Lunatics Radio Hour
The history of horror and the horror of history.
Lunatics Radio Hour
Lunatics Library 40 - Ocean Horror Stories: Part 1
Abby and Alan present the first part of our Ocean Horror Stories series, as part of our Horror on The High Seas exploration.
Lorelee was written by Elou Carroll and read by Tessa McKnight. Follow Elou on social media at @keychild and check out www.eloucarroll.com.
A Sinking Feeling was written by Warren Benedetto and read by Jon C. Cook. Visit warrenbenedetto.com and follow @warrenbenedetto on Twitter and Instagram. And check out the Fadò podcast for more of Jon's amazing narration work.
Selkie's bones was written by Marisca Pichette and read by Sara Luke. Follow Marisca on their website mariscapichette.com and on X @MariscaPichette, Instagram @marisca_write and Bluesky @marisca.bsky.social. Follow Sara on Instagram @saraluke25.
Lost to The Black Depths was written by Mathew Gostelow and read by Abby Brenker. Follow Mathew @MatGost on Twitter. And check out weirding-words.blogspot.com.
Revenge of The Vampire Sea Snail was written by Alex Grehy and read by Michael Crosa. Check out Alex’s first speculative poetry collection, Last Species. And check out Michael's work running the Podnooga Network.
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Hello everyone, Welcome back to another episode of the Lunatics Radio Hour podcast. I'm Abby Brinker sitting here with Alan Kudan Ahoy, and today we have what is a very momentous occasion for Lunatics Radio Hour. This is the first time in our history that we will have two parts of ocean horror themed stories for you.
Speaker 2:And why is that Abby?
Speaker 1:It is because we have weaned down all of the submissions that came in to 11 stories. We could not possibly wean it down further because they're so freaking good.
Speaker 2:Does this topic hold the superlative for most submissions?
Speaker 1:Yes, absolutely.
Speaker 2:Would you say we had a tidal wave of submissions? Oh very good?
Speaker 1:Yes, I would. I also just want to say it feels like a bit of a moment in time because for many years it was really me sometimes, alan, but mostly me writing stories solely for these topics and I just, you know, I'm reflecting a little bit on the growth of the podcast and kind of where we've come and the depth of our research has improved so much and also just the scope of writers who are submitting and aware of our podcast. And you know I can't be more excited to present these 11 stories over the next two episodes. And they are paired with some very, very, very talented narrators.
Speaker 2:You might have written the majority of stories, but no woman is an island.
Speaker 1:I know you had your moments there too.
Speaker 2:I wrote Werewolves in Space.
Speaker 1:A classic.
Speaker 2:Something with clones.
Speaker 1:Uh-huh, another really good one. That was a surprise.
Speaker 2:And there was something that took place in a basement for the Necromancy series. I don't remember anything about it.
Speaker 1:Really had a big impact on you I mean I'd say that was my best work.
Speaker 1:So anyway, thank you guys, so much just for everything. We feel super excited about this series and we're grateful, but we have six stories to get through in today's episode, which is just mind blowing to me, and that's only half the other. Very cool thing about this is that a lot of these writers not all of them, but a lot of them are brand new to lunatics. So this first story is an author who is making their lunatics debut on the podcast. We are kicking things off with a story written by Elu Carroll, and I'm just going to tell everybody a little bit about our writer today. So Elu Carroll is a graphic designer and freelance photographer who also, of course, writes. Her work appears or is forthcoming in the Deadlands Baffling Magazine and the third volume of. If there's Anyone Left, when she's not whispering with ghosts, she can be found editing Crow and Cross Keys, publishing all things dark and lovely and spending far too much time on Twitter at Keychild.
Speaker 2:I think you mean the social media platform X.
Speaker 1:Well, some of us refuse to acknowledge that change, and she also keeps a catalog of her weird little wood creatures on her website, elucarolcom, and of course, we'll link everything below so that you can easily find her and her adorable little wood creatures. That's, that's fun. I just am so grateful to the cool people that we've been introduced through this. But without further ado, let's roll the first tape. Laura Lee, written by Alou Carroll. Read by Joseph McKnight.
Speaker 4:She is on the beach again, hair tangled with salt and sand, fingers gritty and bloodied. She digs and digs and pulls up each shell in turn, holds them close to her ear and casts them away. With every empty carapace. She howls and screams until her voice breaks like a wave on the shore. The seashell in Mara's hands is packed with sand and seaweed. She hollows it out and the space between her ribs whispers. We are the same now. Her fingers shake, but before she raises it up to listen, she looks out to the sea and begs please, let it be this one, please.
Speaker 4:It is a conch, large and heavy, with its inside stained, browned by beach mud. The outside is rough, like working hands, worn and striped. Mara licks her lips with a dry tongue and closes her eyes. The conch rests against her ear and she hears the roar of the waves, brutal punishing and then silence. Mara waits. From the hush, a voice echoes.
Speaker 4:There came a wave so big, so terrible. They said to stay below, to mind my pretty dresses. It was unlucky, they said, to have a woman aboard and unluckier still for a woman to be on deck where the sea can see her. They tried to stop me, bony fingers digging into the seams of my skirts. But I I'd not wanted to die without seeing the stars. Better I plummeted from the deck than sank in that bloated coffin with all those souls.
Speaker 4:Mara lowers the shell, but before she throws it away, the voice from inside cries wait, not yet. Hello. Do you know what happened to him? Can you tell me where he is? Hello, as her hand shakes, the ring on her finger beats against the conch like a brittle heart Up above the sky smiled sadly. Then I saw it, the wave. It was so big, so very, very big, and in it I saw the great face of death come to swallow us whole, and it did. The mouth of the wave came down upon us and it was heavy and the sea was dark. The voice in the shell shudders and gulps. It sucks in a long breath. And then Laura Lee, hello, whispers Mara again. But the seashell does not answer. She throws the shell to the side and scrapes another from the sand. It is an auger with a point so sharp that it scores her palm. But her hands are already so bloody and laced with cuts she barely notices.
Speaker 4:Mara does not wait. She pulls the shell to her ear and listens we had no water, nary scrap of food. The sailors, they wanted to draw straws to decide which of us to eat to save the rest, but there was no saving us. Which of us to eat to save the rest, but there was no saving us. Too far from shore, we were no way to tell where we were drifting to. But hope is a strange thing. And they had hope. They had fight in them too. They would die anyway.
Speaker 4:We slept for a long time, rocked by the waves, and I woke to hear a singing. The voice in the shell was hewn from rock, rough and wise, resigned. The song said what I feared and I looked across and I saw my shipmates, sicken, starve. So I did the only thing, the merciful thing. I dashed their sorrows upon the deck until each was gone, and then I waited for the end, waited for the sea to take her bounty or to die on the deck. Whichever came.
Speaker 4:First, the augur let out a cough and then, laurally, no, wait, wait. Do you know what happened? Which ship did you sail? Was it the Oyster's Promise? Did you see him? Did you sail with my Ronan?
