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Elizabeth Kolbert: We have locked in centuries of climate change. Elizabeth Kolbert covers climate change for the New Yorker. She's the Pulitzer prize-winning author of The Sixth Extinction. And she recently wrote a paragraph I can't stop thinking about. "The problem with global warming—and the reason it continues to resist illustration, even as the streets flood and the forests die and the mussels rot on the shores—is that experience is an inadequate guide to what’s going on. The climate operates on a time delay. When carbon dioxide is added to the atmosphere, it takes decades—in a technical sense, millennia—for the earth to equilibrate. This summer’s fish kill was a product of warming that had become inevitable twenty or thirty years ago, and the warming that’s being locked in today won’t be fully felt until today’s toddlers reach middle age. In effect, we are living in the climate of the past, but already we’ve determined the climate’s future."Kolbert lives, to an unusual degree, in the planet's future. She travels to the places around the world where the climate of tomorrow is visible today. She has watched glaciers melting, and seen species dying. And she is able to convey both the science and the cost with a rare lucidity. Talking with Kolbert left me with an unnerving thought. We look back on past eras in human history and judge them morally failed. We think of the Spanish Inquisition or the Mongol hordes and believe ourselves civilized, rational, moral in a way our ancestors weren't. But if the science is right, and we do unto our descendants what the data says we are doing to them, we will be judged monsters. And it will be all the worse because we knew what we were doing and we knew how to stop, but we decided it was easier to disbelieve the science or ignore the consequences. Kolbert and I talk about the consequences, but also about what would be necessary to stabilize the climate and back off the mass extinction event that is currently underway. We discuss geoengineering, political will, the environmental cost of meat, and what individuals can and can't do. We talk about Trump's cabinet, about whether technological innovation will save us, and if pricing carbon is enough. We talk about whether hope remains a realistic emotion when it comes to our environmental future.Books:-Edward Abbe’s “Desert Solitaire”-Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring”-David G. Haskell’s “The Forest Unseen”-Bill McKibben’s “The End of Nature”
#877 - Jordan Peterson. Jordan Peterson is a clinical psychologist and tenured professor of psychology at the University of Toronto. https://www.youtube.com/user/JordanPetersonVideos http://www.selfauthoring.com/ 100% off the Future Authoring Program code: "ChangeYourself" - The offer is valid until the end of Nov 30th.
Episode 51: Money Tree. When Axton Betz-Hamilton was 11 years old, her parents' identities were stolen. At that time, in the early 90s, consumer protection services for identity theft victims were basically non-existent. So the family dealt with the consequences as best they could. But then when Axton got to college, she realized that her identity had been stolen as well. Her credit score was in the lowest 2%. As she was working to restore her credit, she inadvertently discovered who had stolen the family's identity. It would change everything forever. View the photograph Axton describes here. If you live in Los Angeles, Washington D.C., Durham, Philadelphia, Anaheim, Brooklyn, Boston, Chicago, Iowa City, Minneapolis, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, or Toronto. . . come see us tell all new stories live! Learn more at http://thisiscriminal.com/live/. Criminal is a proud member of Radiotopia from PRX.
Case 60: Jonestown (Part 3). [Part 3 of 3] You may think you know the story, but do you… This is the chilling conclusion to Jonestown. Researched and written by Milly Raso For all credits and sources please visit casefilepodcast.com/case-60-jonestown-part-3
Rank #1: TW 7: Talking Wicked with Christa Carmen. This week on Talking Wicked, I chat with Christa Carmen. We talk about how Christa came to writing short stories, why horror doesn't scare her, writing what you know, and of course her recent episode on The Wicked Library, in which we brought her story "Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge" to life. Host / Producer / Showrunner: Daniel FoytikGet your copy of The Lift, 9 Stories of Transformation Volume One on Kindle, or in print. Visit victoriaslift.com/read to get your copy today.
Rank #2: Two Tales To Terrify. The Wicked Library returns for Season 6 with two new stories by Jessica McHugh. Enjoy a terrifying Lovecraftian tale with "Of Human Symphonies", and a trip to a dark, abandoned island with "Tarnished Treasures". The latter will be featured in an upcoming issue of Dreadful Geographic, an ezine published by our very own Maddie Holiday VonStark. Full Show Notes and Links are at: http://www.thewickedlibrary.com/601/
Rank #1: Tales to Terrify 393 Colleen Moyne Edgar Allan Poe. Welcome to Episode 393. This week we travel to New Jersey to explore the dark corners of the Pine Barrens. For fiction, we have two tales for you: about a monstrous bargain and the power of guilt.Coming UpWelcome to New Jersey: 00:00:54Colleen Moyne’s A Child for Life as read by Maureen McLean: 00:10:22Edgar Allan Poe’s The Black Cat as read by Martin Reyto: 00:42:09 Pertinent LinksLove what you hear? Support us on Patreon!Weird N.J.Colleen MoyneMartin Reyto @ Librivox For information regarding your data privacy, visit acast.com/privacy
Rank #2: Tales to Terrify 392 Andrea Kriz Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Welcome to Episode 392. This week we travel to Maryland and learn about the darkness that prowls the forest. For fiction, we have two tales for you: about a concentration camp for super-beings and a delightful spot of tea.Coming UpWelcome to Maryland: 00:00:51Andrew Kriz’s Rainbow Crow’s Heroes as read by Anthony Babbington: 00:10:33Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman’s A Symphony in Lavender as read by Amy Paonessa: 00:32:26Pleasant Dreams: 00:59:26Pertinent LinksLove what you hear? Support us on Patreon!Anthony Babbington @ Twitter Amy Paonessa @ The Bloodlust For information regarding your data privacy, visit acast.com/privacy
Rank #1: The Moonlit Road Podcast: Episode 53 - Tsali. Native American ghost story from North Carolina about a brave Cherokee whose stance against the white man would make him a legend. Written by Craig Dominey, told by Jim McAmis. [[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]
Rank #2: TMR Podcast: Episode 25 - The Bell Witch Cave. The famous Bell Witch hauntings in Tennessee come to spooky life for two kids who foolishly explore the dark passages of the Bell Witch Cave. Written by Craig Dominey and Babs Bagriansky, told by... [[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]
Rank #1: PseudoPod 632: The Harbour Master. Author : Robert W. Chambers Narrator : B.J. Harrison Host : Alex Hofelich Audio Producer : Chelsea Davis Discuss on Forums “The Harbour Master” first appeared in Ainslee’s Magazine, August 1899 and was included in the fix-up novel In Search of the Unknown, which is available for free download through Gutenberg.Content warning: Use of insensitive racist term (“darkie”) and ableist stereotypesThe Harbour Masterby Robert W. ChambersBecause it all seems so improbable—so horribly impossible to me now, sitting here safe and sane in my own library—I hesitate to record an episode which already appears to me less horrible than grotesque. Yet, unless this story is written now, I know I shall never have the courage to tell the truth about the matter—not from fear of ridicule, but because I myself shall soon cease to credit what I now know to be true. Yet scarcely a month has elapsed since I heard the stealthy purring of what I believed to be the shoaling undertow—scarcely a month ago, with my own eyes, I saw that which, even now, I am beginning to believe never existed. As for the harbor-master—and the blow I am now striking at the old order of things—But of that I shall not speak now, or later; I shall try to tell the story simply and truthfully, and let my friends testify as to my probity and the publishers of this book corroborate them.On the 29th of February I resigned my position under the government and left Washington to accept an offer from Professor Farrago—whose name he kindly permits me to use—and on the first day of April I entered upon my new and congenial duties as general superintendent of the water-fowl department connected with the Zoological Gardens then in course of erection at Bronx Park, New York.For a week I followed the routine, examining the new foundations, studying the architect’s plans, following the surveyors through the Bronx thickets, suggesting arrangements for water-courses and pools destined to be included in the enclosures for swans, geese, pelicans, herons, and such of the waders and swimmers as we might expect to acclimate in Bronx Park.It was at that time the policy of the trustees and officers of the Zoological Gardens neither to employ collectors nor to send out expeditions in search of specimens. The society decided to depend upon voluntary contributions, and I was always busy, part of the day, in dictating answers to correspondents who wrote offering their services as hunters of big game, collectors of all sorts of fauna, trappers, snarers, and also to those who offered specimens for sale, usually at exorbitant rates.To the proprietors of five-legged kittens, mangy lynxes, moth-eaten coyotes, and dancing bears I returned courteous but uncompromising refusals—of course, first submitting all such letters, together with my replies, to Professor Farrago.One day towards the end of May, however, just as I was leaving Bronx Park to return to town, Professor Lesard, of the reptilian department, called out to me that Professor Farrago wanted to see me a moment; so I put my pipe into my pocket again and retraced my steps to the temporary, wooden building occupied by Professor Farrago, general superintendent of the Zoological Gardens. The professor, who was sitting at his desk before a pile of letters and replies submitted for approval by me, pushed his glasses down and looked over them at me with a whimsical smile that suggested amusement, impatience, annoyance, and perhaps a faint trace of apology.“Now, here’s a letter,” he said, with a deliberate gesture towards a sheet of paper impaled on a file—”a letter that I suppose you remember.” He disengaged the sheet of paper and handed it to me.“Oh yes,” I replied, with a shrug; “of course the man is mistaken—or—”“Or what?” demanded Professor Farrago, tranquilly, wiping his glasses.