By Joe Nazare
Read by BJ Harrison of The Classic Tales
As if reading Montresor’s thoughts, Luchesi reached down toward his feet; his hand came back proffering a long-necked bottle. “Here,” he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, after shooting a look towards the palazzo’s attendant-less hallway. “Medoc — what I just happen to have handy with me, you understand. But it should serve as a worthy substitute.”
“In your sleep, just now: you were calling out for Amontillado.”
Vestiges of his nightmare shrouded Montresor’s thoughts. Dry-mouthed, he attempted to swallow nonetheless. “You must have misheard me, I’m sure.”
By Robert Mammone
Read by Ian Stuart
A woman carrying a tray of drinks emerged from the kitchen. She was tall and spare and the loose clothing she wore only accentuated the impression. Sarah noted with alarm the condition of her hands, all knobbed joints and cracked skin. Setting the tray down, the woman looked at each of them, her head bobbing birdlike on a thin neck.
“This is my wife, Margaret,” Standish vaguely waved a hand in her direction. Sarah thought her eyes distant. Sarah extended a hand and Margaret responded. The woman’s hand was rough, like bark. The grip was limp, and Sarah was glad to let it drop. Margaret’s lips parted in a blank smile, revealing a set of large, blunt teeth stained a remarkable shade of brown.
“Would you like a drink?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
By Mike Norris
Read by Cayenne Chris Conroy of Teknikal Diffikulties
Passing the hall, he heard a sigh emanate through their locked bedroom door. That was a good sign. It was an indication Linda was still breathing, at least, and probably still able to speak. The morning after an appointment, she was always so sore, so exhausted. Often, she’d sleep well into the afternoon. Sighs, coughs, little Linda-noises, they were the beacons that guided Lewis through a haze of uncertainty that filled those hours before she’d allow him to view the balance of her attributes.
Linda’s appointments were just part of the deal. She’d made that clear before they ever tied the knot. “They’ll come for me,” she’d told him, “from time to time.”
By Mort Castle
Read by Sarah Tolbert and Ben Phillips
Marilyn Monroe lies naked and dying.
You can see it there, at that spot on her forehead where electrolysis permanently removed her widow’s peak. Just beneath the skin’s surface, a blue black flower grows.
It is Death.
There is the promise of finality in her every tentative breath, the sporadic sighings, the intimation of ending.
Marilyn Monroe is dying.
I am her death.
By Ferrett Steinmetz
Read by Phil Rossi
He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch – but
to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in
near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath
the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so
muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular
In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught
the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore
like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward,
Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains – grease on the sheets, tears on his
pillows, blood on just about everything else.
We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him.