Speaker 4:When the seashell does not respond, mara sinks into the sand, she curls into the grains, breathes deeply. The beach sticks to her mouth, dry and choking, as if to make a sandcastle of her, to make driftwood of her bones. Mara lies among the shells and weeps, though no tears trickle down her cheeks. Everything about her is parched and coarse, like the sun-baked sand, too far from the tide. The space between her ribs is quiet. Now the pit there deep. Her hand coils between her breasts, nails pressing crescents into her skin, as if she can fill the empty well in her chest with her fingers. From the dried sea husks come whispers, manifold, each overlapping the other so that they sound like the sea. Each of those voices, long dead, drowned, lost shape themselves in the same way, calling out. And then Loralee, loralee, loralee. She wakes to rain lashing her face and the tide brushing her shoes. The shells are silent at her sides, beneath her hands, stories spent on the sand, their last moments rasped out until the early hours. But there is another voice, slow and plaintive, singing across the water my bonnie lies over the ocean. My bonnie lies over the ocean. My bonnie lies over the sea. My bonnie lies over the ocean. Bring back my bonnie to me, mara whispers.
Speaker 4:The last time they had been together, the night before he travelled to port. Ronan had cradled her to him and sung soft and low like a lullaby until she'd fallen asleep. When she woke the next morning he was already gone and the bed beside her was cold. It has been months since then. The Oyster's Promise never made port and now the townspeople never look at her. Instead, they avert their eyes when she nears and pretend they don't see her own eyes swollen with tears. All she has now is the beach and the shells and the sempiternal sea.
Speaker 4:Mara rises clutching the mound of her belly and walks out into the surf With her lips pursed and her brows knit in concentration. Last night, as I lay on my pillow, last night as I lay on my bed last night, as I lay on my pillow, I dreamt that my bonnie was dead. The singing ebbs, flows and falls with the wind, until it hits the cliffs and is cast back whence it came. Perhaps she is imagining it. Perhaps there is no voice at all, only her own warbling shanties towards the waves Beneath the sea, foam glowing grey.
Speaker 4:In the night, mara trips, her toes caught in the mouth of a seashell. It rolls iridescent in the water and her stomach rolls with it. What was it? They said the shell speakers. Mara crouches low, collects the shell and holds it close to her chest when she is waist deep and the current pulls at her dress and fills her shoes. Mara calls hoarse and wild Laura Lee.
Speaker 4:The wind stops singing and the sea stills For a moment. It is as if Mara is the only thing left in all the world she and the child that squirms in her belly. She clenches her dress in her fist. She'd meant to tell him, but then he, a figure, crowns up ahead, a woman, naked, but for the pearls and barnacles, limpets and starfish dotted across her grey-blue skin and the odd sea snail trailing about her neck. Kelp sprouts from her head and hangs long like hair. She rises up into the moonlight until her webbed feet rest on the still waters. She does not move, her pearl-pale eyes staring out at Mara like twin stars.
Speaker 4:Loralee, are you Loralee? Mara asks, voice ringing loud, clear. Her shoulders shake and shudder, but she holds her head high. The water woman does not respond but tilts her head just so, one wet lock slipping across her cheek. Ronan, my, my Ronan. Mara clears her throat, swallows His ship was his ship never reached port. I want, need to know what happened. I need to have him back, please. She hugs her swollen belly tighter, pushes her shoulders back and tries not to sob.
Speaker 4:Laura Lee walks the water like a path steps steady and sure. When she reaches Mara, she offers a water-wrinkled hand and waits. Mara gazes up at her eyes wide. She raises a hand but pulls it back at the last moment and holds it against her chest. The water woman opens her mouth and speaks light as a bell. No evil shall befall you, neither above nor below, neither in sea nor on the shore, nor in the depths. Mara's hand moves to her mouth and she stifles a cry. Ronan's voice rings alongside Laura Lee's's crisp, as it had when they were wed, but now there is a tremor there. With shaking breath, mara continues their vows Do not walk in front of me, I may not follow. Do not walk behind, I may not lead. Walk beside me. Laura Lee offers her hand once more and this time Mara takes it.
Speaker 4:They have been walking hand in hand for so long that the shore has dropped away into the night time and twinkling lights from the town have been replaced by the cool, pale light of the stars. Mara looks down into the gloom below and somewhere in the deep something is glowing. There are ghosts at the bottom of the ocean. Mara knows, as every sailor wife knows. She imagines them beneath her feet, bearing their souls to her souls, looking up from the doldrums and raising their arms as if to reach her. But they are anchored there, fast and forever. As she looks down, she swears. She sees Ronan's face yawning wide beneath the water. She gasps and her grip on Loralee's hand falters.
Speaker 4:Without the water woman to ground her, mara plunges into the deep, thrashing her arms and grabbing at the sea. Laura Lee floats in front like a spectre, places her cold hands on Mara's cheeks, her barb-sharp nails nicking her skin and her lips on warmer lips. She breathes then for the widow and her breath tastes like oysters, like cockles and mussels, like salt Together. They rise from the water. Mara coughs, sputters and heaves and Laura Lee waits, running her hands from Mara's face down to her shoulders, down until her fingers circle her wrists.
Speaker 4:Ronan Mara chokes the water woman, regards her and when she speaks again, ronan speaks with her. Please, I have a wife, please, I cannot die here. Water seeps from the water woman's mouth and she chokes it up, gasping for air. You have to help me. I have to get back. I have to get. I'll do anything, I'll give anything. Laura Lee and Ronan's voices falter and they suck in a breath so deep and so full that it sounds like an ending. Tears trickle down from her eyes, though her face remains dispassionate. No evil shall befall you, neither above nor below, neither in sea nor on the shore, nor in the depths. Do not walk in front of me, I may not follow. Do not walk behind, I may not lead. Ronan's voice, weaker, now falls away and Laura Lee continues Walk beside me.
Speaker 4:There is a shell on the beach, a perfect periwinkle, smooth and whole and green as the sea. It reminds him of Mara's eyes. So he picks it up and holds it in his palms, as if the act of holding it might bring her back to him. For months he has been walking the beach and calling her name, until his cries are as familiar to the waves as the seabirds overhead. She walked into the sea, they said she and the child. Ronan does not know what compels him to raise the shell to his ear, but when he does, he does not hear the shh of the waves, but silence. Then, soft as a whisper, she speaks. She tells him of the beach and the seashells and the waves, tells him how she howled and screamed and how their child howled and screamed inside her. She tells him of the townspeople, of their downturned faces and their backs and their whispers. Tell tells him of the townspeople, of their downturned faces and their backs and their whispers. Tells him of the months that passed and the night that followed. And then Laura Lee.
Speaker 2:I liked this one, as did I. I think this is one of the more unique submissions we've had.
Speaker 1:I agree. Tell me your thoughts.
Speaker 2:Well, first off that little sea shanty.
Speaker 1:I know, like me, your thoughts.
Speaker 2:Well, first off, that little sea shanty. I know Like that's amazing. Is that? I mean that feels like ripped right out of the the annals of time.
Speaker 1:Exactly.
Speaker 2:I don't know if it was, but if it was, that's fine. Or it was original.
