how to find them."

The director raised his chin, pontificating. "Fifteen years ago, people flocked to nickelodeons to see a man sneeze, to watch a waterfall or a running horse. Today, we've got to give them something more for their money, eh?"

"I'm sure we do."

With a deaf ear for his assistant's sarcasm, Redmond strutted around the floor, looking at the natural light, at the position of the white blanket, but Michael had already set everything up perfectly. The three Japanese followed the director with their eyes, like animals in a cage.

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Flash: Famine to Feast

2006-12-16T03:13:32Z

By Stephanie Campisi

Read by Stephen Eley.

The boy's face was a thick, fluid rendering of blowflies. They crusted his eyes like false lashes, and crawled around his chapped, broken lips, their shimmering wings vibrating against their fat black bodies. The boy's stomach was distended; he looked like a spoon, with the bulging, swooping curve of his gut leading into his rail-thin upper body. His ribs protruded; it were as though he had swallowed a birdcage that was pushing out from within.

Happy Thanksgiving, and bon appetit!

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Pseudopod 012: Skinwalker: Deception

2006-12-16T03:11:21Z

By M. B. Nelson

Read by Mur Lafferty.

Delores took a long swallow of tea. It scalded her throat, but she didn't care. Pain was her friend now, and physical pain at least gave her the feeling she was alive, that she still continued. The cicadas hummed, the sheep bleated to be out of their pens, the dogs barked, the world went on whirling, and Monty was dead. It didn't seem possible that this day would arrive, and now that it had she felt - what?

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Pseudopod 011: Killing Jars

2006-12-16T03:02:49Z

By Matt Wallace.

Read by Ben Phillips.

His three judges, each face lit by two candle flames, are suspicious, and in and around them It seizes on that suspicion. It craves blood the color of their priestly robes.

He lies, the divine's voice sounds inside his own skull, though it is not him speaking. The devil that dwells within him spits upon the one true God's deliverance. He will destroy you. They will see the Holy Church to ash.

"Heresy! Heresy!" Words of fervor and hot spittle that teem like maggots in the divine's beard.

And this pious man feels the power of a tyrant, terrifying and intoxicating and It pushing him closer towards the moth-to-flame lure of that feeling. When they haul Reimbauer towards the vaulted ceiling, a gothic mockery of ascension, spiked collar around his neck peeling the top layer of flesh with every spasmodic jerk of his head, red veined salmon pink beneath.

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Pseudopod010: Turista

2006-11-06T21:23:04Z

By Joel Arnold
Read by Jason Adams

" - the chicken or maybe the chocolate. Could've been the chocolate. Wasn't wrapped. That's not a good sign. That's never a good sign."

Portman wondered how long she had been talking. He had given up responding to her conversations earlier in the evening, shortly before the sun had finished stretching long shadows across the highway like dirty taffy. It took too much effort to talk. Too much energy to respond. He sensed that China knew this, and felt maybe she was talking to him to keep herself awake. Sometimes he was thankful for her voice, and other times it was unbearable.

He took another weak sip of water. It felt like a dull knife jabbing him in the guts. But he was dehydrated. He needed more. He took a deep breath, raised the jug to his lips and poured it down his throat. When the water hit his stomach, it was like an explosion of glass. He fell to his side gasping for air, wheezing, trying to hold the water down. The thing in his stomach -

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Pseudopod 009: Counting from Ten

2006-11-01T19:41:51Z

By Michael Montoure
Read by JC Hutchins

Jack shoved his chair back, stood, backed away, turned at the last minute and carefully did not run down the hallway to the bathroom. He walked, and raided his medicine cabinet for gauze, alcohol, tape, anything that looked useful.

He came back, led Tommy over to the kitchen sink, and carefully pulled the bandages off.

Tommy's right hand had only the ring finger and thumb left.

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Contains: grisly dismemberment

Pseudopod 008: Indications

2006-10-20T14:14:34Z

By Richard S. Crawford.

Read by Paul Fischer (of the Balticon and ADD Casts).

Most days he could forget the symptoms when he got involved in his work; but the blemish on his neck preyed on his mind all morning, through the telephone calls, reports, and staff - staph? - meetings. At one point he thought about e-mailing his mother at the nursing school where she taught to describe the blemish to her. But then he thought better of the idea; even though she was used to it, he didn’t want to seem foolish if it was nothing but a pimple, after all.

Still, though. It preyed. Each time he thought about the spot, a cold stone would settle in his belly and tug at his heart, and he'd reach up, unthinking, to touch it. Was it warmer than the surrounding skin? Or was that just his imagination?

Again, we are proud to be sponsored by the custom book binder Dreaming Mind. Beautiful custom made books, portfolios and other products.

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Pseudopod 007: Drawing the Moon

2006-10-20T14:13:46Z

By Janni Lee Simner.

Read by Jonathan Chaffin.

Once the light got in, it snaked up the walls, hundreds of little silver strands of it, and the strands wove themselves into pictures.

The pictures were of his parents. They showed Andrew the night Mom and Dad had disappeared, over and over, until the hurt in his chest got so bad he thought he would explode. He tried closing his eyes, but even through closed eyelids he could see the scenes the moon painted - all in silver, with none of Elizabeth's colors, but sharp and real just the same. He saw Mom and Dad walking down the city street, holding hands, Elizabeth and Andrew just behind them. He saw the mugger jump out of the shadows. He saw Mom being hit and falling to the ground, where her head smashed against the pavement. He saw the knife go through Dad's chest.

