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PseudoPod 525: Cold Print

“Cold Print” first appeared in TALES OF THE CTHULHU MYTHOS in 1969.

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by Ramsey Campbell

“GOOD BOOKS ON THE HIGHWAY provided shelter; he closed out the lashing sleet and stood taking stock. On the shelves the current titles showed their faces while the others turned their backs. Girls were giggling over comic Christmas cards; an unshaven man was swept in on a flake-edged blast and halted, staring around uneasily. Strutt clucked his tongue; tramps shouldn’t be allowed in bookshops to soil the books. Glancing sideways to observe whether the man would bend back the covers or break the spines, Strutt moved among the shelves, but could not find what he sought. Chatting with the cashier, however, was an assistant who had praised Last Exit to Brooklyn to him when he had bought it last week, and had listened patiently to a list of Strutt’s recent reading, though he had not seemed to recognize the titles. Strutt approached him and inquired ‘Hello—any more exciting books this week?’

The man faced him, puzzled. ‘Any more—?’

‘You know, books like this?’ Strutt held up his polythene bag to show the grey Ultimate Press cover of THE CANING-MASTER by Hector Q.

‘Ah, no. I don’t think we have.’ He tapped his lip. ‘Except — Jean Genet?’

‘Who? Oh, you mean Jennet. No, thanks, he’s dull as ditch-water.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘Oh.’ Strutt felt rebuffed. The man seemed not to recognize him, or perhaps he was pretending. Strutt had met his kind before and had them mutely patronize his reading. He scanned the shelves again, but no cover caught his eye. At the door he furtively unbuttoned his shirt to protect his book still further, and a hand fell on his arm. Lined with grime, the hand slid down to his and touched his bag. Strutt shook it off angrily and confronted the tramp.

‘Wait a minute!’ the man hissed. ‘Are you after more books like that? I know where we can get some.’ ”

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PseudoPod 524: Flash on The Borderlands XXXV: The Kids Are All Wrong

PseudoPod 524: Flash on The Borderlands XXXV: The Kids Are All Wrong is a PseudoPod original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 29:11 — 20.2MB)

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Show Notes

Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
And I know if I don’t, I’ll go out of my mind

“Accident Report” first appeared in Midnight Echo Issue #11.

“What the Dollhouse Said” was originally published in Devilfish Review, Issue Ten, July 24, 2014 and it will be reprinted in a forthcoming issue of Jennifer Brozek’s Evil Girlfriend Media Shorts. This story was also accepted for illustration in Bonnie Stufflebeam’s 2015 Art & Words Show

“MeetWorks Daycare” is a PseudoPod Original

Accident Report

by Jarod K. Anderson

I remember being worried about the cost of another citation. That’s why I made a complete stop at the corner of Deer Run and Milner Roads. My last ticket was over $300, and I was fresh out of second chances. Not just from the DMV.

If I had skipped that stop sign altogether, like I used to, or even settled for a rolling stop, maybe I wouldn’t have given the Devil a chance to get into the car. (Continue Reading…)

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PseudoPod 523: Kashrut, or, the Ortolan

PseudoPod 523: Kashrut, or, the Ortolan is a PseudoPod original.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 29:41 — 19.6MB)

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Kashrut, or, the Ortolan

by Andrew Paul

“Compassion is what’s most important here,” Schulman tells his son.  

He shows him the sakin, turning it over in his hand, highlighting each angle.  

“The blade is sharpened again and again. There cannot be a single imperfection. Do you see?” Schulman asks.  

He lightly guides his youngest’s fingers across the metal edge. Jacob’s hesitance ebbs when he sees in his father’s care that there is no room for error, no chance of injury.  

“The sakin‘s edge is straight, not serrated. There can be no unnecessary tearing, just one precise and deliberate cut.”

Schulman motions to the heifer’s neck, pausing at every essential location along the knife’s route.  

“Esophagus. Trachea. Jugular. Carotids. Vagus,” he lists.  

Jacob swallows instinctively. Schulman nods. 

“It may seem excessive. But this ensures the slaughter to be as painless as possible. Compassion. That’s what’s most important.”

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PseudoPod 522: The Christmas Spirits – A Tale of the White Street Society

The Christmas Spirits was first published in “Tales of the White Street Society” in December 2012.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 1:09:46 — 45.8MB)

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Show Notes

Another true horror story of the season mentioned in the intro can be found here.

The Christmas Spirits

by Grady Hendrix

You can have your Paris, your London, your Vienna, your Rome; for this good Christian there is no city more sublime than New York at Christmastime. As I walked to the White Street Society clubhouse I sucked in great gulps of cold Yuletide air until my lungs froze solid with Christmas cheer. My feet were numbed with holiday spirit as they tramped the icy streets. My face and whiskers were chapped with all the joy of the season. Six carolers raced past me in the opposite direction, screaming, their exposed skin red and blistered with burns, their wet clothes steaming, flesh hanging from one of their faces in sheets. I smiled to myself a secret Christmas smile, for this meant that my good friend Augustus Mortimer was home.

