---

Bring Them All Into the Light

by Dan Coxon

---

Heathen

They’re on holiday when he sees the cottage. Julie and Nico are bickering in the back seat, Maggie searching through the glovebox for something – anything – that might shut them up for five minutes. He rubbernecks as they pass it at speed, pulls into a lane half a mile up the road.

“What are you stopping for?” Maggie asks, feeding an audiobook into the stereo.

“Nothing. Just want to check something out,” Rob replies.

He almost misses the cottage again, but the For Sale sign peeks above the dry-stone wall just in time, alerting him to hit the brakes. There’s a gravel layby for parking, so he pulls into it and kills the engine. The building is only small, walls of piled stone, a thatched roof that looks mouldy in places, sticking up in tufts like a hairstyle gone wrong. The front door is painted white, worn away to the bare wood in patches. There’s a large garden at the rear, sweeping away from the road and partway up the hill behind it. He thinks he sees a path and a gate. A trail leads up the slope.

“Won’t be a moment,” he says, stepping out of the car. Maggie shouts something, but he can’t tell if it’s aimed at him or the children.

Peering through the window, Rob can see the cottage is deserted. He has to bend to press his nose to the glass, his eyes adjusting to reveal an empty room. Cracked tiles on the floor, a thick layer of dust forming a minimalist carpet. It gives him permission to climb over the waist-high gate to one side, into the rear garden. The grass is patchy and weeds have pushed through the lawn but the path is still there, leading to another gate at the far end, becoming a dirt track that ascends the hill. He can’t see the top, but he assumes it stretches all the way to the crest. There’s something fascinating about that hill. The way it swells from the flat land around it, the pleasing curve of its rise and fall. He stands and stares at it for a minute, thinking.

When he returns to the car Nico has fallen asleep in his seat, while Julie is munching her way through a giant packet of Wotsits, the orange dust smeared across her face like pollen. Maggie’s look dares him to comment on her parenting choices.

As he clicks his seat belt into place and restarts the engine, he says, “I like this place. Mind if we swing by the estate agents in town? Just to see how much it’s going for.”

The asking price is a fraction of their home’s value. Once the holiday has passed they spend several evenings arguing over it, but he gets his way in the end. They can buy it with the equity, live there mortgage-free. He can work remotely, while Maggie’s online business can be managed from anywhere with a Wi-Fi signal. The children will have to change schools, but that might be for the better; the countryside is a healthier place to grow up than the bustle and fumes of the city. It’s a pleasant surprise to discover that the deeds include the hill too, a plot of land that stretches to the brook running behind it. The kids can play there, build a fort in the apple tree. Most importantly, they can all breathe again. In the countryside they will meet their true selves.

---

They move into the cottage two months later. The children complain that it smells weird, and Maggie finds fault on a daily basis, from the rusted plumbing to the inch-high gap at the bottom of the door that lets in an occasional mouse, but Rob is happy. While they bicker and unpack boxes, lining the new nest, he stands in the garden and stares up at the hill.

Maggie finds a handyman in the village. It’s what she does, managing the cottage as she would her business. A young man with a wild thicket of brown hair and a warm smile – Derek – who fits a new door and tidies up the thatch. She spends hours making him cups of tea and guiding him from job to job, fixing and replacing, turning this pile of stones into a home. She doesn’t mind too much when he walks mud across the living room floor, or when he knocks his tea over, staining the stairs brown. “You can’t make an omelette,” she says. “And so on.”

While Derek’s fixing up their home, Rob spends most of his time in the garden. It’s quiet, away from the banging hammers and the boiling kettle. The Wi-Fi coverage is patchy, and his laptop won’t connect when he sits on the bench by the apple tree. Instead, he rests it on his lap and pretends to work. His eyes follow the line of the path, straight as an arrow, up the hillside to the sky.

One day he leaves his laptop on the bench and walks to the gate at the back of the lawn. The path up the hill is steep and the stones are loose, forcing him to scrabble on hands and knees. He wipes the mud on his V-neck jumper. The trail fades in and out of existence as he nears the top, like someone’s dream of a path that used to be there, or a premonition of what is to come, but he does not slow down and he always finds his way again.

When he reaches the top – finally, his thighs burning, his trousers dirty and torn – he discovers it is flat, a level platform of scrubby grass and stones. Turning, he can see for miles in every direction. He sits and hums to himself, waiting for whatever comes next.

