By David Barr Kirtley
Read by Matthew Wayne Selznick
Professor Carlton Brose was evil, and I adored him as only a freshman can. I spent the first miserable semester at college watching him, studying the way he would flick away a cigarette butt, or how he would arch his eyebrow when he made a point. I mimicked these small things compulsively. I don’t know why, because it wasn’t the small things that drew me to him at all. It was the big things, the stories people told as far away as dear old Carolina.
You heard the name Brose if you ran with any cults, and I ran with a few. Society rejected us, so we rejected them. The more things you give up, the less there is to bind your will. There’s power there. We were sure of it. But that power was damned elusive.
By Matt Wallace
Read by Phil Rossi
Danneth is thirty-six and he still dreams of it. Five of them entered
the Akropolis that night. It should’ve been hot, but the stone was
cold when they touched it. They wandered the empty city for hours
before finally making the trek up the long, steep steps. They made
their way to the highest chamber, a fortified structure surrounded by
battlements crowned with twisted, unrecognizable shapes. It was empty,
too. They found a room with veined walls, lines thick and twisting
like petrified kudzu. The strange runes that they would come to know
as runati surrounded the throne-like chair with its stone skull cap,
the dome designed to open heads and burn the runati into brains.
Somehow it spoke to Danneth’s father. What it later took the
scientists months to begin to decipher, the old man knew that first
night. But he let them fumble with it, allowed them to study it, to
begin to expose it to the world. He let them believe he was a simple
farmer just happy to have made first contact with such a discovery.
And when the time came that their inept ministrations were of no more
use, he, the simple farmer, ejected the government from the Akropolis.
By David E. Hilton
Read by Ben Phillips
A mosquito bit him promptly on the neck behind his left ear and upon giving it a good smack, George Steckholm realized with utter terror that he simply was not dreaming. He was in his car, in the heart of the night, and he was idling motionless in the middle of the dew-streaked road, idling, idling, in front of Christmas Bridge.
In the cream-colored passenger seat laid an object. One that made him turn away immediately, still half hoping that he’d see Catherine, lying beside him in their bed. The confusion was the worst part, the grogginess, the spinning motion in his head and in his stomach that made him want to both pass out and be sick at the same time.
“No. No . . . I never purchased that. Never bought such a thing. Not at all. Did I?” He whispered everything to himself in a manner that suggested sharp denial. Yet the large bundle of rope remained, sitting there so innocently, but something deep inside George knew better than to believe there was anything innocent about it.
By G.W. Thomas
Read by Ben Phillips
“I’m just here for the book,” I said, impatient to get my hands on it again.
“Of course, you are. Mr. Telford told me you knew quite a bit about this book yourself. Please, sit.”
That should have been my first clue. Book renters don’t share the eldritch secrets they pull from their reading. To ask is the height of rudeness.