“—Or a liar,” I replied.After a silence he leaned back in his chair and bade me read the letter to him again, and I did so with a contemptuous tolerance for the writer, who must have been either a very innocent victim or a very stupid swindler. I said as much to Professor Farrago, but, to my surprise, he appeared to waver.“I suppose,” he said, with his near-sighted, embarrassed smile, “that nine hundred and ninety-nine men in a thousand would throw that letter aside and condemn the writer as a liar or a fool?”“In my opinion,” said I, “he’s one or the other.”“He isn’t—in mine,” said the professor, placidly.“What!” I exclaimed. “Here is a man living all alone on a strip of rock and sand between the wilderness and the sea, who wants you to send somebody to take charge of a bird that doesn’t exist!”“How do you know,” asked Professor Farrago, “that the bird in question does not exist?”“It is generally accepted,” I replied, sarcastically, “that the great auk has been extinct for years. Therefore I may be pardoned for doubting that our correspondent possesses a pair of them alive.”“Oh, you young fellows,” said the professor, smiling wearily, “you embark on a theory for destinations that don’t exist.”He leaned back in his chair, his amused eyes searching space for the imagery that made him smile.“Like swimming squirrels, you navigate with the help of Heaven and a stiff breeze, but you never land where you hope to—do you?”Rather red in the face, I said: “Don’t you believe the great auk to be extinct?”“Audubon saw the great auk.”“Who has seen a single specimen since?”“Nobody—except our correspondent here,” he replied, laughing.I laughed, too, considering the interview at an end, but the professor went on, coolly:“Whatever it is that our correspondent has—and I am daring to believe that it is the great auk itself—I want you to secure it for the society.”When my astonishment subsided my first conscious sentiment was one of pity. Clearly, Professor Farrago was on the verge of dotage—ah, what a loss to the world!I believe now that Professor Farrago perfectly interpreted my thoughts, but he betrayed neither resentment nor impatience. I drew a chair up beside his desk—there was nothing to do but to obey, and this fool’s errand was none of my conceiving.Together we made out a list of articles necessary for me and itemized the expenses I might incur, and I set a date for my return, allowing no margin for a successful termination to the expedition.“Never mind that,” said the professor. “What I want you to do is to get those birds here safely. Now, how many men will you take?”“None,” I replied, bluntly; “it’s a useless expense, unless there is something to bring back. If there is I’ll wire you, you may be sure.”“Very well,” said Professor Farrago, good-humoredly, “you shall have all the assistance you may require. Can you leave to-night?”The old gentleman was certainly prompt. I nodded, half-sulkily, aware of his amusement.“So,” I said, picking up my hat, “I am to start north to find a place called Black Harbor, where there is a man named Halyard who possesses, among other household utensils, two extinct great auks—”We were both laughing by this time. I asked him why on earth he credited the assertion of a man he had never before heard of.“I suppose,” he replied, with the same half-apologetic, half-humorous smile, “it is instinct. I feel, somehow, that this man Halyard has got an auk—perhaps two. I can’t get away from the idea that we are on the eve of acquiring the rarest of living creatures. It’s odd for a scientist to talk as I do; doubtless you’re shocked—admit it, now!”But I was not shocked; on the contrary, I was conscious that the same strange hope that Professor Farrago cherished was beginning, in spite of me, to stir my pulses, too.“If he has—” I began, then stopped.The professor and I looked hard at each other in silence.“Go on,” he said, encouragingly.But I had nothing more to say, for the prospect of beholding with my own eyes a living specimen of the great auk produced a series of conflicting emotions within me which rendered speech profanely superfluous.As I took my leave Professor Farrago came to the door of the temporary, wooden office and handed me the letter written by the man Halyard. I folded it and put it into my pocket, as Halyard might require it for my own identification.“How much does he want for the pair?” I asked.“Ten thousand dollars. Don’t demur—if the birds are really—”“I know,” I said, hastily, not daring to hope too much.“One thing more,” said Professor Farrago, gravely; “you know, in that last paragraph of his letter, Halyard speaks of something else in the way of specimens—an undiscovered species of amphibious biped—just read that paragraph again, will you?”I drew the letter from my pocket and read as he directed:“When you have seen the two living specimens of the great auk, and have satisfied yourself that I tell the truth, you may be wise enough to listen without prejudice to a statement I shall make concerning the existence of the strangest creature ever fashioned. I will merely say, at this time, that the creature referred to is an amphibious biped and inhabits the ocean near this coast. More I cannot say, for I personally have not seen the animal, but I have a witness who has, and there are many who affirm that they have seen the creature. You will naturally say that my statement amounts to nothing; but when your representative arrives, if he be free from prejudice, I expect his reports to you concerning this sea-biped will confirm the solemn statements of a witness I know to be unimpeachable.“Yours truly, Burton Halyard.“Black Harbor.” “Well,” I said, after a moment’s thought, “here goes for the wild-goose chase.”“Wild auk, you mean,” said Professor Farrago, shaking hands with me. “You will start to-night, won’t you?”“Yes, but Heaven knows how I’m ever going to land in this man Halyard’s door-yard. Good-bye!”“About that sea-biped—” began Professor Farrago, shyly.“Oh, don’t!” I said; “I can swallow the auks, feathers and claws, but if this fellow Halyard is hinting he’s seen an amphibious creature resembling a man—”“—Or a woman,” said the professor, cautiously.I retired, disgusted, my faith shaken in the mental vigor of Professor Farrago.II.The three days’ voyage by boat and rail was irksome. I bought my kit at Sainte Croix, on the Central Pacific Railroad, and on June 1st I began the last stage of my journey via the Sainte Isole broad-gauge, arriving in the wilderness by daylight. A tedious forced march by blazed trail, freshly spotted on the wrong side, of course, brought me to the northern terminus of the rusty, narrow-gauge lumber railway which runs from the heart of the hushed pine wilderness to the sea.Already a long train of battered flat-cars, piled with sluice-props and roughly hewn sleepers, was moving slowly off into the brooding forest gloom, when I came in sight of the track; but I developed a gratifying and unexpected burst of speed, shouting all the while. The train stopped; I swung myself aboard the last car, where a pleasant young fellow was sitting on the rear brake, chewing spruce and reading a letter.“Come aboard, sir,” he said, looking up with a smile; “I guess you’re the man in a hurry.”“I’m looking for a man named Halyard,” I said, dropping rifle and knapsack on the fresh-cut, fragrant pile of pine. “Are you Halyard?”“No, I’m Francis Lee, bossing the mica pit at Port-of-Waves,” he replied, “but this letter is from Halyard, asking me to look out for a man in a hurry from Bronx Park, New York.”“I’m that man,” said I, filling my pipe and offering him a share of the weed of peace, and we sat side by side smoking very amiably, until a signal from the locomotive sent him forward and I was left alone, lounging at ease, head pillowed on both arms, watching the blue sky flying through the branches overhead.Long before we came in sight of the ocean I smelled it; the fresh, salt aroma stole into my senses, drowsy with the heated odor of pine and hemlock, and I sat up, peering ahead into the dusky sea of pines.Fresher and fresher came the wind from the sea, in puffs, in mild, sweet breezes, in steady, freshening currents, blowing the feathery crowns of the pines, setting the balsam’s blue tufts rocking.Lee wandered back over the long line of flats, balancing himself nonchalantly as the cars swung around a sharp curve, where water dripped from a newly propped sluice that suddenly emerged from the depths of the forest to run parallel to the railroad track.“Built it this spring,” he said, surveying his handiwork, which seemed to undulate as the cars swept past. “It runs to the cove—or ought to—” He stopped abruptly with a thoughtful glance at me.“So you’re going over to Halyard’s?” he continued, as though answering a question asked by himself.I nodded.“You’ve never been there—of course?”“No,” I said, “and I’m not likely to go again.”I would have told him why I was going if I had not already begun to feel ashamed of my idiotic errand.“I guess you’re going to look at those birds of his,” continued Lee, placidly.“I guess I am,” I said, sulkily, glancing askance to see whether he was smiling.But he only asked me, quite seriously, whether a great auk was really a very rare bird; and I told him that the last one ever seen had been found dead off Labrador in January, 1870. Then I asked him whether these birds of Halyard’s were really great auks, and he replied, somewhat indifferently, that he supposed they were—at least, nobody had ever before seen such birds near Port-of-Waves.“There’s something else,” he said, running, a pine-sliver through his pipe-stem—”something that interests us all here more than auks, big or little. I suppose I might as well speak of it, as you are bound to hear about it sooner or later.”He hesitated, and I could see that he was embarrassed, searching for the exact words to convey his meaning.“If,” said I, “you have anything in this region more important to science than the great auk, I should be very glad to know about it.”Perhaps there was the faintest tinge of sarcasm in my voice, for he shot a sharp glance at me and then turned slightly. After a moment, however, he put his pipe into his pocket, laid hold of the brake with both hands, vaulted to his perch aloft, and glanced down at me.“Did you ever hear of the harbor-master?” he asked, maliciously.“Which harbor-master?” I inquired.“You’ll know before long,” he observed, with a satisfied glance into perspective.This rather extraordinary observation puzzled me. I waited for him to resume, and, as he did not, I asked him what he meant.