The Awakening

It’s hard to say whether he dreams the stairs, or if they simply come to him one afternoon as his fingers claw at the tufts of grass. He has taken to climbing the hill several times a day, sitting at the top for an hour or more. It clears his mind. The experience is the closest he has come to something spiritual. He does not say the word ‘God’, not even to himself, but the concept nestles in his thoughts.

The sketch he draws for Derek is simplistic and out of scale, like something his children might draw. It does not reflect the impressive structure he envisions but it is the best he can manage.

“So it’s a stair?” Derek says, having turned it this way and that, holding it up against the sunlight pouring through the window.

“Yes,” Rob replies, his finger pointing to the pencil lines. “A staircase. All the way up the hill, from our gate to the top. Straight, like the path.”

Derek looks at him, then back to the drawing.

“I could do it, I guess. That’s a lot of wood, though. And a lot of work. I might need to hire another couple of pairs of hands, plus a bigger van… Are you sure? It won’t be cheap.”

Rob is sure. He’s never been more certain of anything in his life.

Maggie takes some convincing. The work won’t even make a dent in their savings – Rob was a hot-shot in derivatives, back when he wanted to be – but it’s the principle of the thing that matters. They shouldn’t be throwing away money on a vanity project, a frivolous set of steps that lead nowhere in particular. Can’t he just buy some better boots?

It’s not about the climb, though, or the view from the crest of the hill. Rob can’t quite explain it, not even to himself, but there’s a greater plan at work here. He has faith that someday it will all make sense.

Once they’ve approved the job, Derek sets to work. He thinks it’s an enormous waste of his time. He tries to find the most durable materials, but even using those he doubts the staircase will last more than ten years, maybe fifteen. The posts will rot in the ground, the winter winds will tear it away in strips. But he’s learned over the years that it isn’t his role to offer advice, or marriage counselling. His place is to work the wood and make something new, so that is what he does. That he does it rather well does not go unnoticed by Rob, or by Maggie.

It takes Derek and his team – a boy in his teens called Mikey, and an overweight older man who goes by the name ‘Hutch’ – almost two months to complete the stairs. There’s some debate over whether planning permission is required, but since the structure is on private land nothing is ever done about it. Rob knows his money will smooth things over if it has to. The important thing is that the stairs are built, and as close to his sketch as possible. It’s like magic, watching that childish drawing manifest on the hillside in actual wood and nails. Despite the cheap oak finish and a few steps that don’t quite sit straight, it’s a sight to behold, that stairway ascending the side of the hill. Like a pathway to something better.

They walk up it that evening. All four of them, as a family. Julie and Nico call a ceasefire for a few minutes, and they stand atop the hill, holding hands, staring out at the view.

“I guess that doesn’t suck,” Julie says. It’s possibly the most enthusiasm she’s ever shown for anything.

After a couple of minutes the kids get bored, and Maggie uses them as an excuse to walk back down to the house and make herself a pot of tea. Rob stays behind. Looking around him, he feels something swell in his chest, like a balloon expanding inside his ribcage.

It’s at this moment that he hears the voice.

He isn’t sure that it’s a voice at all, not at first. There’s a rustle of leaves that lasts a little too long, a babble from the brook that almost suggests something more. The wind blows harder than before, hushing past his ear.

Then a word, as clear as if someone were standing behind him.

Build.

Rob turns to see who’s there, and when there’s nobody within sight he assumes he was simply mistaken. Sound can play funny tricks if you’re not careful. But there it is again, coming from in front of him this time, where there’s definitely nobody to be seen.

Build.

When he talks back he feels rather foolish, standing on a hill by himself in the middle of the countryside, holding conversation with someone he cannot see.

“Build what?” he asks. Then again: “What should I build?”

Church, the voice says. Or it may have been Temple – somehow it says both at once, as if the word and the concept are one and the same.

Rob has questions. Many of them are about the voice itself, and where it comes from, but most are about the temple he wants to build. He recognises that now. Not just the instruction, but the desire to build a church on this hill, where it can be seen for miles around. He feels that he has a purpose at last.

When he returns to the garden almost an hour later he can hear Derek and Maggie laughing in the kitchen, but he doesn’t join them. Instead, he reaches for his pencil and pad, and he begins to sketch.