But in the pictures, Mom died of the falling, and Dad died of the stabbing. That wasn't right at all.

The moon had stolen Andrew's parents. So why would it draw him pictures in which that hadn't happened, in which other things had happened instead? Andrew wondered about that for many nights before he came up with an answer.

The moon didn't want him to know what it had done. Or now that he knew, it wanted him to forget.

Happy Friday the 13th!

We are proud to be sponsored this week by the custom book binder Dreaming Mind. Beautiful custom made books, portfolios and other products.

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Pseudopod 006: What Dead People Are Supposed to Do

2006-10-20T14:12:38Z

By Paul E. Martens.

Read by Ben Phillips.

Iris said it was wrong of me to have Dad brought back from the dead to work off his debts. But I didn't ask him to run up the balances on all those credit cards. I think a son should be entitled to inherit something from his parents. Am I wrong?

We are proud to be sponsored this week by the custom book binder Dreaming Mind. Beautiful custom made books, portfolios and other products.

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Pseudopod 005: Sacred Skin

2006-10-20T14:11:46Z

By Michael Stone.

Read by Paul S. Jenkins (of the Rev Up Review and The Plitone Revisionist).

Hodges threaded the other foot into the skin and eased it up over Heatherstone’s shins. It was a tight fit. Hodges was surprised at his master's tolerance. He bore the scratches from the rough seams, bones and shells without complaint. This man threw a tantrum if his bath water was one degree above his preferred temperature, or the butler arrived a minute late with his pudding. No one had ever accused Lord Heatherstone of bearing discomfort stoically. When the skin reached halfway up his thighs, Heatherstone stood and tugged it over his privates. He sat down again gingerly to allow Hodges to thread his arms through and fasten the skin at the back with laces of black sinew. Hodges began to tighten the straps at the ankles, working quickly in the dim light. Lord Heatherstone plucked indelicately at the crotch.

"Is my lord all right?" asked Rider.

"Not really. Why should I be defending myself against something that could be repelled by the, er . . ."

"The Ayat al-Kursi? The Phylacteries?"

"Yes. Those."

A bit of news: Pseudopod has officially gone weekly, so no more waiting two weeks for full-length stories! We'll still throw in flash now and then but on Fridays you can count on a story from us.

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Pseudopod 004: Returning My Sister's Face

2006-10-20T14:10:52Z

By Eugie Foster.

Read by Stephen Eley.

Mother sat bolt upright and stared at Oiwa. "Where is your face?" she cried.

Oiwa reached a hand to her cheek. "I-It is at the front of my head, where it always is."

"No, only half of it," Mother replied. She glared at me. "I pledge you to return the other half of your sister's face. Swear it, Yasuo!"

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Flash: Devote Your Life to Beauty

2006-10-20T14:09:57Z

By Loreen Heneghan.

Read by Mur Lafferty.

We are not a cult. Don't allow any outsider to confuse you. We are a holy order. You'll never be asked to give up your family or friends; not for our benefit. We only want you to stay pure. If they try to draw you into some distorted place, don't listen. Your world is a thing of beauty.

Truth is not beauty. Only Beauty is real. How could it be otherwise?

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Pseudopod 003: Little Boy Leg Bone

2006-09-14T16:00:04Z

By Richard Warren.

Read by JC Hutchins.

And Myrriden watched, perched on the dresser. Jack saw him through the corner of his eye. A tall man, tall like Daddy, but his legs and arms weren't right'long and thin, they reminded Jack of spiders.

Myrriden held a flute to his lips. White, bone white. A leg bone, Jack knew that. Little Boy Leg Bone. The soft music sounded like wind through dry leaves and the distant cry of dogs. It made Jack's shins ache.

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Flash: Your Shoes

2006-09-14T15:57:12Z

By Bev Vincent.

Read by Ben Phillips. Music by Randy Garcia.

My chest is heavy, hair brushes against my neck in an unfamiliar way, and my groin... Through the unaccustomed daze, a terrible comprehension floods my mind. I throw back the sheet to reveal a body I’m used to looking at from a different perspective.

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Pseudopod 002: Good Advice

2006-08-30T20:03:34Z

By Richard E. Dansky.

Read by Matthew Wayne Selznick.

"You got beaten up a lot as a kid, didn't you?"
That's what Jerry Brower asked me, and the entire Central Carolina Writers' Workshop burst into nervous laughter.
I looked up from the short sketch I'd been reading from and turned to face my questioner. Jerry Brower sat at the end of the table, down past a gauntlet of laughing faces. He, at least, wasn't laughing, and for that I was silently, desperately grateful. I nodded to him, slowly.
He nodded back. The laughter stopped.

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Toy...

2006-08-21T00:35:29Z

Zombie Letters from e-zombie.com

Get your zombie font from e-zombie.com!

#
Batman returns - the good Batman, not the nipply Batman - and this time he faces the Joker. They've named who's playing the Joker this time: Heath Ledger. I'm disappointed; I was hoping for Katie Couric. The movie will be called Dark Knight.