“If I knew,” he said, “I’d tell you. But, come to think of it, I’d be a fool to go into details with a scientific man. You’ll hear about the harbor-master—perhaps you will see the harbor-master. In that event I should be glad to converse with you on the subject.”I could not help laughing at his prim and precise manner, and, after a moment, he also laughed, saying:“It hurts a man’s vanity to know he knows a thing that somebody else knows he doesn’t know. I’m damned if I say another word about the harbor-master until you’ve been to Halyard’s!”“A harbor-master,” I persisted, “is an official who superintends the mooring of ships—isn’t he?”But he refused to be tempted into conversation, and we lounged silently on the lumber until a long, thin whistle from the locomotive and a rush of stinging salt-wind brought us to our feet. Through the trees I could see the bluish-black ocean, stretching out beyond black headlands to meet the clouds; a great wind was roaring among the trees as the train slowly came to a stand-still on the edge of the primeval forest.Lee jumped to the ground and aided me with my rifle and pack, and then the train began to back away along a curved side-track which, Lee said, led to the mica-pit and company stores.“Now what will you do?” he asked, pleasantly. “I can give you a good dinner and a decent bed to-night if you like—and I’m sure Mrs. Lee would be very glad to have you stop with us as long as you choose.”I thanked him, but said that I was anxious to reach Halyard’s before dark, and he very kindly led me along the cliffs and pointed out the path.“This man Halyard,” he said, “is an invalid. He lives at a cove called Black Harbor, and all his truck goes through to him over the company’s road. We receive it here, and send a pack-mule through once a month. I’ve met him; he’s a bad-tempered hypochondriac, a cynic at heart, and a man whose word is never doubted. If he says he has a great auk, you may be satisfied he has.”My heart was beating with excitement at the prospect; I looked out across the wooded headlands and tangled stretches of dune and hollow, trying to realize what it might mean to me, to Professor Farrago, to the world, if I should lead back to New York a live auk.“He’s a crank,” said Lee; “frankly, I don’t like him. If you find it unpleasant there, come back to us.”“Does Halyard live alone?” I asked.“Yes—except for a professional trained nurse—poor thing!”“A man?”“No,” said Lee, disgustedly.Presently he gave me a peculiar glance; hesitated, and finally said: “Ask Halyard to tell you about his nurse and—the harbor-master. Good-bye—I’m due at the quarry. Come and stay with us whenever you care to; you will find a welcome at Port-of-Waves.”We shook hands and parted on the cliff, he turning back into the forest along the railway, I starting northward, pack slung, rifle over my shoulder. Once I met a group of quarrymen, faces burned brick-red, scarred hands swinging as they walked. And, as I passed them with a nod, turning, I saw that they also had turned to look after me, and I caught a word or two of their conversation, whirled back to me on the sea-wind.They were speaking of the harbor-master.III.Towards sunset I came out on a sheer granite cliff where the sea-birds were whirling and clamoring, and the great breakers dashed, rolling in double-thundered reverberations on the sun-dyed, crimson sands below the rock.Across the half-moon of beach towered another cliff, and, behind this, I saw a column of smoke rising in the still air. It certainly came from Halyard’s chimney, although the opposite cliff prevented me from seeing the house itself.I rested a moment to refill my pipe, then resumed rifle and pack, and cautiously started to skirt the cliffs. I had descended half-way towards the beech, and was examining the cliff opposite, when something on the very top of the rock arrested my attention—a man darkly outlined against the sky. The next moment, however, I knew it could not be a man, for the object suddenly glided over the face of the cliff and slid down the sheer, smooth lace like a lizard. Before I could get a square look at it, the thing crawled into the surf—or, at least, it seemed to—but the whole episode occurred so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that I was not sure I had seen anything at all.However, I was curious enough to climb the cliff on the land side and make my way towards the spot where I imagined I saw the man. Of course, there was nothing there—not a trace of a human being, I mean. Something had been there—a sea-otter, possibly—for the remains of a freshly killed fish lay on the rock, eaten to the back-bone and tail.The next moment, below me, I saw the house, a freshly painted, trim, flimsy structure, modern, and very much out of harmony with the splendid savagery surrounding it. It struck a nasty, cheap note in the noble, gray monotony of headland and sea.The descent was easy enough. I crossed the crescent beach, hard as pink marble, and found a little trodden path among the rocks, that led to the front porch of the house.There were two people on the porch—I heard their voices before I saw them—and when I set my foot upon the wooden steps, I saw one of them, a woman, rise from her chair and step hastily towards me.“Come back!” cried the other, a man with a smooth-shaven, deeply lined face, and a pair of angry, blue eyes; and the woman stepped back quietly, acknowledging my lifted hat with a silent inclination.The man, who was reclining in an invalid’s rolling-chair, clapped both large, pale hands to the wheels and pushed himself out along the porch. He had shawls pinned about him, an untidy, drab-colored hat on his head, and, when he looked down at me, he scowled.“I know who you are,” he said, in his acid voice; “you’re one of the Zoological men from Bronx Park. You look like it, anyway.”“It is easy to recognize you from your reputation,” I replied, irritated at his discourtesy.“Really,” he replied, with something between a sneer and a laugh, “I’m obliged for your frankness. You’re after my great auks, are you not?”“Nothing else would have tempted me into this place,” I replied, sincerely.“Thank Heaven for that,” he said. “Sit down a moment; you’ve interrupted us.” Then, turning to the young woman, who wore the neat gown and tiny cap of a professional nurse, he bade her resume what she had been saying. She did so, with deprecating glance at me, which made the old man sneer again.“It happened so suddenly,” she said, in her low voice, “that I had no chance to get back. The boat was drifting in the cove; I sat in the stern, reading, both oars shipped, and the tiller swinging. Then I heard a scratching under the boat, but thought it might be sea-weed—and, next moment, came those soft thumpings, like the sound of a big fish rubbing its nose against a float.”Halyard clutched the wheels of his chair and stared at the girl in grim displeasure.“Didn’t you know enough to be frightened?” he demanded.“No—not then,” she said, coloring faintly; “but when, after a few moments, I looked up and saw the harbor-master running up and down the beach, I was horribly frightened.”“Really?” said Halyard, sarcastically; “it was about time.” Then, turning to me, he rasped out: “And that young lady was obliged to row all the way to Port-of-Waves and call to Lee’s quarrymen to take her boat in.”Completely mystified, I looked from Halyard to the girl, not in the least comprehending what all this meant.“That will do,” said Halyard, ungraciously, which curt phrase was apparently the usual dismissal for the nurse.She rose, and I rose, and she passed me with an inclination, stepping noiselessly into the house.“I want beef-tea!” bawled Halyard after her; then he gave me an unamiable glance.“I was a well-bred man,” he sneered; “I’m a Harvard graduate, too, but I live as I like, and I do what I like, and I say what I like.”“You certainly are not reticent,” I said, disgusted.“Why should I be?” he rasped; “I pay that young woman for my irritability; it’s a bargain between us.”“In your domestic affairs,” I said, “there is nothing that interests me. I came to see those auks.”“You probably believe them to be razor-billed auks,” he said, contemptuously. “But they’re not; they’re great auks.”I suggested that he permit me to examine them, and he replied, indifferently, that they were in a pen in his backyard, and that I was free to step around the house when I cared to.I laid my rifle and pack on the veranda, and hastened off with mixed emotions, among which hope no longer predominated. No man in his senses would keep two such precious prizes in a pen in his backyard, I argued, and I was perfectly prepared to find anything from a puffin to a penguin in that pen.I shall never forget, as long as I live, my stupor of amazement when I came to the wire-covered enclosure. Not only were there two great auks in the pen, alive, breathing, squatting in bulky majesty on their sea-weed bed, but one of them was gravely contemplating two newly hatched chicks, all bill and feet, which nestled sedately at the edge of a puddle of salt-water, where some small fish were swimming.For a while excitement blinded, nay, deafened me. I tried to realize that I was gazing upon the last individuals of an all but extinct race—the sole survivors of the gigantic auk, which, for thirty years, has been accounted an extinct creature.I believe that I did not move muscle nor limb until the sun had gone down and the crowding darkness blurred my straining eyes and blotted the great, silent, bright-eyed birds from sight.Even then I could not tear myself away from the enclosure; I listened to the strange, drowsy note of the male bird, the fainter responses of the female, the thin plaints of the chicks, huddling under her breast; I heard their flipper-like, embryotic wings beating sleepily as the birds stretched and yawned their beaks and clacked them, preparing for slumber.“If you please,” came a soft voice from the door, “Mr. Halyard awaits your company to dinner.”IV.I dined well—or, rather, I might have enjoyed my dinner if Mr. Halyard had been eliminated; and the feast consisted exclusively of a joint of beef, the pretty nurse, and myself. She was exceedingly attractive—with a disturbing fashion of lowering her head and raising her dark eyes when spoken to.As for Halyard, he was unspeakable, bundled up in his snuffy shawls, and making uncouth noises over his gruel. But it is only just to say that his table was worth sitting down to and his wine was sound as a bell.“Yah!” he snapped, “I’m sick of this cursed soup—and I’ll trouble you to fill my glass—”“It is dangerous for you to touch claret,” said the pretty nurse.“I might as well die at dinner as anywhere,” he observed.“Certainly,” said I, cheerfully passing the decanter, but he did not appear overpleased with the attention.