Ex nihilo

Construction is slow at first. Rob knows nothing about buildings, and it turns out that Derek doesn’t either. Hutch has a cousin who used to be an architect, and they throw enough money his way that he’s happy to turn Rob’s sketches into something like a plan. After a month of late-night phone calls and emails querying what this or that squiggle means, they have an official blueprint, with dimensions, and visualisations, and cutaway illustrations. When he looks at it, Rob sees the building the voice described to him.

Officially they’re meant to submit the plans to the local council for approval, but Rob says not to worry, it’s all taken care of. Derek wonders exactly what is taken care of, and how, but he keeps his mouth shut. He’s being paid more than he’s earned in a lifetime of odd jobs and window cleaning, and his mother always taught him not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He doesn’t have enough of an education to know the other sayings about gift horses and Greeks.

The foundations are the toughest part. With his limited knowledge of building techniques, Derek has to spend a couple of days watching videos on YouTube. It looks simple enough, but when they come to break ground – Rob treating them all to a glass of bubbly grape juice and Belinda Carlisle’s ‘Heaven is a Place on Earth’ – they find that the soil is thick with stones, some the size of a grown man’s fist. Getting the digger up the hillside was bad enough, but now it struggles to scoop more than half a bucket at a time, the metal screaming against tumours of flint.

When the time comes for the pour, they bring in as many hands from the village as they can. Some have previous construction experience, but others – Jim who works in the butchers, Silas from the Laughing Lady – are there purely to add muscle. Derek directs them as best he can, standing to one side in his brand new Barbour jacket and wellies. The community spirit spills over into the back room of the Laughing Lady until the following morning, and they have to delay the next stage of building by a day. Rob acts annoyed, but he doesn’t care. When he looks at the concrete platform they have made he sees only what it will become.

The frame goes up next, a timber skeleton like the hull of an upturned ship. Derek is on more familiar ground now they’re down to planks and joists, and he occasionally rolls up his jacket sleeves and lends a hand. The wood is delivered on the back of a flatbed truck that can barely make it around the twists and turns of the access road, then they have to carry it up the steps one piece at a time. It’s almost Biblical, seeing all those bare-chested men hauling crossbeams up the hill. When they’re done, it sits in a shambolic pile to one side of the foundations, like a child’s construction set ready to be assembled, or a bonfire waiting to be lit. They cover it with two brand-new tarps, but the rain doesn’t come.

As they work, hauling the pillars upright and setting them in the ground, sawing the angles for the rafters, Rob sprawls on the grass and watches. He has abandoned his laptop for good – his employers fired him after half a dozen disciplinary cases for non-attendance, and he accepted their settlement payout with open arms. In this place they have more than enough money to last them until the end of their lives. He has no need of any more.

He takes to sleeping in the open body of the church, drifting off with the dome of the heavens above him. It’s cold, but he has an inner fire that warms him. He knows that something will happen here – he just doesn’t know when, or what. They are building something truly great but the miracle is yet to come. The voice still speaks to him from time to time, usually in the middle of the night, when he’s unsure whether he’s awake or asleep. It has found its voice now – a woman’s, resonant and clear – and it speaks in full sentences rather than single words. They are bringing it to life with their labour.

This is my house and you shall build it for me, it says.

With your hands you will build life everlasting, it says.

Inside these walls you pledge yourself to me, it says.

Rob always smiles when he hears its words, and when he sleeps he dreams of a great cavernous hall, thronged with people, their voices swelling to the heavens.

Once the framework is completed the walls go in. They are of a unique design, two layers of plasterboard with straw packed in between. Rob thinks he saw something similar in a magazine once, but the design came from the voice, not from him. The straw will insulate the church, he imagines. Keep them all warm inside.

“…and the first pig built his house of straw…” Derek mutters as the men wrestle armfuls of it into the cavities, but Rob pretends not to hear. Derek’s role has largely become an honorary one, he’s only occasionally on site to supervise. Rob wants to see them breathe life into this temple first-hand.

Finally the doors and windows are fitted, the exterior is painted in brilliant white, and they stand back to admire what they have done. Tomorrow the pews will arrive – pitch-pine, hand carved – and the six-foot-wide slab of oak trunk that will serve as their altar. There are candles too, and oil lamps, and twenty bottles of paraffin to fuel them. Thick velour curtains, in bright red and green, to hang along the walls.

The time is almost here.

Bethel

Maggie breaks the news to him after dinner one night, the children tucked safely into bed.