Speaker 1:Who can say I'm going to say it was original and some of the best sea shanty work I've ever heard. I actually think my dad used to sing me that sea shanty, but perhaps it was a different version, you know, maybe it was altered for the story.
Speaker 2:Well, you know what they say about sea shanties.
Speaker 1:What do they say?
Speaker 2:They shan't belong to anyone but the sea.
Speaker 1:There you go. That was very good, alan, thank you.
Speaker 2:It was cute, it was haunting. Everything about this story just kind of like struck a bunch of chords was pretty cool. I just also loved the imagery of embracing the oblivion of a rogue wave. I don't know if it was a rogue wave or not, it was a really big wave.
Speaker 1:That that's what I was imagining well as we learned from the series, a rogue wave has to be at least double the height of the average wave in any given region at the time regardless, I just love the idea of you.
Speaker 2:Just see this overwhelming force of nature and just like, yep, here we go.
Speaker 1:I just also love the old-timey sailor maritime folklore element here, which is one of my favorite little sub-niche genres that exist in the world when it comes to literature and history. And there's actually a book that really doesn't remind me much of this at all, except for the kind of very vaguely similar plot, but the book Villette, which is one of my favorite books. I spent a whole seminar in college studying it, so it's really one of my favorites only because of that.
Speaker 2:Villette. Villette I don't even know that.
Speaker 1:It's a novel written by Charlotte Bronte, and Villette is a fictional, I think, French town, but it's fictional. But it has a similar plot point, which is why I'm just putting it out there. If someone needs a good fall read, I would suggest. But beyond that, Laura Lee was so beautiful, so haunting, so ethereal. In so many ways I was very into it and so I wanted to start there because it also felt like a really great nod to a lot of the history and folklore that we covered in the series.
Speaker 2:I liked it how it kind of mixed and matched some stuff, but nothing felt out of place.
Speaker 1:I know I want a novel of this world honestly, yeah it was a lot of fun. Yeah, we demand a novel.
Speaker 2:Also, those wedding vows were so cute, so cute, pretty spot on.
Speaker 1:As someone who's heard a lot of stupid wedding vows, and I also just want to take a second for Tessa McKnight. We love Tessa McKnight. She did such a freaking good job with this story, as she always does, and her voice adds so much gravitas to a lot of these stories and it's just so beautiful to listen to she's cheating.
Speaker 2:She's cheating. She's cheating why she sounds too good. You can give her the phone book. Actually, it's such a dated reference. You can let her read the.
Speaker 1:TV guide.
Speaker 2:Yeah, another dated reference. Hang on, what do we got? Come on, we're hip, we're cool. You could give her a TikTok video to transcribe.
Speaker 1:She could read a subway sign. Abby, I don't know, what do you want me to say?
Speaker 2:I feel like she could read the most boring Wikipedia article out loud. And it would just feel like butter.
Speaker 1:Yeah, her voice is entrancing. Yeah, she's excellent. All right, as much as I could talk about Laura Lee, until the cows come home, we have five more stories to present to you today.
Speaker 2:Don't you mean the manatees?
Speaker 1:Yeah, until.
Speaker 2:The manatees come home. They're the cows of the sea.
Speaker 1:All right. So next up we have a story again by a first time writer for Lunatics Radio Hour, first time that this writer is being featured. His name is Warren Benedetto. Warren writes dark fiction about horrible people, horrible places and horrible things, which is quite relatable. He's an award-winning author who has published over 230 stories appearing in publications such as Dark Matter Magazine and Fantasy Magazine. He's also been featured on the no Sleep Podcast one of my favorites and Tales to Terrify. He also works in the video game industry, where he holds more than 35 patents for various types of gaming technology. This story that we are about to play for you now is originally published in Night Terrors Volume 7 by Scare Street in December 2020. You can also visit Warren Benedetto and follow him at Warren Benedetto on Twitter and Instagram and, of course again, everybody for this whole episode will be linked in the description, so don't worry about taking notes. Also, just a content warning on this one for child neglect and drug addiction. But without further ado, let's roll the tape.
Speaker 3:A sinking feeling. Read by Warren Benedetto. Read by Chance Cook. How long before help comes? Andre asked no rep by chance cook.
Speaker 6:How long before help comes, andre asked. The two of us were sitting on a sodden mattress that was semi-submerged under the water. It wasn't exactly a life raft, but it was buoyant enough to keep us somewhat dry. Without the mattress, we'd be in the water up to our necks. With it, the water was only up to our ribs. I glanced at Andre Wet hair stuck to his face and thick matted strips that looked like rotting seaweed. Beads of water clung to his spiny, rust-colored beard. The chattering of his teeth reminded me of the clicking of scrabble tiles in a velvet bag. I don't know. I replied A few hours. They'll probably wait until the sun is up. But they'll come, right. I nodded. They'll come. I tried to sound more certain than I was.
Speaker 6:The ship had an emergency beacon, that much I knew. When triggered, it was supposed to send a distress signal along with GPS coordinates and a bunch of other data that could be used to help locate the damaged vessel. If it worked, help should be on the way. If it worked In the meantime, we were on our own. I have no idea what hit us. We were asleep when it happened. What hit us? We were asleep when it happened.
Speaker 6:Both of us were thrown from our bunks, sliding across the suddenly slanted floor and crashing painfully into the opposite wall. I managed to stand and stumble over piles of fallen debris toward the cabin door. Before opening it, I paused to peer through the peephole into the hallway. It was a good thing I did, otherwise we'd be dead. Hallway it was a good thing I did, otherwise we'd be dead. An irregular gash, maybe fifteen feet long, was gouged through the hull right outside our cabin. A torrent of water the color of graphite foamed in through the breach, transforming the narrow hallway into rapids that roared angrily toward the front of the ship. My stomach cartwheeled when I saw it. Angrily toward the front of the ship. My stomach cartwheeled when I saw it. The ship was nose down. It was taking on water at an incredible rate. That could only mean one thing we were sinking.
Speaker 6:The descent was quick. At first I could hear the screams of others in my crew echoing through the ship, overlapping with the sounds of rushing water and rending metal. Some were begging for help, others seemed to be praying, others wailed inconsolably. Then, one by one, each of them fell silent. Even after the screams ended, there was still some banging, metal on metal, as if someone was hitting a wrench against a pipe. The pattern was unmistakable SOS. Soon that too subsided, growing weaker and weaker until it tapered off to nothing. Andre and I called for help until our voices were raw. After a while we lapsed into silence as well. There was no use wasting our breath, we were too far gone. We both sat quietly on the crooked floor, each of us lost in our thoughts, waiting for the end to come.
Speaker 6:I mostly thought about my mother. She was an addict who used to go missing for days on end, taking off with whoever was supplying drugs to her at the time. She'd stumble home for a few days, burn a quesadilla or two in a half-hearted attempt at mothering, then disappear again. Nighttime was the worst. I'd sit in the dark for hours, huddled on the filthy mattress in our tiny one-room apartment, waiting for her to return. Mattress in our tiny one-room apartment, waiting for her to return. I always left the door unlocked in case she forgot to bring her keys. As I grew older, her absences grew longer. Hours turned to days and days turned into weeks. Eventually I started locking the door again. A few months after I last saw her, I found out she had OD'd in a hotel room in Arizona, 350 miles from home. The police found her with a needle in her arm and a baby in her belly.