“I can’t smoke, either,” he snarled, hitching the shawls around until he looked like Richard the Third.However, he was good enough to shove a box of cigars at me, and I took one and stood up, as the pretty nurse slipped past and vanished into the little parlor beyond.We sat there for a while without speaking. He picked irritably at the bread-crumbs on the cloth, never glancing in my direction; and I, tired from my long foot-tour, lay back in my chair, silently appreciating one of the best cigars I ever smoked.“Well,” he rasped out at length, “what do you think of my auks—and my veracity?”I told him that both were unimpeachable.“Didn’t they call me a swindler down there at your museum?” he demanded.I admitted that I had heard the term applied. Then I made a clean breast of the matter, telling him that it was I who had doubted; that my chief, Professor Farrago, had sent me against my will, and that I was ready and glad to admit that he, Mr. Halyard, was a benefactor of the human race.“Bosh!” he said. “What good does a confounded wobbly, bandy-toed bird do to the human race?”But he was pleased, nevertheless; and presently he asked me, not unamiably, to punish his claret again.“I’m done for,” he said; “good things to eat and drink are no good to me. Some day I’ll get mad enough to have a fit, and then—”He paused to yawn.“Then,” he continued, “that little nurse of mine will drink up my claret and go back to civilization, where people are polite.”Somehow or other, in spite of the fact that Halyard was an old pig, what he said touched me. There was certainly not much left in life for him—as he regarded life.“I’m going to leave her this house,” he said, arranging his shawls. “She doesn’t know it. I’m going to leave her my money, too. She doesn’t know that. Good Lord! What kind of a woman can she be to stand my bad temper for a few dollars a month!”“I think,” said I, “that it’s partly because she’s poor, partly because she’s sorry for you.”He looked up with a ghastly smile.“You think she really is sorry?”Before I could answer he went on: “I’m no mawkish sentimentalist, and I won’t allow anybody to be sorry for me—do you hear?”“Oh, I’m not sorry for you!” I said, hastily, and, for the first time since I had seen him, he laughed heartily, without a sneer.We both seemed to feel better after that; I drank his wine and smoked his cigars, and he appeared to take a certain grim pleasure in watching me.“There’s no fool like a young fool,” he observed, presently.As I had no doubt he referred to me, I paid him no attention.After fidgeting with his shawls, he gave me an oblique scowl and asked me my age.“Twenty-four,” I replied.“Sort of a tadpole, aren’t you?” he said.As I took no offence, he repeated the remark.“Oh, come,” said I, “there’s no use in trying to irritate me. I see through you; a row acts like a cocktail on you—but you’ll have to stick to gruel in my company.”“I call that impudence!” he rasped out, wrathfully.“I don’t care what you call it,” I replied, undisturbed, “I am not going to be worried by you. Anyway,” I ended, “it is my opinion that you could be very good company if you chose.”The proposition appeared to take his breath away—at least, he said nothing more; and I finished my cigar in peace and tossed the stump into a saucer.“Now,” said I, “what price do you set upon your birds, Mr. Halyard?”“Ten thousand dollars,” he snapped, with an evil smile.“You will receive a certified check when the birds are delivered,” I said, quietly.“You don’t mean to say you agree to that outrageous bargain—and I won’t take a cent less, either—Good Lord!—haven’t you any spirit left?” he cried, half rising from his pile of shawls.His piteous eagerness for a dispute sent me into laughter impossible to control, and he eyed me, mouth open, animosity rising visibly.Then he seized the wheels of his invalid chair and trundled away, too mad to speak; and I strolled out into the parlor, still laughing.The pretty nurse was there, sewing under a hanging lamp.“If I am not indiscreet—” I began.“Indiscretion is the better part of valor,” said she, dropping her head but raising her eyes.So I sat down with a frivolous smile peculiar to the appreciated.“Doubtless,” said I, “you are hemming a ‘kerchief.”“Doubtless I am not,” she said; “this is a night-cap for Mr. Halyard.”A mental vision of Halyard in a night-cap, very mad, nearly set me laughing again.“Like the King of Yvetot, he wears his crown in bed,” I said, flippantly.“The King of Yvetot might have made that remark,” she observed, re-threading her needle.It is unpleasant to be reproved. How large and red and hot a man’s ears feel.To cool them, I strolled out to the porch; and, after a while, the pretty nurse came out, too, and sat down in a chair not far away. She probably regretted her lost opportunity to be flirted with.“I have so little company—it is a great relief to see somebody from the world,” she said. “If you can be agreeable, I wish you would.”The idea that she had come out to see me was so agreeable that I remained speechless until she said: “Do tell me what people are doing in New York.”So I seated myself on the steps and talked about the portion of the world inhabited by me, while she sat sewing in the dull light that straggled out from the parlor windows.She had a certain coquetry of her own, using the usual methods with an individuality that was certainly fetching. For instance, when she lost her needle—and, another time, when we both, on hands and knees, hunted for her thimble.However, directions for these pastimes may be found in contemporary classics.I was as entertaining as I could be—perhaps not quite as entertaining as a young man usually thinks he is. However, we got on very well together until I asked her tenderly who the harbor-master might be, whom they all discussed so mysteriously.“I do not care to speak about it,” she said, with a primness of which I had not suspected her capable.Of course I could scarcely pursue the subject after that—and, indeed, I did not intend to—so I began to tell her how I fancied I had seen a man on the cliff that afternoon, and how the creature slid over the sheer rock like a snake.To my amazement, she asked me to kindly discontinue the account of my adventures, in an icy tone, which left no room for protest.“It was only a sea-otter,” I tried to explain, thinking perhaps she did not care for snake stories.But the explanation did not appear to interest her, and I was mortified to observe that my impression upon her was anything but pleasant.“She doesn’t seem to like me and my stories,” thought I, “but she is too young, perhaps, to appreciate them.”So I forgave her—for she was even prettier than I had thought her at first—and I took my leave, saying that Mr. Halyard would doubtless direct me to my room.Halyard was in his library, cleaning a revolver, when I entered.“Your room is next to mine,” he said; “pleasant dreams, and kindly refrain from snoring.”“May I venture an absurd hope that you will do the same!” I replied, politely.That maddened him, so I hastily withdrew.I had been asleep for at least two hours when a movement by my bedside and a light in my eyes awakened me. I sat bolt upright in bed, blinking at Halyard, who, clad in a dressing-gown and wearing a night-cap, had wheeled himself into my room with one hand, while with the other he solemnly waved a candle over my head.“I’m so cursed lonely,” he said—”come, there’s a good fellow—talk to me in your own original, impudent way.”I objected strenuously, but he looked so worn and thin, so lonely and bad-tempered, so lovelessly grotesque, that I got out of bed and passed a spongeful of cold water over my head.Then I returned to bed and propped the pillows up for a back-rest, ready to quarrel with him if it might bring some little pleasure into his morbid existence.“No,” he said, amiably, “I’m too worried to quarrel, but I’m much obliged for your kindly offer. I want to tell you something.”“What?” I asked, suspiciously.“I want to ask you if you ever saw a man with gills like a fish?”“Gills?” I repeated.“Yes, gills! Did you?”“No,” I replied, angrily, “and neither did you.”“No, I never did,” he said, in a curiously placid voice, “but there’s a man with gills like a fish who lives in the ocean out there. Oh, you needn’t look that way—nobody ever thinks of doubting my word, and I tell you that there’s a man—or a thing that looks like a man—as big as you are, too—all slate-colored—with nasty red gills like a fish!—and I’ve a witness to prove what I say!”“Who?” I asked, sarcastically.“The witness? My nurse.”“Oh! She saw a slate-colored man with gills?”“Yes, she did. So did Francis Lee, superintendent of the Mica Quarry Company at Port-of-Waves. So have a dozen men who work in the quarry. Oh, you needn’t laugh, young man. It’s an old story here, and anybody can tell you about the harbor-master.”“The harbor-master!” I exclaimed.“Yes, that slate-colored thing with gills, that looks like a man—and—by Heaven! is a man—that’s the harbor-master. Ask any quarryman at Port-of-Waves what it is that comes purring around their boats at the wharf and unties painters and changes the mooring of every cat-boat in the cove at night! Ask Francis Lee what it was he saw running and leaping up and down the shoal at sunset last Friday! Ask anybody along the coast what sort of a thing moves about the cliffs like a man and slides over them into the sea like an otter—”“I saw it do that!” I burst out.“Oh, did you? Well, what was it?”Something kept me silent, although a dozen explanations flew to my lips.After a pause, Halyard said: “You saw the harbor-master, that’s what you saw!”I looked at him without a word.“Don’t mistake me,” he said, pettishly; “I don’t think that the harbor-master is a spirit or a sprite or a hobgoblin, or any sort of damned rot. Neither do I believe it to be an optical illusion.”“What do you think it is?” I asked.“I think it’s a man—I think it’s a branch of the human race—that’s what I think. Let me tell you something: the deepest spot in the Atlantic Ocean is a trifle over five miles deep—and I suppose you know that this place lies only about a quarter of a mile off this headland. The British exploring vessel, Gull, Captain Marotte, discovered and sounded it, I believe. Anyway, it’s there, and it’s my belief that the profound depths are inhabited by the remnants of the last race of amphibious human beings!”This was childish; I did not bother to reply.“Believe it or not, as you will,” he said, angrily; “one thing I know, and that is this: the harbor-master has taken to hanging around my cove, and he is attracted by my nurse! I won’t have it! I’ll blow his fishy gills out of his head if I ever get a shot at him! I don’t care whether it’s homicide or not—anyway, it’s a new kind of murder and it attracts me!”I gazed at him incredulously, but he was working himself into a passion, and I did not choose to say what I thought.