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PseudoPod 627: The Grave by the Handpost

“The Grave by the Handpost” was first published in 1897 and is part of the volume A Changed Man and Other Tales.

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Show Notes

This episode is sponsored by J.R. HAMANTASCHEN (who podcasts at The Horror Of Nachos And Hamantaschen) and his new story collection A DEEP HORROR THAT IS VERY NEARLY AWE. 

This is J.R.’s third collection, and his best yet, featuring eleven frightening, challenging stories of strange horror. This collection cages a menagerie of quiet human horror that inhabits territory in both magical realism and bizarro underpinned by sardonic humor.

As he moves into longer forms, Hamantaschen views this collection as a fitting encapsulation of the themes and motifs he’s explored in his short fiction, and a showcase of the styles that worked best in his previous two collections. In particular, the final novella in this collection is hopefully enough of an impetus to get you to read the whole book.

This plus his previous two collections, “You Shall Never Know Security” and “With a Voice that is Often Still Confused But is Becoming Ever Louder and Clearer” are all available in digital form for less than $10, so consider spending some of those gift cards here. (Such as at AMAZON or your purveyor of digital content of choice.)

The Grave By The Handpost

by Thomas Hardy

I never pass through Chalk–Newton without turning to regard the neighbouring upland, at a point where a lane crosses the lone straight highway dividing this from the next parish; a sight which does not fail to recall the event that once happened there; and, though it may seem superfluous, at this date, to disinter more memories of village history, the whispers of that spot may claim to be preserved.

It was on a dark, yet mild and exceptionally dry evening at Christmas-time (according to the testimony of William Dewy of Mellstock, Michael Mail, and others), that the choir of Chalk–Newton—a large parish situate about half-way between the towns of Ivel and Casterbridge, and now a railway station—left their homes just before midnight to repeat their annual harmonies under the windows of the local population. The band of instrumentalists and singers was one of the largest in the county; and, unlike the smaller and finer Mellstock string-band, which eschewed all but the catgut, it included brass and reed performers at full Sunday services, and reached all across the west gallery.

(Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 626: Blue John

“Blue John” was originally published in Shock Totem magazine, Jan. 2016

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 32:12 — 33.3MB)

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Show Notes

The first draft of “Blue John” centered on a demon-possessed letterpress that compelled Blue John to kill. Which, of course, meant he was simply a conduit for evil and a rather one-dimensional character. I put the story aside, returning to it only after reading “The Invention of Murder” by Judith Flanders, a non-fiction book about the reporting of crime in the Victorian-era press. I realized Blue John had plenty of motivation to kill and didn’t need any satanic prompting. As Blue John became more real to me, so did the character of Finch, and he ended up taking over the story.

This episode is sponsored by J.R. HAMANTASCHEN (who podcasts at The Horror Of Nachos And Hamantaschen) and his new story collection A DEEP HORROR THAT IS VERY NEARLY AWE. 

This is J.R.’s third collection, and his best yet, featuring eleven frightening, challenging stories of strange horror. This collection cages a menagerie of quiet human horror that inhabits territory in both magical realism and bizarro underpinned by sardonic humor.

As he moves into longer forms, Hamantaschen views this collection as a fitting encapsulation of the themes and motifs he’s explored in his short fiction, and a showcase of the styles that worked best in his previous two collections. In particular, the final novella in this collection is hopefully enough of an impetus to get you to read the whole book.

This plus his previous two collections, “You Shall Never Know Security” and “With a Voice that is Often Still Confused But is Becoming Ever Louder and Clearer” are all available in digital form for less than $10, so consider spending some of those gift cards here. (Such as at AMAZON or your purveyor of digital content of choice.)

Blue John

by D.K. Wayrd

I’m behind the bar shucking oysters when Blue John enters the tavern. He’s wearing a plain tweed suit instead of a policeman’s uniform, but still moves with a constable’s swagger. “Boy,” he says, “where’s your master?” I lay down my knife and leave to find Father, to tell him our new lodger has arrived.