Speaker 6:I was 12. I guess my mind went there because it was the last time I remember feeling so scared and alone. I had the same sense of being completely powerless. There were no good options, no good outcomes. No matter what I might do, I was doomed. The funny thing is I was wrong about that.
Speaker 6:I turned out all right. I moved in with my grandmother, finished high school, took some community college classes and ultimately ended up finding a life as a ship's cook. I knew being at sea was risky Intellectually that made sense but I never felt like I was really in danger. There were some close calls, sure, some wicked storms that made me puke on my shoes, but I always felt like ultimately. Wicked storms that made me puke on my shoes, but I always felt like, ultimately, everything was under control, until we sank. That is when the ship hit bottom. I was sure I was dead.
Speaker 6:The hull let out a mournful groan that sounded like a whale song. Then there was a series of bangs, one after the other, like a ten-car pileup on the freeway. A second later the whole room turned upside down, sending Andre and me tumbling ass over elbows. It was like being in a snow globe, thrown from an airplane. Our cabin ended up almost entirely inverted. With the angle where the floor met, the wall now steepled overhead. We were trapped in a triangular pocket of air that was maybe five feet wide and ten feet long. From our position on the floating mattress we had only a few inches of headroom. It was tight.
Speaker 6:Andre's voice broke me out of my thoughts. He sounded far away, lost. Numb Marla had her ultrasound last Tuesday. He said absently oh yeah, boy or girl, girl, we're gonna name her ripley, ripley, like from alien. He looked up and smiled a little. Pretty badass, right, pretty badass, I agreed.
Speaker 6:I looked down through the murky brown water. I could dimly make out the shape of the cabin door. Far below us, an emergency beacon over the doorframe flickered erratically, filling the space with an eerie glow that reminded me of a vintage horror film. Diffused through the filthy liquid, the light had a sickly yellow cast. It made the whole scene feel like a literal nightmare. I shook my head bitterly.
Speaker 6:That door was supposed to have been watertight. It wasn't. It had been closed and locked. It still was, but the cabin had flooded anyway. The damage to the ship must have deformed the doorframe enough to compromise the seal, allowing water to rush in around the edges. Within minutes, the space filled up to our waists, then to our armpits, then to our shoulders, and then it stopped. I didn't know why. Maybe the pressure equalized somehow. Maybe there was something about the way the air was trapped, like when you put a glass into a fish tank upside down, or maybe something wanted to keep us alive until it was ready for us.
Speaker 6:Suddenly, a hollow clunk resonated through the ship. The surface of the water rippled and sloshed, distorting my view of the door below. That sound was followed by another one that my concussion-dulled brain had trouble processing. What was that, andre asked. He looked around nervously. I held up my hand to silence him, then placed my ear against the wall. The metal was cold and slimy against my face.
Speaker 6:I didn't know how long we had been underwater at that point we had no way to measure time. But for however long it was, we hadn't heard any noises outside of our own movement and the occasional groan of the ship's structure as it settled into the ocean floor. But this noise was different. Something was moving and it was close. I listened in silence for a few seconds. Then I heard the sound again, louder this time it was a dissonant squeal that reminded me of a garden rake dragging slowly across a pane of glass.
Speaker 6:I didn't know what was making the sound, but I wasn't taking any chances. It could be a diver or one of those underwater drones with a camera on the end. I thought maybe we were being rescued, maybe we had been found. I wasn't wrong, we had been found, just not like we hoped. Hey, I shouted. The sound was explosive in the enclosed space. It was startling even to me. I began pounding my palm against the wall. Hey, we're in here. Andre balled up his fists and joined in the ruckus, drumming on the wall as hard as he could Help. He yelled hey, hello, can you hear us? Hello. We kept at it for a solid minute, making as much noise as we could. Then we stopped and listened. The water around us had grown still. I could see the bottom again. The water around us had grown still. I could see the bottom again all the way down to the door. As I looked, I felt my heart stall. My breathing stopped. Everything seemed to slow to a halt Somehow during the short time while Andre and I were pounding on the wall, someone or something had opened the door when, once there had been the unmistakable architecture of the door's horizontal handle and crisscrossing support struts, there was now nothing but a yawning black chasm opening into the lightless depths below.
Speaker 6:Andre, I said quietly. The door? Andre looked at me with a quizzical expression. The door Andre looked at me with a quizzical expression. What the door? I said again, more urgently. This time it's that's when the light went out.
Speaker 6:I wish I could say that the bulb died. That would have been upsetting but understandable. After all, the ship was submerged deep under the ocean. The emergency electrical system probably wasn't designed to withstand such brutal conditions. It would have been totally reasonable for the wiring to short out or for the battery to run out of juice.
Speaker 6:But that's not what I saw. What I saw was a long black appendage slithering around the top edge of the doorway. It was smooth and featureless and so black it seemed like a tear in the fabric of reality itself. Even the ink-black depths of the water beyond the door looked pale and gray in comparison. The thing snaked along the edge of the doorway, coiled around the emergency light's plastic housing, and it squeezed, crushing the fixture in its grip. The light hadn't just failed, it had been extinguished. The resulting darkness was total. Not a single photon of light remained. It was as if I had gone completely blind.
Speaker 6:There was a loud sloshing noise like something moving across the surface of the water. I whipped my head around trying to locate the source. It sounded like it came from the far end of the space, past Andre. It was hard to tell, though. The way the sound bounced off the angled ceiling made every noise seem to be coming from everywhere at once. What was that? I whispered. I don't know. He answered. I can't see anything. You heard it, though. Yeah, his voice was thick and heavy with fear. I could hear his throat click as he swallowed. There's something in here.
Speaker 6:My mind raced as I tried to picture what it could be A shark, maybe, but sharks didn't have sure what? It could be? A shark, maybe, but sharks didn't have a what. What the hell? Did I even see A tentacle? No, not really. Tentacles had suckers on the bottom.
Speaker 6:What I saw was completely smooth. It was more like a worm or an eel. It didn't move like one, though it wasn't slithering or swimming. It was reaching that's the impression I got. It was reaching for the light and then it snuffed it out. It wasn't an accident or a coincidence, it was intentional. What do we do, andre asked. His breath was coming in short, panicked gasps Just don't move, maybe it'll go away. But shh.
Speaker 6:I listened intently for any indication of where the thing might be. Was it getting closer to us, closer to me? Was it under us, swimming along the bottom, or had it slipped silently along the surface, circling between us, winding in figure eights as it tried to decide who to attack first? I tried to rein in my panic. The thing could be harmless, just a curious fish exploring the new artificial reef that had so rudely intruded on its habitat.
Speaker 6:The water was calm, quiet. Nothing made a sound. The only thing breaking the silence was Andrei's labored breathing. There was no attack, no movement, no, nothing, no movement, no nothing. Then a voice spoke. It was smooth and pleasant, a woman's voice, andre, it said. My eyes went wide. What the hell was that? My mind screamed Before I could say anything.
