PseudoPod 605: The Town Manager


The Town Manager

by Thomas Ligotti


One gray morning not long before the onset of winter, some troubling news swiftly travelled among us: the town manager was not in his office and seemed nowhere to be found. We allowed this situation, or apparent situation, to remain tentative for as long as we could. This
was simply how we had handled such developments in the past.

It was Carnes, the man who operated the trolley which ran up and down Main Street, who initially recognized the possibility that the town manager was no longer with us. He was the first one who noticed, as he was walking from his house at one end of town to the trolley station at the other end, that the dim lamp which had always remained switched on inside the town manager’s office was now off.

PseudoPod 591 REPLAY: The Plutonian Drug and The Hashish-Eater


The Plutonian Drug

 by Clark Ashton Smith


This is a replay of a delayed episode so it goes into all your feeds anew. Find the original post and full text here: http://pseudopod.org/2018/04/20/pseudopod-591-the-plutonian-drug-and-the-hashish-eater/

PseudoPod 581 REPLAY: Love Will Tear Us Apart


Love Will Tear Us Apart

by Alaya Dawn Johnson


This is a replay of a delayed episode so it goes into all your feeds anew. Find the original post and full text here: http://pseudopod.org/2018/02/09/pseudopod-581-love-will-tear-us-apart/

Also make sure to go add Nightlight: The Black Horror Podcast to your feeds: https://nightlightpod.com/

PseudoPod 603: Beyond the Dead Reef


Beyond the Dead Reef

by James Tiptree, Jr


My informant was, of course, spectacularly unreliable.

The only character reference I have for him comes from the intangible nuances of a small restaurant-owner’s remarks, and the only confirmation of his tale lies in the fact that an illiterate fishing-guide appears to believe it. If I were to recount all the reasons why no sane mind should take it seriously, we could never begin. So I will only report the fact that today I found myself shuddering with terror when a perfectly innocent sheet of seaworn plastic came slithering over my snorkeling-reef, as dozens have done for years—and get on with the story.

I met him one evening this December at the Cozumel Buzo, on my first annual supply trip. As usual, the Buzo’s outer rooms were jammed with tourist divers and their retinues and gear. That’s standard. El Buzo means, roughly, The Diving, and the Buzo is their place. Marcial’s big sign in the window reads “DIVVERS UELCOME! BRING YR FISH WE COK WITH CAR. FIRST DRINK FREE!”