“I never meant for this to happen,” she says, a wine glass clutched in both hands as if she intends to bludgeon him with it. “Neither of us did. But you’re never here any more, and Derek… well, he’s been here with me. For me. The only future I can see is a future with him.”

Rob knows he should ask whether she loves him, but he finds that he honestly doesn’t care. All his thoughts are of the church, and the voice in his head. It speaks to him day and night, awake and asleep; it tells him that he is doing something truly incredible, that the day will soon come when it will reveal itself and their world will change forever.

“Okay,” he says, uncertain of what else is expected. “What will we tell the kids?”

“Julie and Nico already know,” Maggie says. “They’ve moved all their toys to Derek’s house, we’re going to live there. He has a hot tub and a fifty-inch TV. His Wi-Fi is excellent.”

Rob nods. “As long as you still have time to help with the posters,” he says.

He’s been working on the posters for the past two weeks, during the final stages of the construction. It was important that he got the wording just right. He wants as many people as possible to be there for the grand unveiling. Fill my church from wall to wall, the voice tells him, and he desires nothing more than to please her.

The printers are due to deliver them tomorrow, then he has a team lined up to distribute them through the local villages. This is too big to keep to their local circle. The posters range from shop-window A4 to 48-sheet billboards, the words shining from them in orange and red: Grand unveiling. Experience our new Church in all its majesty. A Special night of Celebration and Miracles. All welcome. Bring your Families! The time and location are at the bottom, but he knows they will find it easily enough. Now that it’s painted, the building stands on their hill like a beacon, a lighthouse for the lost and the abandoned. There’s an artist’s impression of it on the poster, too. Rob had tried to sketch it himself, but he’d finally had to admit that his artistic skills weren’t up to the job; as it turned out, Jim the butcher was surprisingly proficient with a set of charcoals.

Rob sits on the hill the following evening and watches the lights twinkling in far-off villages, the orange bubbles of the street lights. He knows which posters have gone where; there are two billboards by the glowing disc of the roundabout, five on bus stops along the main road through town. Looking out, he imagines each tiny light is someone’s soul, sparked into life by the opportunity he is giving them.

You must fill our hall, the voice says, nearby, as if talking over his shoulder. Bring them all into the light.

She’s been saying that – or something similar – for the last twenty-four hours, and it’s getting a little tiresome, if he’s honest. Still, as he turns and looks at the brilliant white façade of the church, his heart fills, and he cannot wait for them to come and see what he has built. If he is proud, he tells himself, then it is only the pride of the shepherd who is saving his flock. What he is saving them for never crosses his mind.

On the night itself he wears a new suit, bought especially for the occasion: white blazer, white trousers, even white shoes. He is ’68 Comeback Special Elvis, and he feels that he might ignite with joy. He stands at the doors to the church and watches the stream of believers as they gather candles from the bucket at the foot of the steps, lighting them as they head up the stairway, a river of flame in the dark. Quietly he hums George Michael’s ‘Faith’ and tries to brush pink stains from his jacket sleeves. There are those he knows – Hutch, his cousin the architect, young Mikey – with their families and loved ones, but also faces he has never seen before, drawn to the light on top of the hill. They chatter and buzz, taking their places in the pews, and their excitement is infectious. Maggie and the kids are sitting in the front row, and Nico has started jumping up and down, unable to contain his enthusiasm, almost setting his little waistcoat alight with his candle. Derek sits with them, and Rob is glad. It’s good that they have found some happiness, when everything in this world is so fleeting.

Once the pews are filled to capacity, the pine creaking and warping beneath so many well-fed backsides, he directs people to stand in the aisles, under the windows, even around the oakwood altar. They push up against each other, shoulder to shoulder, until he cannot imagine anyone else squeezing in. Then he signals to Jim the butcher to close the doors, and he begins to make his way forward. He jostles where he has to, asks forgiveness as he pushes people aside. It’s a slow crawl through a sea of bodies to reach the front, but once he’s there he moves around the island of the altar, grips the rough bark of its edge.

You have filled my house, the voice says, so close now that it might be inside his head. You have brought these people to witness the light. Now it is time.

He smiles.

The High Priestess

Nobody is sure when she first appears, or how. She is not there, and then she is, as if she has always been. If Rob is disappointed that she doesn’t arrive with a fanfare and a choir of angels, then he keeps that to himself. This, surely, is miracle enough.