Speaker 6:Andre answered Marla. His voice was full of awe Come home, andre, we're waiting for you, ripley and I. Andre exhaled a shuddering sob. I know I'll be back soon. I swear, andre, I said, my voice wavering on the edge of total breakdown. That's not Marla, of course it wasn't. It couldn't be. We were trapped God knows how far under the ocean, dozens of miles out at sea. There was no way his pregnant wife could be there with us. And yet I had heard the voice too. It was as real as my own, as real as Andre's. It even echoed off the walls of the space, a little just like ours.
Speaker 6:There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe it was some sort of auditory hallucination, a shared delusion manufactured by our oxygen-starved brains, or maybe it was sensory deprivation. The darkness was so complete that our minds had started to make up sounds to fill the void in our senses. Where are you, andre, said to the not Marla. How are you here? It doesn't matter? The voice replied Come on, let's go home. I realized suddenly that I could see again. The dark wasn't quite as absolute as it had been a moment before, A barely perceptible luminescence was pulsing in the far corner of the room below the surface of the water.
Speaker 6:It gave off just enough light for me to see Andrei silhouetted against the dim blue glow. It wasn't just an auditory hallucination. I could see her just under the water, her pale porcelain skin, her eyes sparkling like blue topaz, her black hair rippling behind her like a sheet of silk in a bath. I could see the curve of her breasts and the roundness of her belly. It was Marla. It really was.
Speaker 6:She began to drift closer to Andrei. He leaned down toward her, reaching for her. Marla, he whispered. His tone was almost reverent. His fingers dipped into the water. Andrei, I hissed, don't.
Speaker 6:Suddenly, marla disappeared in a burst of brilliant white-hot radiance. The searing light stabbed through my eyes, blinding me. At the same time, the air was filled with a terrifying screech. It was the same metal-on-glass squeal we had heard only minutes before, except now it was a thousand times louder. I reflexively covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could. Then I opened one eyelid, just enough to see what happened next. I wish I hadn't.
Speaker 6:The light was emanating from a fleshy orb attached to the end of a smooth black appendage, similar to the one that had extinguished the emergency beacon over the doorway. Similar to the one that had extinguished the emergency beacon over the doorway. It protruded from the center of a gaping mouth lined with rows of clear crystalline fangs, pins sharp and glistening. The mouth was at the front of an undulating, boneless body midnight black and lined with a dozen eel-like tentacles. Above the mouth was a single enormous eye the size of a volleyball. An oily black eyelid slid over it. As it blinked, the light began to strobe, turning the creature's fluid movements into hellish snapshots of jerky, uneven motion. Its tentacles elongated, then lashed out of the water with whip-like speed, seizing Andre and yanking him forward. The thing's octagonal mouth flared open like the underside of an umbrella. The inside was lined with rings of barbed hooks that slanted inward the kind of adaptation that evolved to prevent prey from escaping as they were swallowed alive. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes again was Andre being dragged into that horrifying maw, his body folding in half backward, his spine snapping like a tree branch in a summer storm. He never made a sound. I fully expected the creature to grab me after it was done with Andre, but it didn't Not yet. Anyway, as far as I can tell, it's gone. It'll be back, though, I'm sure of it.
Speaker 6:In the meantime, I sit here in the darkness, alone and scared, waiting. My eyes are open, but it doesn't matter. It's just as dark with them open as it is when they are closed. Time passes, my thoughts return to my mother. I'm twelve again. I'm sitting on the sagging mattress in our tiny one-room apartment waiting for her to come home. It's after midnight. The electricity is out, the room is pitch black, except for a faint blue glow flickering in the corner from the streetlight outside. I hear her voice just beyond the door Billy, she says I'm home. I slide off the mattress and walk across the apartment, water sloshing around me as I move. I can see her silhouetted through the screen, her black hair flowing behind her in mesmerizing waves. I unlock the door, open it and step out into the brilliant, blinding light.
Speaker 1:Speaking of narrators whose voices, like butter, we had to pull out John C Cook for this one.
Speaker 2:Another cheater. He's too good. He's too good Again.
Speaker 1:thank God, this guy helps us out I know he's so good, he's so talented and he takes so much care for these stories.
Speaker 2:He really does what were we watching? We're like, is that john cook?
Speaker 1:twister, we said he looks a lot like bill paxton and twister. And then last night we were watching late night with the devil and you said that the old skeptic guy in the show looks like an older John Cook.
Speaker 2:I did yeah.
Speaker 1:We talk about John Cook's appearance. I guess more than we think.
Speaker 2:He's great. Yeah, he's very much on the mind.
Speaker 1:Yes, ever present.
Speaker 2:But this is another story. That was just killer. So good, right. What'd you think?
Speaker 1:I really loved this story. I thought it was very beautiful and I, john, actually specifically wanted a story like this to read, which was great. It worked out that we had a few, actually, that he could pick from.
Speaker 2:What did he specifically request? I'm just very curious.
Speaker 1:He wanted like a big, like a creature, you know, okay, a water creature type story Sure which, yeah, of course, there's going to be a few in this series, so this was a great match for him. But I also think that this story is so much more than just about a creature. Obviously. I think Warren did such a good job at telling a deeper story through this horror lens and to me it feels a lot like a meditation in some ways on death and the value of a life lived and the value of your relationships with people and your impact on them, and it really touched me.
Speaker 2:I love any big creature story. I thought this one was super cool.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 2:However, there was one thing that I could not get past Just the fact that it reminded me of a boss from Devil May Cry 4.
Speaker 1:What's that?
Speaker 2:There's this toad boss.
Speaker 1:What's Devil May Cry 4, a video game.
Speaker 2:Video game.
Speaker 1:Okay, well, I guess Warren will know because he's in the video game industry.
Speaker 2:And so you know, there's this big, you know like a castle looking thing. And there's this courtyard and then in the courtyard is this like beautiful ethereal woman.
Speaker 1:Okay.
Speaker 2:And she's like really trying to like lure you into her embrace, but you're not falling for this. You know there's something up to it and so you just you smack around a little bit jesus, and then you realize that the beautiful ethereal woman was just a puppet, because it was like an angler fish, but instead of a fish. It was a giant toad with a big angler thing, with his little dangly bit being the beautiful woman yeah, that's a great way to look at it.
Speaker 2:That's kind of a cool mechanic I mean mean everyone loves the anglerfish.
Speaker 1:It's such a unique, everyone loves the anglerfish?
Speaker 2:Yeah, of course it's such a unique, scary-looking little monster thing. It's got its big old teeth and it's so scary-looking that no one's ever come up to it, so it's got to do its little dangly bit to entice people to make friends that he eats. You see this reused a bunch also just deep sea creatures in general, are creepy as fuck.
Speaker 1:Yes, as we learned during our research, and then you.
Speaker 2:They all need like some kind of like weird hook in order to survive in these basically super bleak and inhospitable environments, and so when you take these unique characteristics and combine them with, like surface monsters or just literally anything in the surface, it just gets so much more ethereal and creepy, while being grounded in Mother Nature.