That night, in the storeroom where I sleep, I drag my straw pallet to a spot over Blue John’s cellar room. Gaps between the floorboards give me a slivered view: a table, a wardrobe, a bed. The rest of the cavernous room is dark, beyond the reach of the gas lamp’s wavering light.  Blue John sits half-naked at the table, his bull-chest covered with dark curly hair. He holds a red leather journal in his lap and strokes it lightly, as though petting a cat, before opening it and beginning to write. (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 625: The Golgotha Dancers and These Doth The Lord Hate

“The Golgotha Dancers” was was originally published in Weird Tales, October 1937

“These Doth The Lord Hate” was originally published in Weird Tales, January 1939

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 45:31 — 45.5MB)

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Show Notes

“Masks of Nyarlathotep” is now available from Dark Adventure Radio Theater. This is adapted from the famous Chaosium role-playing game of the same title. The show is over 7 hours long. You can check it out here: https://store.hplhs.org/products/dark-adventure-radio-theatre-masks-of-nyarlathotep

The Golgotha Dancers

by MANLY WADE WELLMAN

I had come to the Art Museum to see the special show of Goya prints, but that particular gallery was so crowded that I could hardly get in, much less see or savor anything; wherefore I walked out again. I wandered through the other wings with their rows and rows of oils, their Greek and Roman sculptures, their stern ranks of medieval armors, their Oriental porcelains, their Egyptian gods. At length, by chance and not by design, I came to the head of a certain rear stairway. Other habitués of the museum will know the one I mean when I remind them that Arnold Böcklin’s The Isle of the Dead hangs on the wall of the landing.

I started down, relishing in advance the impression Böcklin’s picture would make with its high brown rocks and black poplars, its midnight sky and gloomy film of sea, its single white figure erect in the bow of the beach-nosing skiff. But, as I descended, I saw that The Isle of the Dead was not in its accustomed position on the wall. In that space, arresting even in the bad light and from the up-angle of the stairs, hung a gilt-framed painting I had never seen or heard of in all my museum-haunting years. (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 624: Flash On The Borderlands XLV: Personal Narratives

PseudoPod 624: Flash On The Borderlands XLV: Personal Narratives is a PseudoPod original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 26:39 — 22.1MB)

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Show Notes

“Ten Things I Didn’t Do” is a PseudoPod Original – “This was a story that I struggled with while writing it. I wanted it to have a happier, more heroic ending, but the story refused to bend: it stubbornly held on to its darkness.”

“Egg” was first printed at Aug 12, 2016 – Out of the Gutter Online

“People Watching” is a PseudoPod original  – “This story is, a little bit, about people who write stories.There’s something predatory about watching people as they go about their day and trying to extract inspiration from them.”

Ten Things I Didn’t Do

By Maria Haskins

  1. I didn’t die.

I promised you I wouldn’t, so I didn’t. I know you said the words in jest when you dropped me off at school, “Don’t die, honey!”, with that hoarse laugh and sideways wink you do, but I rolled my eyes and said “OK, mom, I promise,” and I don’t break my promises. (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 623: Greener Pastures

“Greener Pastures” was originally published in Aghast #1 in 2015. It was reprinted in 2016 as the title story of Michael’s debut short fiction collection Greener Pastures (Shock Totem Publications/Apex Publications), which was a Shirley Jackson Award Finalist and was shortlisted for the IAFA’s Crawford Award.

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Show Notes

“There’s still a sort of sad Western romance about American truckers, from the language of the CB radio to the drone of all those wheels on the highways. Endless sodium lamps. Although the trucking industry is still very much alive, it often feels like truckers are a relic of the past, and the blank spaces on the maps have less traffic in them. The rest stops and all-night diners tucked into these spaces feel more lonesome. I wanted to write about them in an ode to The Twilight Zone, as a sort of anti-ghost story. We are all haunted by our dead—it is a motif that has been and always will be a resonant voice. But what if the voice is that of the living? Truckers leave behind their loved ones for long stretches at a time, and there is a lot of empty road out there before the dawn.”

http://www.nightvalepresents.com/aliceisntdead/
http://www.nightvalepresents.com/aliceisntdead/#novel

Greener Pastures

by Michael Wehunt

“You ever can’t sleep?” the trucker said.

Forsyth glanced up out of his thoughts. The man standing at his table was big and worn out, his eyes raw and heavy even in the shadow of his cap’s bill. He had a young face with an old beard matted on the left side, as though he’d been trying to nap against the window of his cab.

The trucker slid into the booth but Forsyth didn’t answer his question at first. He felt the contradiction of road life, that of the lonesome loner. It could be nice to have company when he stopped off someplace, but he’d never been much for talk. He glanced around the diner. A couple more long-haulers sat on high stools at the counter, knives and forks chattering against their plates. The waitress was somewhere back in the kitchen. Even for a graveyard shift the place had a tired air. (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 622: En Plein Air

“En Plein Air” first appeared in volume two of Nightscript, an anthology series edited by C.M. Muller that focuses on “subtle and darksome literary horror.” Stephen Jones subsequently picked it up for reprint in his Best New Horror anthology series, for volume 28.