“Yes, this slate-colored thing with gills goes purring and grinning and spitting about after my nurse—when she walks, when she rows, when she sits on the beach! Gad! It drives me nearly frantic. I won’t tolerate it, I tell you!”“No,” said I, “I wouldn’t either.” And I rolled over in bed convulsed with laughter.The next moment I heard my door slam. I smothered my mirth and rose to close the window, for the land-wind blew cold from the forest, and a drizzle was sweeping the carpet as far as my bed.That luminous glare which sometimes lingers after the stars go out, threw a trembling, nebulous radiance over sand and cove. I heard the seething currents under the breakers’ softened thunder—louder than I ever heard it. Then, as I closed my window, lingering for a last look at the crawling tide, I saw a man standing, ankle-deep, in the surf, all alone there in the night. But—was it a man? For the figure suddenly began running over the beach on all fours like a beetle, waving its limbs like feelers. Before I could throw open the window again it darted into the surf, and, when I leaned out into the chilling drizzle, I saw nothing save the flat ebb crawling on the coast—I heard nothing save the purring of bubbles on seething sands.V.It took me a week to perfect my arrangements for transporting the great auks, by water, to Port-of-Waves, where a lumber schooner was to be sent from Petite Sainte Isole, chartered by me for a voyage to New York.I had constructed a cage made of osiers, in which my auks were to squat until they arrived at Bronx Park. My telegrams to Professor Farrago were brief. One merely said “Victory!” Another explained that I wanted no assistance; and a third read: “Schooner chartered. Arrive New York July 1st. Send furniture-van to foot of Bluff Street.”My week as a guest of Mr. Halyard proved interesting. I wrangled with that invalid to his heart’s content, I worked all day on my osier cage, I hunted the thimble in the moonlight with the pretty nurse. We sometimes found it.As for the thing they called the harbor-master, I saw it a dozen times, but always either at night or so far away and so close to the sea that of course no trace of it remained when I reached the spot, rifle in hand.I had quite made up my mind that the so-called harbor-master was a demented darky—wandered from, Heaven knows where—perhaps shipwrecked and gone mad from his sufferings. Still, it was far from pleasant to know that the creature was strongly attracted by the pretty nurse.She, however, persisted in regarding the harbor-master as a sea-creature; she earnestly affirmed that it had gills, like a fish’s gills, that it had a soft, fleshy hole for a mouth, and its eyes were luminous and lidless and fixed.“Besides,” she said, with a shudder, “it’s all slate color, like a porpoise, and it looks as wet as a sheet of india-rubber in a dissecting-room.”The day before I was to set sail with my auks in a cat-boat bound for Port-of-Waves, Halyard trundled up to me in his chair and announced his intention of going with me.“Going where?” I asked.“To Port-of-Waves and then to New York,” he replied, tranquilly.I was doubtful, and my lack of cordiality hurt his feelings.“Oh, of course, if you need the sea-voyage—” I began.“I don’t; I need you,” he said, savagely; “I need the stimulus of our daily quarrel. I never disagreed so pleasantly with anybody in my life; it agrees with me; I am a hundred per cent. better than I was last week.”I was inclined to resent this, but something in the deep-lined face of the invalid softened me. Besides, I had taken a hearty liking to the old pig.“I don’t want any mawkish sentiment about it,” he said, observing me closely; “I won’t permit anybody to feel sorry for me—do you understand?”“I’ll trouble you to use a different tone in addressing me,” I replied, hotly; “I’ll feel sorry for you if I choose to!” And our usual quarrel proceeded, to his deep satisfaction.By six o’clock next evening I had Halyard’s luggage stowed away in the cat-boat, and the pretty nurse’s effects corded down, with the newly hatched auk-chicks in a hat-box on top. She and I placed the osier cage aboard, securing it firmly, and then, throwing tablecloths over the auks’ heads, we led those simple and dignified birds down the path and across the plank at the little wooden pier. Together we locked up the house, while Halyard stormed at us both and wheeled himself furiously up and down the beach below. At the last moment she forgot her thimble. But we found it, I forget where.“Come on!” shouted Halyard, waving his shawls furiously; “what the devil are you about up there?”He received our explanation with a sniff, and we trundled him aboard without further ceremony.“Don’t run me across the plank like a steamer trunk!” he shouted, as I shot him dexterously into the cock-pit. But the wind was dying away, and I had no time to dispute with him then.The sun was setting above the pine-clad ridge as our sail flapped and partly filled, and I cast off, and began a long tack, east by south, to avoid the spouting rocks on our starboard bow.The sea-birds rose in clouds as we swung across the shoal, the black surf-ducks scuttered out to sea, the gulls tossed their sun-tipped wings in the ocean, riding the rollers like bits of froth.Already we were sailing slowly out across that great hole in the ocean, five miles deep, the most profound sounding ever taken in the Atlantic. The presence of great heights or great depths, seen or unseen, always impresses the human mind—perhaps oppresses it. We were very silent; the sunlight stain on cliff and beach deepened to crimson, then faded into sombre purple bloom that lingered long after the rose-tint died out in the zenith.Our progress was slow; at times, although the sail filled with the rising land breeze, we scarcely seemed to move at all.“Of course,” said the pretty nurse, “we couldn’t be aground in the deepest hole in the Atlantic.”“Scarcely,” said Halyard, sarcastically, “unless we’re grounded on a whale.”“What’s that soft thumping?” I asked. “Have we run afoul of a barrel or log?”It was almost too dark to see, but I leaned over the rail and swept the water with my hand.Instantly something smooth glided under it, like the back of a great fish, and I jerked my hand back to the tiller. At the same moment the whole surface of the water seemed to begin to purr, with a sound like the breaking of froth in a champagne-glass.“What’s the matter with you?” asked Halyard, sharply.“A fish came up under my hand,” I said; “a porpoise or something—”With a low cry, the pretty nurse clasped my arm in both her hands.“Listen!” she whispered. “It’s purring around the boat.”“What the devil’s purring?” shouted Halyard. “I won’t have anything purring around me!”At that moment, to my amazement, I saw that the boat had stopped entirely, although the sail was full and the small pennant fluttered from the mast-head. Something, too, was tugging at the rudder, twisting and jerking it until the tiller strained and creaked in my hand. All at once it snapped; the tiller swung useless and the boat whirled around, heeling in the stiffening wind, and drove shoreward.It was then that I, ducking to escape the boom, caught a glimpse of something ahead—something that a sudden wave seemed to toss on deck and leave there, wet and flapping—a man with round, fixed, fishy eyes, and soft, slaty skin.But the horror of the thing were the two gills that swelled and relaxed spasmodically, emitting a rasping, purring sound—two gasping, blood-red gills, all fluted and scolloped and distended.Frozen with amazement and repugnance, I stared at the creature; I felt the hair stirring on my head and the icy sweat on my forehead.“It’s the harbor-master!” screamed Halyard.The harbor-master had gathered himself into a wet lump, squatting motionless in the bows under the mast; his lidless eyes were phosphorescent, like the eyes of living codfish. After a while I felt that either fright or disgust was going to strangle me where I sat, but it was only the arms of the pretty nurse clasped around me in a frenzy of terror.There was not a fire-arm aboard that we could get at. Halyard’s hand crept backward where a steel-shod boat-hook lay, and I also made a clutch at it. The next moment I had it in my hand, and staggered forward, but the boat was already tumbling shoreward among the breakers, and the next I knew the harbor-master ran at me like a colossal rat, just as the boat rolled over and over through the surf, spilling freight and passengers among the sea-weed-covered rocks.When I came to myself I was thrashing about knee-deep in a rocky pool, blinded by the water and half suffocated, while under my feet, like a stranded porpoise, the harbor-master made the water boil in his efforts to upset me. But his limbs seemed soft and boneless; he had no nails, no teeth, and he bounced and thumped and flapped and splashed like a fish, while I rained blows on him with the boat-hook that sounded like blows on a football. And all the while his gills were blowing out and frothing, and purring, and his lidless eyes looked into mine, until, nauseated and trembling, I dragged myself back to the beach, where already the pretty nurse alternately wrung her hands and her petticoats in ornamental despair.Beyond the cove, Halyard was bobbing up and down, afloat in his invalid’s chair, trying to steer shoreward. He was the maddest man I ever saw.“Have you killed that rubber-headed thing yet?” he roared.“I can’t kill it,” I shouted, breathlessly. “I might as well try to kill a football!”“Can’t you punch a hole in it?” he bawled. “If I can only get at him—”His words were drowned in a thunderous splashing, a roar of great, broad flippers beating the sea, and I saw the gigantic forms of my two great auks, followed by their chicks, blundering past in a shower of spray, driving headlong out into the ocean.“Oh, Lord!” I said. “I can’t stand that,” and, for the first time in my life, I fainted peacefully—and appropriately—at the feet of the pretty nurse.It is within the range of possibility that this story may be doubted. It doesn’t matter; nothing can add to the despair of a man who has lost two great auks.As for Halyard, nothing affects him—except his involuntary sea-bath, and that did him so much good that he writes me from the South that he’s going on a walking-tour through Switzerland—if I’ll join him. I might have joined him if he had not married the pretty nurse. I wonder whether—But, of course, this is no place for speculation.In regard to the harbor-master, you may believe it or not, as you choose. But if you hear of any great auks being found, kindly throw a table-cloth over their heads and notify the authorities at the new Zoological Gardens in Bronx Park, New York. The reward is ten thousand dollars.The post PseudoPod 632: The Harbour Master appeared first on PseudoPod.