‘God rest you, merry gentleman!’ I shouted in gay spirits, as I pounded on his front door. ‘Augustus? It is William! Come a’wassailing this December eve! Augustus?’

I felt something poking me in the midsection and directed my gaze downwards to behold the blade of a saber protruding from the mail slot and halfheartedly prodding me. It was sharpened to a murderous gleam, but as I was wrapped in many cloaks, and carpets, and coats, and shawls to protect myself against the Christmas chill, I felt only a gentle massaging about my tummy.

‘Augustus!’ I smiled, squatting down and peering through the mail slot. ‘Is stabbing any way to greet a visitor on this fifth night of Advent?’

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PseudoPod 521: The Moraine

“The Moraine” was first printed in The Best Horror of the Year: Volume 4 in 2012

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 56:00 — 38.5MB)

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The Moraine

by Simon Bestwick

“Hello?” I called into the mist. “Hello?”

“Anybody down there?” Diane called.

“Hello?” A voice called back.

“Thank god for that,” Diane whispered.

We started along the rattling path, into the mist. “Hello?” called the voice. “Hello?”

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PseudoPod 520: Dermot

“Dermot” was first printed in Black Static, Issue 24 August-September 2011.

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 28:19 — 19.6MB)

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Dermot

by Simon Bestwick

The bus turns left off Langworthy Road and onto the approach to the A6.  Just before it goes under the overpass, past the old Jewish cemetery at the top of Brindleheath Road and on past Pendleton Church, it stops and Dermot gets on.

He gets a few funny looks, does Dermot, as he climbs aboard, but then he always does.  It’s hard for people to put their fingers on it.  Maybe it’s the way his bald head looks a bit too big.  Or the fishy largeness of his eyes behind the jar-thick spectacles.  The nervous quiver of his pale lips, perhaps.

Or perhaps it’s just how pale he is.  How smooth.  His skin- his face, his hands- are baby-smooth and baby-soft.  Like they’ve never known work, and hardly ever known light.  

All that and he’s in a suit, too.  Quite an old suit, and it’s not a perfect fit- maybe a size too large- but it’s neat and clean and well-maintained.  Pressed.  Smooth.

And of course, there’s the briefcase.

It’s old-fashioned, like something out of the ‘seventies, made out of plain brown leather.  He doesn’t carry it by the handle.  He hugs it close against his chest.  Like a child.

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PseudoPod 519: Perfect Reflection

PseudoPod 519: Perfect Reflection is a PseudoPod original.

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Perfect Reflection

by Elizabeth Siedt

You hate mirrors.

You use them, sure, begrudgingly checking your hair and doing your makeup and smiling into them after you’ve finished brushing your teeth. But you’ve never liked them, how they throw back at you a world you take for granted is your own. Antique mirrors in particular unsettle you, like silent mercurial ancestors, hanging on your wall and looking right into your eyes. The worst are the oval ones, with the thin, gold frames. They look like enormous keyholes to a darker world.

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PseudoPod 518: The Tiger

“The Tiger” was first printed in Terror Tales Of London in May 2013. It was subsequently reprinted in Best Horror of the Year #6 and The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime #11.

 

Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 48:37 — 33.5MB)

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Show Notes

“The Tiger” is one in a loose sequence of stories Nina is still in the process of writing, featuring some continuing characters and all set in and around Lewisham in south east London, where she lived for some years. Other stories in the sequence so far include “Wilkolak” which was published in the biannual British magazine Crimewave, and “The Nightingale”, which was published in the British horror magazine Black Static.

The Tiger

by Nina Allan

There is a bed, a wardrobe with a large oval mirror, a builtin cupboard to one side of the chimney breast. The boards are bare, stained black. There is a greyish cast to everything. Croft guesses the room has not been used in quite some time.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid,” the woman says. Her name is Sandra. Symes has told him everyone including her husband calls her Sandy, but Croft has decided already that he will never do this, that it is ugly, that he likes Sandra better. “I’ve been meaning to paint it, but there hasn’t been time.”

She is too thin, he thinks, with scrawny hips and narrow little birdy hands. Her mousy hair, pulled back in a ponytail, has started to come free of its elastic band. Croft cannot help noticing how tired she looks.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “If you can let me have the paint, I’ll do it myself.”

“Oh,” she says. She seems flustered. “I suppose we could take something off the rent money. In exchange, I mean.”

“There’s no need,” Croft says. “I’d like to do it. Something to keep me out of mischief.” He smiles, hoping to give her reassurance, but she takes a step backwards, just a small one, but still a step, and Croft sees he has made a mistake, already, that the word mischief isn’t funny, not from him, not now, not yet.

He will have to be more careful with what he says. He wonders if this is the way things will be for him from now on.