Speaker 1:Yeah, sure, I also think it was great, like grounded in the past, trauma and like the current lives of these characters. You know, it just kept it quite relatable, despite the monster element, for sure, yeah, so anyway, thank you so much, warren. Thank you, john c cook. As always, this was a beautiful story and we are honored to have featured it. Next, we actually have a returning writer. Mariska pichette's poetry collection, rivers in your skin, sirens in your hair, came out almost exactly a year ago and received a nomination for this year's Brom Stoker Award, which we are incredibly excited for you about and honored to have this story featured on our episode. You can find out more about Mirska at their website, mirskapichetcom, and follow them on Twitter at Mirska Pichet, instagram Mirska underscore right and Blue Sky at mirskabskysocial. But without further ado, let's listen to their beautiful words. Silky's Bones, written by Mariska Pichette, read by Cyril Luke.
Speaker 7:Dear Mata, how are you? How's Idaho? Spring has found me here, turning the yard to cork, spongy and full of the season's name. I don't know how long it's been since you saw my ginkgo, but it's adapted well to the shift in temperature, better than me. But I guess it's been at it many thousands of years, longer than old women like us, hasn't it? Millions? Maybe the storms have me hiding inside, but when I look through the window, there it is blowing this way and that and shaping its trunk to hug the wind when it rains. Here it's like sky and ocean have traded places and we live in an inverted world.
Speaker 7:Mata, I started collecting plastic. Do they have you doing that too? It might be an initiative only in the eastern communities. Our council is hosting a drive to turn old plastic into housing to withstand the storms. It's easy to get. It washes up right on my beach, seeking haven in between the rocks. I find it among the shells and hermit crabs, fellow squatters, tossed together by the waves and left coated with sand when the tide ebbs.
Speaker 7:I walked down to the shore this past weekend a basket on my hip, and retrieved zip ties, shopping bags, saran wrap and a dragon fruit vitamin water bottle. I must tell you, mata, there was too much for my basket to hold. I had to put together a neon cairn with what I couldn't carry. I set it high enough for the waves to leave it be till I get back. I brought to put together a neon cairn with what I couldn't carry. I set it high enough for the waves to leave it be till I get back. I brought the saran wrap, zip ties and shopping bags to the town hall, but I kept the vitamin water bottle. I don't know why the light will look so nice when the light comes through. Oh, mata, the storms are rolling through again, driving the drones off course. Some rations end up in the sea and the waves lash my little shoreline with brine and disembodied drone blades. Even standing on my porch I can taste the sharpness of the sea. When I was at the town hall, people were talking about hurricanes in the next few weeks. They get stronger every year. I'm glad that my little house is nestled in the slope, safe from the wind and rain. I'm like a little hermit crab holed up on the shore. The waves scare me, though they're getting bolder.
Speaker 7:After last night's storm, I ventured down to the beach looking for more pieces for my project. Did I tell you in my last postcard I've decided what to do with that vitamin water bottle. I'm going to make something. My cairn is gone, though, washed away when it stood. Just yesterday I found the beach disc of a jellyfish.
Speaker 7:Dear Mata, I've hardly begun and already I'm out of my depth with this project. Do you remember Tetris? It feels like playing that with some Jenga thrown in to challenge my sense of balance. Every day confronts me with a daunting mass of geometry. My fingers shake and rattle my creation from toe to tip. It's growing despite my constant cock-ups. I hope you can come and see it, mata, before it surpasses my home.
Speaker 7:Dear Mata, I went down to the beach this morning, taking advantage of a window of calm between storms. At least the violence of the sea has been helpful in throwing all manner of debris into my little patch of sand. I brought my basket, though it's much too small. Today I collected some nylon netting, a bright red cup, a wonderful turquoise condom wrapper and several different plastic chips and scraps. These I'm using for scales. Oh, I do hope you are able to come visit. Did you get a pass for travel through the unoccupied zone? When you do come, I don't know where you'll stay.
Speaker 7:My creation has completely taken over the house. Its tail stretches to the front door, glittering with shreds of tinsel from the boughs of an artificial Christmas tree that found its way to my shore. The main body fills the living room Rigid linoleum tiles fastened to a skeleton I pieced together from bits of lawn chairs and one almost perfect kayak the storms brought in. When I started this thing, I was still taking the boring stuff plastic bags, bottle caps, credit cards to the town hall. Last time I went there were hardly any people left. All the sleeping mats were rolled up and stacked in a corner against the wall. Everyone had homes made from the recycled plastic. They got so much I thought they wouldn't miss. What little bits I could carry from here. My body is old and tired. I haven't been to the town hall in weeks.
Speaker 7:Mata, I think we might be coming into the dry season at last. Blue and yellow beach pails dot my floor. To catch all the leaks. I normally have to empty them four times a day. Now they've slowed to a drip. I can focus on my work. The head is coming along. I'm making the eyes out of the skins of mylar balloons, folded and melted against Tupperware to give them depth.
Speaker 7:Do you know what I had the most exciting find the other day? As the rain lessened, I went down to the beach and there, half buried in the sand, was a sealed package of shining stickers. They depicted extinct animals Elephants, zebras, giraffes and all manner of birds. I'm using them to decorate the fins. I still haven't found something suitable for the teeth Mata. The rain has stopped. All the other plants in the garden have necrotic spots, but not my ginkgo. Its green fans shake in the breeze. I'm starting to think it will outlast me. Are they really not allowing travel passes anymore? I wish I could send you a picture of my creation, but it won't fit in a single image undulating through the curves of my home as it is. Here is one of the fins. It's almost as big as I am, dear Mata, I think I'm almost there.
Speaker 7:Luck and the sea brought a paddle onto the beach today and I broke it in two to use for horns. The waves are thick with salt coating the beach white. I'm still on the hunt for teeth Mata. Lightning struck close the other night. One of the new plastic homes was hit and you could smell the melted stink for hours. I think the owner wasn't home. I haven't seen anyone around for a long time. I flit from my beach to the house and back and your postcards have piled up on my table. I'm sorry. I'll get around to sending them soon. I just have to finish my work first.
Speaker 7:Dear Mata, can I break my own rules? This sculpture was meant to be a monument to memory, to all those lovely, bright and enduring details of our childhood. Plastic serving no real purpose except for enjoyment, a luxury that's prohibited now. I wanted color, mata. That's what started this thing Color and something that would never die. But I couldn't find teeth, not proper teeth. Until today, I combed the beach and found the perfect thing, but it's not plastic, it's bone. I think it's from a seal, part or most of a rib cage the ribs, mata. I found my teeth.
Speaker 7:Mata, I know you said you couldn't travel, but I miss you still. The sea has been especially loud the last few nights and it's so hard to move around the house with the sculpture filling every room. The metallic pieces glitter in the moonlight and I see their reflections in the window when I look out at the waves. They look almost like clusters of eyes staring back. Mata, the rations have stopped coming and I haven't heard a drone in days. There's no way to send this, but I like to think that you know I'm writing you. At one time I thought I would spend my last days with you, but the storms did their work there. The sea is louder than ever. Sometimes the wind sounds like seals singing.