Rank #2: PseudoPod 655: Black Matter. Author : Vivian Shaw Narrator : Robert C. Eccles Host : Alasdair Stuart Audio Producer : Chelsea Davis Discuss on Forums PseudoPod 655: Black Matter is a PseudoPod original.“I’m an aviation nerd with trainwreck syndrome, so air crash investigation is a subject dear to my heart. Having watched documentaries on (and read NTSB reports about) ever so many crashes, I began to wonder what it might be like if the investigators had one last secret fall-back option when no clear cause for an accident could be found, and what it’d be like to be that fall-back option. I write fiction in which the supernatural and the ordinary exist side-by-side — monsters and magic are real, if not commonly understood — and the idea of a practical necromancer contracted to the NTSB seemed like an obvious conclusion.”Black Matterby Vivian Shaw… when all those legs and arms and heads… shall join together at the latter day and cry all “we died at such a place,” some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left… —Shakespeare, Henry VIt’s easier if you use a finger. If you have a finger to use. I don’t have fingers, on this one. What I have is a case full of samples, in tubes, and I can already tell this is a complete shitshow: they’re hopelessly garbled, mixed up together in a cacophony of terror and pain that gives me the kind of headache that will last for days. I need to get out to the site.They don’t like people poking around, of course, during an active investigation, but I’m nominally part of the National Transportation Safety Board – got the blue nylon jacket with the letters on the back and everything, like some overgrown high-school kid who lettered in nerd instead of football. I’m allowed access to the crash site, it’s written down in the rules, and if I pick up fingers that don’t belong to me it doesn’t technically fuck with the chain-of-evidence protocol. Sometimes I get lucky and find what I need right away, soaked into the cockpit: human flesh and bone pulverized at the point of impact to a pink soup which nonetheless is capable of standing up, on this latter day, and telling me a tale. Sometimes I don’t, and it takes longer.I’m strictly last-resort. When everything else is coming up empty, when both black boxes and the quick-access recorder, if there is one, are useless; when they cannot from the radar track and transponder data work out why the plane did what it did, when there’s no obvious evidence of explosion and the pilots didn’t say anything useful to ATC and all the shreds of aluminum and rubber and plastic are keeping their secrets to themselves – when they simply do not know enough to determine probable cause – that’s when they call me, and it’s always four a.m. when that call comes through. Stacy, we got one. Pack up your crystal ball and shag ass, we need you.(Stacy, like Stacy’s mom, only it’s my last name: Devin Stacy. I’ve heard all the jokes, believe me. The dead might travel fast, but by and large they can’t come up with original wit.)This time it’s in West Virginia, just around the first knuckle of the finger it hooks intimately up into western Maryland: halfway along one of the old earth-wrinkle mountains, between a couple of nothing towns. The fact that the nearest burg is called Mount Storm is too fucking Lovecraft for words, so I try to ignore it, even as my little chartered Cessna lines up on short final for the local airstrip. At this point in the investigation the Board is apparently desperate enough to pay for a helo to get me from here to the wreck, rather than a rental car, and I can’t help thinking of that mad static-buzz cacophony of wails and screams that came through when I tried the samples back in my own lab: something terrible happened here, something so far inexplicable and terrible, and it is up to me and the contents of my little black bag to explicate it.Let me try to put this in perspective. The Board doesn’t like to let on that it occasionally has resort to the services of such as me – understandably, because remember how bent out of shape everybody got when the fucking FBI got exposed for paying psychics for help – and so instead of freelance necromancer my official NTSB consultant title is contingency communications specialist. It means exactly nothing, and that’s the point; when they were still sending up the space shuttle, they had a protocol for contingency abort, which was a cute way of saying something’s gone very badly wrong, the mission is kaput, and everybody on this ship is going to die. “Contingency” in bureaucratese means “probably fatal.”What I do is I create a certain very specific and controlled metaphysical atmospheric situation, within clearly defined bounds, in which it is possible for the recently deceased to communicate with the living. This in itself isn’t really hard. Kids in their parents’ garages have tried it, with a bit of clear quartz and silver and some blood from a wincing safety-pin stick, a couple of birthday candles, and gotten a wavery ghost of something juuuust long enough to scare them off fucking with this shit for life. I’m all for that. Freak ‘em out hard enough and most will do the mindblock thing where they can honestly swear later in their lives that they never even touched anything occult.It’s the ones who do come back for more, after the initial terror, that you have to keep an eye on. I was one of them. I know.It’s a bumpy landing, and the Cessna driver apologizes, once we’re taxiing: “Not among my best, Mr. Stacy. I sure hope you find out what happened to that plane, everyone here is kind of – freaked out, a little bit, if you know what I mean.”“Yeah,” I say, “I know exactly what you mean, and you did fine, not your fault about the sudden crosswind, you handled it. You get that a lot here?”“More than we used to. It’s always been kinda rough when there’s wind coming down off the mountain, but I think it really has gotten worse–”He stops, as if he hadn’t actually meant to say that, and I just nod and unfasten my safety belt. “You did fine,” I tell him again, and look at his nametag, “Cody. Thanks for the ride.”“Mr. Stacy?” he says, before I can get out.“Yeah?”“They said they don’t know why it happened. Is it – they don’t say that kinda shit when it’s really a bomb, right? This isn’t just like – some cover-up?”“No. They don’t. That’s the first thing they’d look for, is any evidence of an explosive device – petaled edges on fragments of fuselage, chemical residue, that kind of thing. They have to rule that out first.”“And they didn’t find that stuff?”“No. Not so far. It doesn’t appear that there was anything that – went off, and broke the plane apart.” What I do know is that the wreckage of the engines was found with soil and grass deep inside, chunks of earth chewed up and swallowed by the spinning fans, clear evidence they’d been turning when the plane hit the ground.“But you’d find it, if there was?”“Oh yeah,” I say. “We’d find it. We’re good at finding things.”The night air, when I crack the door, is both wonderful on my face – sharp coolness, the touch of rain – and carries with it even at this distance what I immediately recognize to be the smell of a crash site. It’s a sick kind of cocktail: raw avgas, churned soil, the acrid stink of burning upholstery and carpet, rubber, plastic, aluminum, and underneath of that the reek of decay. Of bad death. It’s summer. They’ve been out here for days now, whatever’s left of them. From what I’ve already been told they hit the ground at no less than four hundred miles an hour: some of the sampled remains I saw might have been put through a blender, and others torn apart like pulled barbecue, anonymous pieces. Meat and chemicals, I once heard it described. (How fast it is, that phase-change, from living people with mortgages and children and sales goals and futures, into meat and chemicals. You would not believe how fast.)I have to be imagining it. There’s no way that stink could be this strong, miles away. I shake my head, and pull my scene-kit bag out from the Cessna’s little excuse for a cargo area; shoulder the bag, give Cody the Pilot a little sketch of a salute, and trudge, head-down against the worsening rain, toward the tiny airport building.You really don’t get used to the smell. You think you do, and then every single time it rises up to grab you by the throat and try to hoist your guts up your esophagus. It doesn’t help to think of it as just a collection of chemicals, decomp products: butyric acid, methane, organic compounds: it still hits the senses like a blunt-force blow. People have described it as sweet. To me it’s a salty kind of stink, black-green and grinning, ready to surge out of hidden hollows with the roar of a million flies. Here it’s overlaid with the other stinks of burning plane-parts, but it’s still present and unignorable.It takes me a minute or two to settle, once that smell hits me. I’m used to it. I really am. I’m standing there with my scene bag in one hand and my eyes shut, taking slow careful breaths, and I should absolutely not have shut my eyes because barely twenty yards away someone yells “Hey Stacy, man, nice of you to join us! You got your magic wand and shit all ready to go, cause we’re kinda on a time crunch here!”I open my eyes. Of course it’s Chief Investigator Wayne Dooley; I knew that, I’d read the goddamn briefing they sent me, but I must have blocked it out of my mind. “Hi, Dooley,” I say. Dools. The Doolmeister. Doolarino. He hates them all. “I hear you guys are stumped, huh?”Dooley is leaning on a chunk of fuselage, ankles crossed, the picture of casual command. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he tells me. “Headquarters said they were shipping you out here, that’s all. Guess they want to cover all their bases, the quick and the dead.”“You found the recorders?”Dooley’s face changes a little. “Yeah,” he says. “Toast. Both of ‘em. No QAR, either. Can’t get jack nor shit off the tape, and the guys back home have been trying.”“What happened to it?”“Lousy luck, I guess; the CVR is in pieces, the FDR chassis is still kinda recognizable but the tape’s just shredded away like confetti, so you better get to work, Mr. Wizard. We need to know what killed this plane.”I know we do. Because if we don’t figure it out, it might happen again. This was a 757, a workhorse aircraft, reliable as a Honda Civic, not subject to the 737 rudder hardover shit that had been traced back to a second-party manufacturing issue or the 737-MAX’s charming habit of flying itself straight into the ground; there had been zero airworthiness directives issued for the 757 in years, and this airframe hadn’t thrown anything even slightly weird at the last maintenance checks, a month ago. “We got no ground witnesses?” I ask.“None. Farmer who saw the fireball from miles away called it in, but it took her a while to get somewhere with cell signal. Real patchy ‘round here, a lot of interference.”“Lovely.” I take off my coat. “Get your guys off the scene, Dooley, for a couple minutes, I gotta do my thing.”