Archive for Podcasts

PseudoPod 078: In a Right and Proper Place


In a Right and Proper Place

by Holly Day


Across the street lives a woman with snakes in her hair. She watches me from between the rotting drapes that keep the sun from melting her living room furniture. Her eyes glow in the dark, and she thinks I can’t see her, but I am not as stupid as she thinks.

I sit at the breakfast table and wonder if she has to feed each snake head individually, or if they’re just like hair, and just need a shampooing, now and then. I imagine her dipping her entire head into a cage full of frightened rats, the snakes in her hair darting this way and that, tangling around each other in their haste to catch the fat ones, the ones with the least demented testicles. Tiny bones crunch in my head as I close my own teeth on a spoonful of raw bran, orange juice instead of milk because milk always makes me sleepy.

PseudoPod 077: Merlin’s Bane


Merlin’s Bane

by G.W. Thomas


She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t have a gun. Just a smile.

“You want the book, right?”

“Yup.”

“You won’t get it.” She waved a tantalizing finger at me. I tried to ignore the digit but for some reason it wouldn’t leave my eyes.

“I’ve heard that one before,” I said, pretending to be all ice.

“You think you’re a great sorcerer, a mage of the ancient knowledge, but it won’t make any difference.”

“Why not?” I should have thrown the glass dagger that was up my sleeve. Then and there. And there was that damned “Burning Desert Glyph” I never quite got around to.

“Because you are a man.”

PseudoPod 076: Tales of the White Street Society


Tales of the White Street Society: The Hairy Ghost

by Grady Hendrix


A creak of the flooring caught my attention and I turned sharply, expecting to find my guide creeping up behind me with a jackblack in her hand and murder in her Irish eyes. Instead, I beheld a waif with a waxen pallor, protruding bones and papery skin, crouching just inside the doorway. Her furtive creeping was arrested when she saw me. Rising up to her full height she fixed her watery eyes on me and said:

“Harry don’t like you.”

Just as I was about to strike her for her insolence, her face slackened and she swooned. I stepped forward to catch her, then noticed spittle running from her mouth, and stepped back so as to avoid soiling my clothes.
For further adventures of THE WHITE STREET SOCIETY, please check out:

“The Corpse Army of Khartoum”

“The Yellow Curse” in THE TRIO OF TERROR.

“The Christmas Spirits”

Flash: Prey


Prey

by Monica Valentinelli


A musky scent drifts lazily on stale, moonlit air. Alara knows this scent—fear—it holds little meaning to her. Her hawk’s eyes narrow as she circles above the cemetery searching for her dinner. Focusing on a small, brown mouse huddled against a piece of stone, she dives to strike. The mouse spots her and freezes.

Something hot hisses and sparks, burning her dinner to a blackened crisp. Alara leaps to the night air, squawking in alarm. She lifts higher, caught by the smell of pungent, moldy earth and burning candle fat. Faint sounds penetrate the smells; a harsh voice interrupts the monotonous droning. Alara knows the voice—it belongs to her master.