The crowd stares at first. This is not what anyone expected, not what they had signed up to witness. But in truth, none of them know what they have signed up for. Only that they were called and they came here, to witness something incredible.

If the way she materialises from nothing does not fulfil that expectation, then her appearance surely does.

She is shorter than any of the adults, closer to Julie’s height, but she makes up for it by floating two feet off the ground. Her form was once human, but it has moved beyond that, disassembling and renewing like a corpse in the soil, playing host to other creatures as they’re drawn to her warmth. Her ribs are a cage, the bird that flutters within them nothing more than feathers and skin; as they watch, a millipede the length and width of a man’s belt skitters from where her ear should be and wraps itself around her neck. Her face is constantly changing, rotting away then blooming back to health, a ruddy-cheeked girl one second, an emaciated hag the next. Her fingers, when she holds out her hands, are long and knotted like twigs.

Welcome to my house, she says. My children.

The screaming starts at the front and spreads through the congregation like crashing waves. Rob signals to Jim at the back, and he fits the bar across the doors. This was expected. There are always those who fear the miracle when it comes.

She had told him this, several days before. She had lain with him on the concrete floor of the church, his hand tied up in the twisted vines of her hair, her stiff, cold fingers in his pants.

They will not understand, she said, her voice like the gurgling of the brook, or the wind in the grass. They have never seen the world as it truly is, and now that their eyes are opened, they will cry and tear at their breasts. This has happened before and it shall happen again.

“But then they’ll find the joy, right?” he asked, the words catching in his throat. “Once they understand, when they see you, won’t they be filled with wonder? Just your existence, it’s… a miracle. Magical. How could they not kneel down and worship you when they see what you truly are?”

There was a sound that may have been a sigh, or simply her skin crackling like fallen leaves.

You have seen me and your eyes have been opened. You have beheld my true form and not turned mad. Is it too much to hope they may do the same?

Rob isn’t so sure about that, although he doesn’t give voice to his doubts. Part of him wonders if he has, indeed, gone mad. The things he has seen should never have appeared before mortal eyes. And yet something led him along the path to this point – to the cottage, and the hill, and the steps, and the church – and now that he’s here he cannot imagine anywhere else that he could possibly be.

He ponders on this as the people begin to hammer on the door and the walls, their screams turning to anger and tears. As her birds take flight and peck out their eyes.

Cupio dissolve

He tells himself that this was always the plan. It’s comforting to know that he’s fulfilled something, that he’s ticked that box and can move on. Rob has always been very goal-oriented. Even as he watches Maggie scream and clutch at her face, blood oozing between her fingers as she staggers blindly about the gathering; even as young Mikey gags on the millipede that comes crawling out of his mouth, its mandibles shining and slick. Rob feels something like pride as he takes a deep breath, smells the tang of their fear, the sweat and adrenaline. And the paraffin.

Ah, yes. The paraffin.

When she’d first told him he’d balked at the idea. After all, this church was his masterwork, the project that finally put him on the map. It was a temple to her greatness, yes, but wasn’t it also a monument to his achievements? Hadn’t she led him here to create this beacon?

She had made a clicking noise in the back of her throat, like teeth gnashing at air. Shifting her body, she had twisted and writhed until she lay on top of him, the stink of rot sweet and earthy in his nostrils.

Everything must end, she had said, her words spoken slowly and clearly. It was important that he understood. There is no eternity, there is no forever. That is man’s vanity. Your meaning lies in your ending, and we shall give them an ending to be proud of. We will give them an ending that will be talked about for centuries, and then they will be reborn when their ashes feed new life. That is the best anyone can dream of.

She was right, of course. He could see that now. Beyond the stink of piss and freshly spilled blood, he could smell them for what they truly were: cattle, animals destined for the slaughter. The pig doesn’t self-visualise as a bacon sandwich, does it? Well, then.

It had taken him most of the night to drill the holes in the plasterboard, then to pour the paraffin in, one bottle at a time. It was only an accelerant, of course. The straw would act as kindling, the timber frame would burn for hours. This had all been built into the church from the start. This was all part of the plan.

If he has a regret as he takes the lighter from his pocket and holds it to the curtains – velour, the best wick money can buy – it’s that it will all be over so soon. He’s done something truly magical here, hasn’t he? Who can say they have done anything even half as great? But he knows it’s all in how you make your exit. And as his goddess sings her victory, and the aisles flow with blood, the flames begin to crawl up the walls, searching with their tongues until they find the paraffin within and burst into sudden, brilliant light.