“Yeah,” he says. “You do your thing, Stace. You do that.”Already I can feel it. Mostly the dead kind of keep to themselves, but at places like this — places where a lot of people died at once, died badly — there’s a kind of high-pitched mental yammering that threatens to do the sparkly-headache thing to me every single time. I don’t even really have to get out my chalk or my crystal pendulum to hear what they have to say — but I do it anyway, for clarity, and because Dooley and his goons are watching me.The circle, first. I pick my way through the wreckage, some of which is still smoldering days after the crash, and with my eyes shut I can locate what used to be the cockpit by its deeper weight on reality. I get as close as I can before bending over to draw the circle around myself with the special chalk. I do it right the first time, because this shit is expensive, ground-up dead men’s calcined bone isn’t that easy to come by; and as soon as the circle closes I can feel the difference. It’s very much like the moment when you’re climbing or descending in a plane and your ears suddenly pop: an opening, an equalization of a painful pressure differential. Inside the circle I’m safe, and I can do the rest of it without having to watch my back — or to care about being watched. To Dooley’s people I’m no longer visible at all.There’s a series of little white marks along the side of my left forefinger, like a tiny ladder of scars, one for each scene I’ve worked over the past couple of years. It’s the easiest place to cut that doesn’t put tendons in immediate danger if I get too enthusiastic, but I’m running out of finger — have to use my own, here, not anybody else’s — and it’s with some care that I take out the little folding knife and say the words over it. There’s room for one more cut on this digit, if I am careful, and I am.The thin shrill pain of the knife-blade is almost welcome in its familiarity, and a line of blood springs up behind it, purple in the mercury-vapor floods Dooley’s people have set up around the scene. I say the words, and touch the chalk-circle marks here and here and here with my bleeding finger, and in my other hand the quartz point grows suddenly first warm and then hot, almost too hot to hold. Yeah, this isn’t going to be difficult. This isn’t going to be difficult at all —— it’s always weird watching them come up from the center of the circle, as if rising to the surface of some unthinkable lake. First the head, then the shoulders appear. This is the captain. I can tell it’s the captain by the stripes on his shoulder-boards, which is just as well because he no longer has a face. I’ve seen the file photos of the crew, which right now aren’t doing me a blind bit of good: this could be anyone, a churned mass of meat with holes in it, a few scattered white things that look like rice but are what used to be this poor bastard’s teeth. And he’s screaming.As soon as he comes up through the circle he is screaming, and the sound comes in as if from a long way away, like somebody’s turning up a volume knob in a steady zoom from zero to eleven. I’ve tried earplugs: they don’t do a goddamn thing, this isn’t sound I’m hearing with my ears but with my mind. The only thing you can do is grit your teeth and tell yourself it’s going to be over soon, and try to calm the person down — but these are people frozen in the instant of a terrible fucking death.Pilots are trained to respond calmly to emergency situations, and part of that is remaining capable of perceiving changes in their environment even in the middle of incredibly stressful conditions. This one goes on screaming for a little while longer before I register on his radar, and the screams die away into a kind of retching gasp. He isn’t seeing me with his eyes, any more than I am hearing him with my ears: he no longer has eyes with which to see, but at this time and in this place he can perceive me. I know what he sees: a shortish, rumpled man, on the tubby side, wearing a blue NTSB windbreaker and a pair of battered rubber boots. The only thing that visually sets me apart from Dooley and his crew is the collection of amulets around my neck which are glowing faintly through the fabric of my T-shirt.“Sir,” I say. “Captain Warner?”The faceless head tilts. He’s still making rather unpleasant choking sounds; it will take him a little while longer to discover he no longer actually needs to breathe. “My name’s Stacy,” I tell him. “I’m an investigator with the NTSB. We’re trying to find out what happened to your aircraft. Can you tell me what went wrong?”Sometimes this part is easy. Sometimes it’s a question of there was a fire and we lost all ability to control the aircraft, or there was a huge bang and the cabin depressurized and then we had no horizontal stabilizer function, which translates to half the tail of the fucking plane came off; sometimes it’s we lost an engine and the shrapnel cut through our hydraulic lines, or we had airspeed/altitude disagree warnings and hit the ground while we were trying to figure out what the fuck was happening — that one’s more common than you’d like to think — but it’s clear already that tonight ain’t going to be one of the simple jobs. Captain Warner is staring right at me with the eyes he hasn’t got, and now he is reaching out toward me with a hand that’s still partially intact, slicked with blood like he’s wearing a bright-red patent leather glove, and oh boy sometimes I wish the Board had more than one tame necromancer on their fucking payroll. Sometimes I wish that quite a lot.In the circle he can touch me. Outside the circle we’re as substantial to each other as a cloud; in here the planes we’re inhabiting intersect, and his hand is cold as what’s left of it closes around mine, cold and sticky — I can feel the sharp jagged edges of broken bone inside the flesh, and then I am no longer standing on the ground at all.The cockpit floor beneath my feet is whole, its structural integrity unbreached, and beneath it is the ground, five and a half miles down: a rumpled green blanket in which the wrinkles are not creases of fabric but of rock, old mountains pushed up by the Appalachian orogeny three hundred million years ago. I am standing behind the pedestal that separates the pilot’s and first officer’s seats, looking directly out the 757’s front windows at the classic spreading anvil of a huge thunderhead, and in the seat to my left Captain Warner is looking at it too. The first officer is drinking coffee and has not yet noticed what Captain Warner and I have seen, which is that although the cloud directly in our flightpath must be ten miles wide, black and throbbing with flickers of lightning like bad thoughts in a vast and disturbed brain, it is not showing up on our weather radar at all. The rectangular LED screens underneath the artificial horizon on both sides of the cockpit are clear and black, with no sign of the roiling green-yellow-red fan-shape echo of the storm ahead of us. It’s not the devilishly misleading radar shadow phenomenon, either, implying a clear path through a visible stormcell when in fact the precipitation is too dense for the radar beam to make the two-way trip through it, registering as a blank space on the display: right now there is no reading at all. There is simply nothing there.We are flying directly toward the storm at better than four hundred miles an hour. It seems to be centered on the very top of the tallest part of the mountain-ridge just ahead. I get the very clear feeling that Captain Warner does not want to fly into it, and this is not just because he is not an idiot, it is because there is something wrong with that storm, something very wrong indeed — why isn’t it pinging on the radar, nothing else is giving weird readings, green across the board —“Hey,” says the first officer, finally looking up. “The fuck? Where’d that come from?”And despite the growing urgency of the situation Warner seems frozen, mesmerized, staring at the thing, his hands loose on the control-column yoke. He’s got a class ring on his right hand. The ring won’t make it through what happens next: the finger on which it currently rests is no longer there on the hand that is clasping mine outside this snatch of recorded memory.“Dave?” says the first officer. “You okay?”He doesn’t reply, and the airframe creaks around us as the plane slams into the edge of turbulent air surrounding the storm — and it is a heartbreaking eight seconds longer before he seems to snap out of his trance, shaking his head to clear it. In another second he has closed his hands tight around the yoke and wrenched it to the left, sending the Boeing in a steep bank to port in an effort to avoid the storm, but he knows and I know and the first officer now knows that it is much too late because we are now past the fringe and in it — immediately violent turbulence strikes, shaking us like rats in a trap, like dice in a cup, like anything you want to fucking name — behind us the passengers scream, and I can hear luggage crashing down as the overhead bins shake open — the windows are blank grey-black except for the white-violet flares of lightning all around us, it is as if the plane is held in the grip of some terrible hand that is drawing us into the very heart of the storm and still the radar screens are black and clear —And in the last minute before the final bolt of impossible lightning spears through the 757, frying flight controls and avionics all to hell and starting spot-fires in the insulation of the cabin (it shouldn’t do that, it shouldn’t be able to do that, planes are hit by lightning all the time and they don’t auger into the fucking ground like this one did) I see it. Captain Warner sees it, and therefore so do I, and when the bolt hits and the brilliant explosion of light blanks out the view I am unspeakably grateful.I open my eyes, and then open them again, and I am still staring into the meat that was Warner’s face, and he is looking back at me. His hand — the remains of his hand — is still grasping mine, and for a moment, briefly, he squeezes my fingers. Then he is gone, and the night springs back up around me, all the smells of a crash site overlaid with the distinctive burned-tin stink of magic. The rain on my face feels like a blessing.When I scuff out the remains of the chalk circle with the tip of a boot, Dooley’s goons jump at my sudden reappearance. I take a little more time than strictly necessary to wrap a bandaid around my finger and stow all my amulets away, because fuck if I know what I’m going to tell the Doolmeister. What I’m going to put in my report. What I can say.In the end I go with “Weather,” and he gives me the look I deserve. We’ve walked some distance away from the center of the site, and a little of the horror is fading, but it must still show in my face because he actually asks me if I’m okay.No, you obtuse fuck, I think. I can’t even tell him this entire mess is another hail-ingestion engine flameout situation like Garuda or TACA, back in the eighties and nineties: he knows as well as I do that both engines were turning just fine when they hit the ground.“Yeah, I’m okay. It was — a lightning strike. Particularly bad one, fried all the systems and started a fire, immediate loss of control and subsequent crash. I strongly recommend telling the FAA to issue a warning to all carriers to avoid this area, adjust their routes to the north or south by — maybe twenty, thirty miles, because seriously dangerous weather conditions like that are extremely likely to occur.”“A lightning strike,” Dooley repeats.“Yeah.” It’s not exactly untrue, either: there had been a lightning strike that fried the plane’s controls, but I’m not telling him the rest. I meet his eyes: you wanna try it, be my guest, let’s see how you like talking to someone without a face, and after a moment he looks away with a little whatever, asshole shrug and cups his hands to his mouth in a makeshift megaphone.“Lewis, Johnston, Reed,” he calls. “Lightning. Fucking lightning. Quit screwing around and look for arcing and fire damage on the wiring harnesses, and someone get on the horn to HQ, tell ‘em we got a preliminary.”Just like that, I’m done: out of sight and out of mind. To Dooley I no longer exist. In another situation I might mind how easily he relegates me to background interference; right now I’m intensely glad of it. What the labs will find is not inconsistent with a major lightning strike. It’s good enough for government work, as you might say, and — that’s good enough for me, and possibly for poor bloody Captain Warner. At least the conclusions will show that he and his first officer were not at fault, unless someone wants to play the drove his damn plane right into a lightning storm card, and I know that if they can get anything off the flight data recorder it wouldn’t show a damn thing that Warner should have paid attention to. Those radar screens had been absolutely black.Act of God. They happen, sometimes. It won’t go over well with some of the Board leadership, but it’s close enough, and it’s better than concluding the accident report without a finding of probable cause. They don’t like leaving things marked undetermined; it’s bureaucratically untidy, a loose end trailing from a file drawer that should have been neatly tucked away.But as I walk to the waiting helo I think again of what I can’t put in my report: what I saw in that last moment before the flare of brilliance blotted out the world. In that second before the end of it I had looked down at the mountaintop five miles below our feet, and something vast had looked back at me, and seen me. It had seen me very well, and it had smiled.There’s something in that mountain, something that draws down the lightning to amuse itself. Something that likes to make storms that don’t show up on radar traces, and pull living creatures into them, and close the hand of the storm around the fragile little tubes of metal and the soft parts inside, shake them blind and broken, watch them fall five miles straight down into a distant rose-bloom of white fire. Something that is far older than people, old as the wrinkled rock of the mountain itself, something that has perhaps slept for a very long time — but is awake now, and hungry.I wonder what has woken it.I can’t stop thinking about that, even as the pilot beside me twists the throttle, lifting the collective gently, and the brightly-lit field of wreckage – both human and mechanical – falls away beneath us with boneless, weightless ease. How it had looked up at me.How it had smiled.The post PseudoPod 655: Black Matter appeared first on PseudoPod.