Speaker 7:Mata, I want to get my sculpture down to the beach. It's where it belongs. I can feel it. Does that sound silly? It's supposed to swim. That's why I made fins. I wonder if I can move it on my own. Maybe if my house fell down around the pair of us, we would be free to seek the waves.
Speaker 7:Mata, there hasn't been rain in weeks. Everything has died in the yard, except the ginkgo. I'm almost out of water jugs, no drones. I hope you're not thirsty there, mata. I am as dry as my sculpture. We are both creatures of water, my sculpture. We are both creatures of water, beached and gasping At night. I sleep under its teeth. The ocean calls us Dearest. Mata. The ginkgo was struck today. It burned and burned as I watched from the window. When it was blackened and bare, I walked down to the beach. Someone has been there. I found footprints in the sand, a mix of feet and fins. The seals have come at last. I'm ready to follow them If you manage to get a travel pass. I'm leaving these letters in the sculpture's mouth. They should be safe when the waves come. I made the body from the sea for the sea. When the waves come, I made the body from the sea for the sea.
Speaker 1:So, first of all, I think the way this story is written is so interesting to me, because it is a it's an epistolary. Ding, ding ding.
Speaker 2:Story.
Speaker 1:As we learned on our Frankenstein episode. Yeah, oh as we learned on our found footage episode.
Speaker 2:Really Not, even not Dracula. Wow, yeah, she just shook her head.
Speaker 1:no, you can't tell on a podcast, but she did we talked about, you know, epistolary novels on the frankenstein episode and on the dracula, but we really got into them during the found footage episode because I made the quite bold and ambitious case that they are a precursor, in some ways, to found footage films. That being said, I thought this story by mariska was so beautiful, again ethereal and otherworldly. It tells the story of a post-apocalyptic world where my interpretation is that the water, the beaches, are filled with trash. This person is separated from their loved one and writing these postcards that, heartbreakingly, like partway into the story, we realize aren't even being sent or delivered oh, I missed that part yeah that's why I was confused.
Speaker 2:I'm like, okay, so the world sucks, everything's falling apart, but you got a rock solid mail service no, it's just like being written, I feel like, as a way to like hold out hope until the very end. That's cute.
Speaker 1:And also, in a way, I think they say maybe somebody will discover these later and it will tell them about this thing that I've built or the way the world was right now. That's just sad. I found the whole story to be devastating and heartbreaking, but incredibly powerful.
Speaker 2:You do become quite emotional over pollution.
Speaker 1:I also thought our friend Sarah Luke, who narrated this story, did a beautiful job and really brought it to life in a very moving way, as she always does. She always does To me it just felt very fresh. You know, I think when you think of like a post-apocalyptic world, you aren't usually thinking about the people who live along the shore, you know, and I liked that interpretation of it and I liked kind of the slow foregoing of hope and, you know, it just felt like a very calculated and beautiful decline.
Speaker 2:Yeah, you know. You just imagine the imagery of the waves lapping trash and every time it gets a little trashier and you know, that's just that. That sucks.
Speaker 1:I don't want to live there yeah, no, I thought yeah, exactly very haunting I would move yeah, I don't know how long you'd make it in an apocalypse anyway. To be honest, what makes you say that you like to have your things the way that you need them?
Speaker 2:no, you're very fussy I've said this many times yeah if there's a, you know there's a giant cataclysm and you know there's the whole at night. You have to stay inside because when you go outside, that's when all the crazies are. Yeah, like I'd be outside, yeah, because I'd be the crazy. Right, you'd be the zombie. I would not necessarily the zombie, I don't know. I mean, probably I'd get bit so fast, so fast, uh, but you know, I, I would like to be, you know, part of the crazy gang. You know that's just like out.
Speaker 2:You know, spray painting, the, the, the laughing clown on city hall you, bad boy, you know uh, the ones that are just like throwing molotov cocktails and you know, but during during the day, we're like, okay, well, so what are we? What are we going to do tonight?
Speaker 1:Right, well, that sounds like a very particular vision, that you've spent a lot of time cultivating.
Speaker 2:No, it's just a fast and loose kind of way. I don't want to be the guy that's in the bunker, you know, hunkered down.
Speaker 1:Right, if you're going to live, you want to just live fully.
Speaker 2:I think so I try to make friends with everybody, and I don't know how well that would go. Yeah, probably not that well.
Speaker 1:So we have another story for you all. This story is written by Matthew Gostelow. Matthew is a dad, husband and author living in Birmingham in the United Kingdom. Some days he wakes early and writes strange tales. If you catch him staring into space, he is either thinking about Twin Peaks, which is incredibly relatable, or Cooked Breakfast, which is my second favorite thing. He is the author of two books, a collection of speculative stories entitled See my Breath Dance Ghostly, and Dandelion in a Quiet Place. Again, we'll link everything below, which is a novella and flash to be released in 2025. Lost to the Depths is a politically charged story of witchcraft, revenge and anti-immigrant rhetoric, which was part of his first short story collection. You can follow Matt on Twitter at M-A-T-G-O-S-T or his website weirding-wordsblogspotcom. But without further ado, let's listen to his story.
Speaker 1:12 Women Encircle a Woodfire on a Shingle Beach. They chant in a tongue known only to their sisterhood. They dance in twirling circles. Slow at first, they build into a whirling wheeling frenzy. Their whooping cries escape into the night sky. With the orange sparking embers of the fire, a small girl slips past the barrier. She has scruffy, dark brown hair, grubby, mismatched clothes and a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Raj Kaur, home Office Minister, doesn't see her. He's smirking with sly satisfaction as he leaves Parliament. His proposal is now law.
Speaker 1:A decade of inflammatory headlines bemoaning the quote flood of illegal migrants, quote paved the way. Legal asylum routes are blocked. The Navy will repel refugee boats before they enter British waters. He paces to the waiting car. Behind barriers, protesters chant about human rights, watched by armed police. A red-faced woman wearing a Refugees Welcome t-shirt spits at Raj. She doesn't understand. None of them do. Resources are finite, systems stretched. Tough decisions are required.
Speaker 1:Raj sees the girl. Something about her reminds him of his niece. She is on course to intercept Raj before he reaches the car, conscious of press cameras around the protesters. He hurries but she closes in on him, touching his arm without a word. Raj stops, frozen by the contact in her piercing amber stare. He finds himself lost, his surroundings transformed Through a blur of tears. He sees damaged, crumbling buildings. Raj sobs and wails, chest heaving, tasting dust and smoke in the air. He is holding the hand of someone twice his size. It's his mother. He realizes she is pulling him along in the air. He is holding the hand of someone twice his size. It's his mother. He realizes she is pulling him along in a panic.
Speaker 1:They flee through rubble-strewn streets littered with twisted bodies, broken bloody Raj scrambles to keep up until he stumbles, tumbling, losing his mother's hand. His fall is broken by the soft, still-warm chest of a dead man, the corpse's side gapes, splintered ribs and organs spilling out through the flayed, ragged skin. His eyes are wide open, staring at Raj. His mouth hangs slack, blood-crusted lips frozen in an endless silent scream. A sudden mortar bombs nearby. The explosion percussive against Raj's eardrums. His mother cries out and runs for cover head down. Rapid blasts of gunfire split the air. Mother and son separate in terrified confusion. Raj is left behind With a jolt. He is back. The girl is gone and his driver is holding the rear door of the car expectantly.