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Show Notes

“A colleague in the English department at VCU, where I work as a librarian, gave it to the students in her Gothic seminar to read. I sent them the following notes: Writing and reading heavily, as well as being a librarian by profession, I found several years ago that I needed a pastime that was not about words. I have a longtime interest in the arts, and so I decided to try my hand at painting. As often happens, I rushed in headlong, taking classes and working late into the night. The more I painted, though, the less I was writing, and eventually I had to step back from the easel for a while. I still enjoy painting occasionally, but it’s produced an unexpected side effect. Some authors frequently use writers as protagonists, and I now have a similar tendency with artists, though I try to cycle through different media, with a sculptor in one story, a photographer in another. “En Plein Air” came along just after I’d been working on a landscape, as well as finally reading all of M.R. James’ ghost stories, so I expect both of those things influenced the story. I like to think that my art-inflected work fits into a lineage that includes The Red Tree, “Pickman’s Model,” “The Mezzotint,” The Picture of Dorian Gray, etc. These stories are a pleasure to write, in any case, and I’m always pleased when they make their way into print.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M._R._James
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iain_Sinclair

En Plein Air

by J. T. Glover

A gust of wind boiled off the James without warning, flattening cattails and clumps of spikerush as it swirled around the inlet where I was painting, and of course it caught my canvas. The morning’s work rushed away from me like a sailboat before a storm, taking my field easel with it. Just as I was sucking in breath to howl with frustration—it shuddered to a stop in midair. Two pale hands held it fast, reaching around from the back. (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 621: Voices

PseudoPod 621: Voices is a PseudoPod original.

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Show Notes

“This story showed up nearly fully formed in a dream one night. I probably should have been freaked out by it, but instead I woke up thinking, ‘Ooh, I better get that written down!'”

Voices

by Ira Brooker

It was just after sundown when we heard the first voice, a faraway voice, whispery, wheezy, barely distinguishable from the howl of the wind that bore it. “Lessss… innnnn…” was what I heard. Not quite words but near enough that I ran to Mother on the other side of the room.

“Mother, did you-” I began. She silenced me with a raised index finger.

“Yes, I heard it,” she said. Her face was cautious, a look that was not quite fear but concern that soon it would be time for fear. Tomas huddled close to the hem of her skirt, happily pushing a stone around the barnwood floor. “Hush now and listen,” Mother said.

I kneeled beside Mother and we listened. The wind was strong, stronger than I had heard yet this season, screeching across the prairie in a fury that told us snow was imminent. We listened hard, trying to ignore Tomas’s occasional babbles and squeals. After a few moments the voice came again, clearer this time, closer, but still that eerie whisper. “Let… usss… innnnn…” (Continue Reading…)

Farewell Concert

PseudoPod 620: Farewell Concert at the World’s End

PseudoPod 620: Farewell Concert at the World’s End is a PseudoPod original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 31:05 — 25.2MB)

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Show Notes

“Worlds End state park is a real, quite pretty, place in Sullivan County Pennsylvania, where I have often had the privilege to stay in a friend’s cabin. I never really thought of how creepy the name was until I began writing this story, but it fit too well to ignore once I thought of it.

I usually do ignore Halloween these days, at least in terms of the candy and costumes celebration, but I’m always attracted to the idea of a liminal space, a time when living and dead, seen and unseen draw closer together, and things cross over that cannot at other times.”

Farewell Concert at the World’s End

by R. K. Duncan

On October 30th, 1968, Luther killed a pair of wannabes a little way behind a roadhouse in southern Virginia. He’d smelled the power on them while they played with a pickup band for tips from truckers taking a late lunch. A scent like sage and engine grease cut through the rockabilly trash and the tortured picking that chased chords from chart-toppers that never should have been attempted on that battered, out of tune guitar. They hadn’t looked like much, the pair of thickset men with matching dirty-blonde mustaches and weathered jeans, but the scent was unmistakable for an Enthusiast like Luther. He’d thought of stepping up to play himself, hooking them that way, but his guitar was out in the lot, in the last car he’d stolen, and he had sudden flashes of the last time he’d played without it, the booing laughs and the bottles when he stayed and tried to save the set. (Continue Reading…)