Rank #1: town. Read by Dennis Smith. An unwitting videographer is drawn into a mysterious researcher's day-long journey through a small place on the brink of total possession. Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/sorennarnia
Rank #2: laborer. Nothing that has four walls and a roof can be eliminated as a possible breeding ground for the supernatural -- nothing. Music: "Dream" by Jahzzar, SoundExpress, Getty Music. "Mourning Song" and "Past the Edge" by Kevin MacLeod, incompetech.com. Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License. http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/ These stories are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License, meaning that anyone is free to adapt them as they see fit, even for profit, without the obligation to compensate the author. Patreon: www.patreon.com/sorennarnia Other audio horror by Soren Narnia: “Why Have You Disturbed Our Sleep” - The Bloodlust podcast, October 8, 2017 “Outcall" - Episode 15, Alexandria Archives podcast “Paranormal Appraisal 151" – Episode 20, Alexandria Archives podcast “Q & A With a Vampire Killer" - Episode 33, Alexandria Archives podcast
Rank #1: Kurt Fawver | The Bleeding Maze: A Visitor’s Guide. I want to tell you about the bleeding maze at the center of our town. People who aren’t from around here don’t know anything about it. It’s not referenced on any website or in any travel book, and most of us like it that way. We don’t share the knowledge of its existence with just anyone because it’s a very personal thing, the maze. We all have longstanding relationships with it that began at a young age. See, when kids in our town turn eighteen, we force them to enter it, like our parents did to us and their parents did to them. Inside the maze we have unique experiences, formative experiences. | Copyright 2019 by Kurt Fawver. Narrated by Stefan Rudnicki.
Rank #2: Jonathan Maberry - Property Condemned. The house was occupied, but no one lived there. That’s how Malcolm Crow thought about it. Houses like the Croft place were never really empty. Like most of the kids in Pine Deep, Crow knew that there were ghosts. Even the tourists knew about the ghosts. It was that kind of town. Narrated by Paul Boehmer.
Rank #1: S1E1: The Basement. Welcome to The Lift. If you find yourself here, there are choices to be made. Your past has lead you here, but what happens when that past was filled with vile and dark things? In this week’s story, Victoria interacts with someone she’d rather not. Meet Jefferson and see how Victoria deals with this…particular situation. If you like what we create and would like to support the show, please visit support.victoriaslift.com. Show Notes and more info at http://victoriaslift.com.
Rank #2: S1E0: What are Jelly Babies. “What are Jelly Babies?” – Mark Nixon For our Season One Pre-Launch Episode we bring you our First Annual Halloween Special! In this creepy tale, Victoria finds herself in need of help when a destructive creature invades The Building. It seems determined to destroy everything in its path, but can a kindly stranger help? Happy Halloween from Mark Nixon, Victoria, and everyone else here at The Lift! If you like what we create and would like to support the show, please visit support.victoriaslift.com. Show Notes and more info at http://victoriaslift.com.
Rank #1: Dark Shadows Episode 1. Dark Shadows Episode 1 http://oldtimeradiodvd.com 421
Rank #2: Dracula 1 0f 7. Dracula 1 0f 7 http://oldtimeradiodvd.com 1031
Rank #1: Wormwood Episode 1: The Coming Storm. Habit Forming Films proudly presents: Wormwood: Episode One: The Coming Storm! (Right click on icon and save to download to your desktop.) Subscribe in iTunes. Episode One: The Coming Storm Written by David Accampo and Jeremy Rogers Produced and Recorded by Habit Forming Films, LLC Edited by Jeremy Rogers Original Music Composed by Todd Hodges […]
Rank #2: Wormwood: Revelation: Chapter One. Torture as a means of coping with loss; Dreams of mud and dismemberment; The one-armed man returns; A ghostly alliance; Conversations in a cave and the predictable nature of teenage boys. Habit Forming Films proudly presents: Wormwood: Revelation: Chapter One! Written by David Accampo and Jeremy Rogers (Right click on icon and save to download […]
Rank #1: Demon Eyes. Rookie FBI agent Sara Gowan must locate the missing victims of serial killer Wesley Morrow before his looming execution. Complicating matters... a pair of mysterious eyeglasses belonging to Morrow that may allow one to see a frightful truth lurking in our midst. Written, directed and produced by John Ballentine Cast Diane Gilbert Alan Pierce John Ballentine Blaine Hicklin Teresa Ballentine Music by Kevin MacLeod Follow us on Facebook @CampfireRadioTheater and Twitter @CampfireRadio Running time 32:36
Rank #2: Night Chills. Justin and Jill were content in their new home before the unexplained noises, the icy rooms... and a terrifying dead of night visitor. Written, directed and produced by John Ballentine Cast John Ballentine Allison Howard Shelby Sessler Blaine Hicklin Larry Perkins Music by Kevin MacLeod The song "Lullaby" created and performed by _ghost Follow us on Facebook @CampfireRadioTheater and Twitter @CampfireRadio Running time 29:43
Rank #1: Drabblecast 386 – Garen and The Hound. This week the Drabblecast presents an originally commissioned story: “Garen and the Hound” by Jeremiah Tolbert. It is a story about the dream world and the relentless pursuit of something dark and sinister. This story is part of our Lovecraft Month, a celebration of all things H.P. and Old Ones. Story Excerpt: The veils of […] The post Drabblecast 386 – Garen and The Hound appeared first on The Drabblecast.
Rank #2: Drabblecast 409 – The Dandelion Man. The Drabblecast presents an original story: “The Dandelion Man” by Jack Nicholls. A tale of coming of age, a tale of survival; a fight to discover who is of the soil and who is of the air… Story Excerpt: Teo and Paulus stood at the shore of the pampas, where the grass grew twice as […] The post Drabblecast 409 – The Dandelion Man appeared first on The Drabblecast.
Rank #1: 1: S1E01 – "Childhood Mysteries” – The Simply Scary Podcast. As nostalgic as many of us get for our childhood, memory can be a frustratingly unreliable thing. It can lose the most precious moments and information from our formative years… Inexplicably, when we really need it for a conversation with an old friend, our memories may fail us and leave us stammering for an explanation. Sometimes, though, the gaps in our memory shield us from revelations that, if they had been retained, would haunt us to our graves. Today’s stories are about unfortunate characters who attempt to unravel some of these puzzling “Childhood Mysteries." See full episode details, including credits and more information about the featured authors and performers, here: http://www.simplyscarypodcast.com/episodes/s1/1x01/
Rank #2: 8: Carnage and Cruelty – Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. On tonight’s program, we invite you to leave behind your safe reality, and descend with us into the frightening depths of the most terrifying imaginations, with audio adaptations of three rounds of frightening fiction, about atrocious appetites, creepy confessions, and wretched realizations.
Rank #1: S1.03. Deeper Down the Rabbit Hole. Seth, Ally, Mike, Erin, and Brandon continue to explore the mysterious bunker. File cabinets block doors, floppy disks are broken, and passages lead to strange places. This week things go terribly wrong, oh, and Mr. Sanchez, the crowbar, makes a guest appearance! __ Enjoy this podcast? Tell a friend! Or leave a review wherever you listen to podcasts. Wanna know more about the Lake Clarity area? Find us on social media! Tumblr Facebook Twitter Instagram All of our music is created by Its Teeth! If you like good music, check out his website, or find him on Spotify or Bandcamp! There are so many great audio dramas out there! If you like this show, we recommend you check out our friends at The Alexandria Archives and the Audio Drama Production Podcast!
Rank #2: S1.04. A Split Path. The kids split up, and things go terribly wrong. Erin, Brandon, and Mike explore the bunker further. Together they get one step closer to discovering the true purpose of the bunker. Stay tuned for the credits, we have a quick announcement about our hiatus next week. While we're gone, we hope you check out the Alexandria Archives! You'll hear from us soon. 442315 42242144 2443 34351533 __ Enjoy this podcast? Tell a friend! Or leave a review wherever you listen to podcasts. Wanna know more about the Lake Clarity area? Find us on social media! Tumblr Facebook Twitter Instagram LakeClarity.com All of our music is created by Its Teeth! If you like good music, check out his website, or find him on Spotify or Bandcamp!
Rank #1: S1 Episode 0: Tape 1 - The Where. In 1998 Ryan Jennings recorded a VHS tape in an attempt tounderstand the mysteries that only seem to exist within hishometown of Crayton, Minnesota. Tape 1 of 2. For information regarding your data privacy, visit acast.com/privacy
Rank #2: S1 Episode 0: Tape 2 - The Why. In 1998 Ryan Jennings recorded himself performing a localhorrorlegend known to Crayton, Minnesota, as "The Sinner's Game".And hislife changed forever.Tape 2 of 2 For information regarding your data privacy, visit acast.com/privacy
Rank #1: 1: A Thing For Machines (S1, Ep1). Sally’s “helper robots” practically run the small town of Junction Falls, but much to the consternation of her longtime boyfriend, Hal, they also take up a lot of her time and attention. Feeling increasingly neglected, he confronts Sally — and makes a shocking discovery.
Rank #2: 2: Eleventh Hour (S1, Ep2). Business is bad at Bill's Law Firm & Car Wash. Bill's about to shutter the business, when he gets an envelope from a mysterious client. Things are looking up until he makes a deadly mistake, causing the client to reveal their surprising identity...and an impossible choice.