---

Host Commentary

PseudoPod Episode 908

February 23rd 2024

Bring Them All Into The Light by Dan Coxon

Narrated by Tiernan Douieb

Audio production by Chelsea Davis

 

Welcome to PseudoPod, the weekly horror podcast. I’m Alasdair, your host and this week’s story comes to us from Dan Coxon. Dan is an award-winning editor and writer based in London. His non-fiction anthology Writing the Uncanny (co-edited with Richard V. Hirst) won the British Fantasy Award for Best Non-Fiction 2022, while his short story collection Only the Broken Remain (Black Shuck Books) was shortlisted for two British Fantasy Awards in 2021 (Best Collection, Best Newcomer). His latest book, Writing the Future, was published by Dead Ink Books in September 2023. He has a new collection forthcoming from Weird Little Worlds.

 

Your narrator is the Tiernan Douieb. Tiernan is a writer and comedian. As a writer, he’s most recently scripted episodes of Hey Duggee on Cbeebies. In his stand-up for adults, he’s performed comedy all over the world, working with and writing for several well-known acts.

Tiernan also co-runs the Comedy Club 4 Kids, performing and writing comedy for children and their families. And he writes and co-hosts childrens’ mystery podcast Bust or Trust, as well as his own Radio Nonsense podcast with over 18k listeners a month. He also likes crisps, finding good excuses to avoid socializing and singing all the wrong words to songs.

 

So embrace the design. Because it is true in ways you cannot understand. But you will.

---

The moment you get too close is beautiful. Peaceful even. When you turn the alarms off, ignore the fact you’re pushing past your tolerances and focus in on the work it’s tranquil. You’re putting everything else down, doing nothing but The Work. There’s a quote that’s lived in my head for years about the actor Gerard Butler and how he was described as someone who works better ‘with the taste of his own blood in his mouth’. I recognise that feeling. I’ve often shared it. I would guess a lot of creatives, of every stripe, have felt the same. Hustle is a polite way of saying ‘burn’ and if you burn the candle at both ends that special secret third end in the middle, eventually the candle, and you go out.

At this point I normally talk about where the horror is in the story for me. This time, the horror is in both the story and the mindset it explores. We’re encouraged, expected, to work too hard, to push too far because everyone else is doing that. Because true greatness only comes through pain and surely the more pain, the greater the gain, right?

No.

If you burn out you just burn. Everything. The glory in destroying yourself for your art is as empty as your life when you sacrifice everything for the art no one is left alive to see. That’s the second level of horror here, sprung from the corpse of the first. It’s not just what he does to make the church. It’s how little he cares about what the church and the god are fuelled by.

Art needs an artist. Art needs an audience. Art needs both alive otherwise it’s nothing. A masterpiece built from the corpses of the people who should have lived to appreciate it. A scream in an empty church.

 

Great story. Thanks so much everyone.

 

---

As is always the case, we rely on you to pay our authors, our narrators and our crew, and to cover our costs. We’re entirely donation funded and last year that changed in some very exciting ways with becoming a registered US nonprofit. We ran a great end of year campaign in 2023 to raise awareness about all the new ways you can help us out like for example if you pay taxes in the US, you might be able to claim a deduction. Check out the short metacast on escapeartists.net for more ideas, and how to get in touch if you think of something else that’s more meaningful to you.

 

One-time donations are fantastic and gratefully received, but what really makes a difference is subscribing. Subscriptions get us stability and a reliable income we use to bring free and accessible audio fiction to the world. You can subscribe for a monthly or annual donation through PayPal or Patreon. And if you sign up for an annual subscription on Patreon, there’s a discount available from now until the end of the year.

 

Not only do you help us out immensely when you subscribe or donate but you get access to a raft of bonus audio. You help us, we help you and everything becomes just a little easier. Even if you can’t donate financially, please consider spreading the word about us. If you liked an episode then please consider sharing it on social media, or blogging about us or leaving a review it really does all help and thank you once again

Join us next week for Lidless Eyes That See by Geneve Flynn, read by Dawn Meredith, produced by Chelsea and hosted by me. Then as now we’ll be a production of the Escape Artists Foundation and distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Non-commercial-No Derivatives 4.0 International license. We’ll see you then, and before then, PseudoPod wants you to remember. This is my design.