By John Dodds
Read by MAinPA
In the showers later, she raised her right arm and examined her armpit minutely. Even after having shaved it yesterday with the LadyShave it still seemed hairier than it should. Normally, at worst, it was like the chin of a cartoon character like Desperate Dan or Fred Flintstone, a constellation of black dots. Now it was almost full length again. The hair had grown long enough to curl into a matted bush beaded with droplets of perspiration. It simply wasn’t possible. Unless it was caused by those vitamin supplements she had been taking. Those, and the performance enhancers so she could work out longer and harder.
By J M McDermott
Read by Ben Phillips
Detroit is dying. All the ornamental structures from
the glory days of American industry wilt in ruin.
There’s one building — found it myself — where the
roof caved in one winter. There’s a tree that used to
be in the lobby — and it’s dead — but its children
are growing there. The forest has taken over the
lobby. Birds hide everywhere, in the trees and the
rafters, and their shit covers everything, but their
singing is so beautiful.
A shape in the distance, a killer in suburbia, a psychiatrist pushed to his limits and an innocent girl in the firing line. Halloween is one of the acknowledged classics of horror, the patient zero of slasher movies. Now, we take a look behind the scenes, examining how it’s structured, what it says about the times and crucially what makes it tick. Welcome to the Pseudopod Autopsy. Now glove up…
By Ben Thomas
Read by Alasdair Stuart
“There is a fossil bed here,” he declared, “that I could publish
on for the rest of my life.”
Thom’s tendency was to become worked up about every dig he
supervised, but he’d never claimed he could spend the rest of his life
on a single one.
“Of course, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow, but wait till you
see what I’ve found. You’ll feel like a boy in a toy shop!”
By Daniel Braum
Read by Ben Phillips
Alexa shuffles on the dance floor with the seven others we’re traveling with. Her long black hair is coated in sweat and Costa Rican grime. She smiles and for a moment I can believe she is carefree, despite all our running and fear.
She keeps her distance from a short Indian man who is spinning in circles with his arms extended and eyes closed. A big, almost toothless grin spreads on his wrinkled old face. He’s definitely had a few shots of guaro too many.
I picked up the seven others between here and San Antonio to bring us to nine. Makes us easier to mask. Harder to scrye. Now we look like just a bunch of nobodies heading to the gap, leisurely. Not in a beeline. Nothing that will call attention to our pursuers.
Pseudopod archive CD-ROMs are now available from PodDisc.com!
That’s right, you can get every Pseudopod ever made (through Aug 27), shipped right to the door of you or someone you loathe, on repulsive green CD-ROMs that look just like the pseudopod.org web page. Over seventeen hours of audio on each installment. If that doesn’t help while away those long insomniac hours staring at the walls in dread of what might come through, we don’t know what will!
Get them at PodDisc.com.
By Ian Creasey
Read by Ben Phillips
“How long have we had this one?” I asked, shivering in the morgue’s chill.
“Two days,” the white-coat guy said. I didn’t know his name. I try to remember the lab people and support staff, but turnover’s too high. This line of work burns people out faster than a crematorium on overtime.
“What did you leave it that long for?” I said, annoyed. “Waiting for the killer to turn himself in?”
“We were waiting for the ghost to show up,” he said.
I shook my head in disgust. “Look, when someone’s been murdered, they want us on the case. If their ghost doesn’t turn up in twenty-four hours, that’s because it can’t.”
That was the problem. If a ghost complains that it’s just been murdered, it can help us by describing the killer, or at least telling us about its enemies. Investigating a murder without a ghost is much harder. The slashing was the third this month, all without ghosts, and the eighth this year. Or was it the ninth?
Hell, when you lose count of the corpses, you know you’re losing.