Speaker 1:Minister Raj climbs inside, looking out through the tinted glass for any trace of the child. He feels dazed. His shoulders are tense, the familiar throb of a migraine building behind his eyes. As the car pulls away, he feels something clenched in his fist. Opening his hand, he finds a small figure crudely wrought from knotted string. The twine is black and rough to the touch. Thick knots form the head and pelvis. The hands and feet are small loops. Looking closely, raj sees a thin tack nail has been driven into the topmost knot, the head. He closes his eyes, the pain in his skull growing more intense. Faces of the scattered dead flash into his mind. Growing more intense. Faces of the scattered dead flash into his mind.
Speaker 1:His car weaves through winding streets under a blood orange sunset. The fire glows. The women twirl and weave From hand to hand. They pass a small poppet fashioned from string. Each of them lifts the effigy to her mouth, whispering, telling stories. As they skip and step, they clench the string, figure tight to their bony fists and cackle aloud.
Speaker 1:Raj's phone buzzes, his father calling. He declines. It's a conversation he can't face. His parents will have heard him on the radio this morning, the interviewer challenging him on whether his own mother and father, who arrived from Somalia before he was born, would be granted citizenship today under his new migrant plan. Raj proudly responding that they would not, that things are different now than they were in the 1960s, insisting most migrants making the treacherous channel crossing today have no valid claim to asylum. It is a lie he repeats so frequently he almost believes it is true. His father is bound to be furious about the hostile legislation Raj created. His mother hates to hear him speak about refugees as law-breaking parasites. At every opportunity, raj's parents remind him of the cousins who fled Mogadishu in the early 1990s, escaping the sudden war, to make their way to the safety of Europe. These are your people, the ones who you call leeches. His father chides him. They don't understand. This will never be their country in the way that it is his.
Speaker 1:In his bathroom, raj swallows two painkillers and pinches the bridge of his nose. To ease the agonizing pulse in his head, he plunges his face into a sink full of cold water, recalling a time in Oxford, his friends pushing him off of a punt as a joke, braying and laughing Sorry Raj, they never called him Raj, it's just banter, the price of being one of the gang. As he submerges, raj hears an urgent, shrieking voice that seems to come from deep below. He jumps at the sound, gasping water into his lungs, coughing and spluttering. He straightens up to look around. He is alone. Eventually the dancing slows, then stops. They hand the puppet to their elder, a withered, hunched woman with sunken cheeks and one eye stitched closed over a hollow socket. She holds it in the black, spiced-scented smoke above the fire, muttering and mumbling a dark incantation.
Speaker 1:Skull-pounding Raj lies in bed, eyes scrunched against the throbbing ache. Eventually, sleep swallows him. He dreams himself knee-deep in icy water, where pebbles bruise the soles of his bare feet. He huddles with two dozen others in the cold and dark Circles of torchlight twitching across Shingle as they scramble into a flimsy dinghy. Clouds gather in the blue-black sky. Voices in the dark around him mutter Tomorrow England, tomorrow England. A gruff man tells them to aim for the lights on the other side of the water, gives the small boat a shove, then disappears into the night. England. A gruff man tells them to aim for the lights on the other side of the water, gives the small boat a shove, then disappears into the night.
Speaker 1:The waves swell high. As soon as they leave the gravel beach, the small craft bucks and rolls. Raj grips the arm of a woman beside him, holding her so hard that she cries out in pain. His eyes are closed tight, convinced that each new surge will hurl him out into the churning water. He vomits more than once, heaving into the bottom of the dinghy by his feet, afraid to lean over the edge. Water sloshes into the boat with every wave, so cold it takes his breath and leaves his teeth chattering. Two men with shallow metal pans bail urgently, while a third struggles to keep a steady course with the feeble outboard motor. The lights across the sea, which never seem to come any closer, are frequently obscured by the jagged peaks of towering waves. Without warning, a violent swell flips, the dinghy voices cry out all around and Raj is plunged into the cold depths.
Speaker 1:The elder brings her hands together, fingertips pointing to the black sky, the string figure clasped between her palms. She raises her hands to her forehead and speaks words in the old language. When she pauses, the wise women answer as one. The calls and responses increase in speed and volume until they are angry, screeching shouts. The youngest among them, a small girl with fierce amber eyes, brings a large iron pot up from the shore, where waves whisper their approval of the women's fury. The pot is heavy filled with seawater. The old one closes her eyes and brings the effigy to her mouth. She whispers to the figure once again, spitting silent curses into its knotted head. She closes her eye, purses her lips as though to whistle, and blows a thick black vapor from deep inside her. The smoke she exhales is liquid, night sparkling and starry glimmers. For a moment it forms a cloud around the poppet. Once more, her sisters dance their mad dance, feet seeming to float above the shingle of the beach. Gulls wheeling in ominous constellations answer their cries from the darkness above. Finally, gently, the elder places the string doll into the pot of water. It floats for a moment on the calm surface, string doll into the pot of water. It floats for a moment on the calm surface before sinking, lost to the black depths.
Speaker 1:Raj wakes, legs jerking a scream in his throat, hair soaked from sweat. His breath comes in urgent gasps. The pain in his head has not shifted and he struggles to open his eyes. In his hand he feels the small knotted figure clenched tight, though he's certain he left it in a pocket of his jacket. He hears noises downstairs voices and scraping like moving furniture. He reaches for his phone and swears under his breath, realizing it's on the kitchen counter. Raj walks to the landing and the noises cease. Hello, I've called the police. Raj walks to the landing and the noises cease. Hello, I've called the police. He shouts fear betrayed in his voice. He starts to creep down, feet cold on the bare boards. The hallway is murky, dark and he strains his senses to catch sight or sound of the intruders. As Raj reaches the bottom stair, icy water laps at his ankles. One more step and his feet crunch on painful shingle stones. He continues to walk, wading now through knee-high ink-black swell, confused and disoriented. The water reaches his waist, then his chest, and still he is drawn onwards, powerless to stop. He looks back and cannot see the stairs, no walls around him, just miles of choppy black waves in every direction. He is treading water now, feet kicking down in flailing panic, desperate to feel something solid beneath them. But there's only water. Raj feels the weight of his pajamas dragging down as his limbs thrash to keep him afloat, cold and fatigue sliced to his core, muscles aching and cramping. He inhales a harsh mouthful of salty water, choking and coughing up stinging bile, creatures, scales, teeth and claws. He kicks his feet. The touch comes again firmer, this time higher up his leg. And then there are more. They are fingers, he is sure of it. Their skin crinkled too long underwater. They grasp and flail, fumbling at his feet and legs, struggling upwards, desperate to reach the surface. Hands are gripping him now, climbing him as they fight to reach the surface. Hands are gripping him now, climbing him as they fight to escape the cold black depths. They drag raj deeper. He is submerged, eyes blinded by the stinging brine. Chest tight, with dark water, choking icy liquid deep into his lungs, he feels the sharp pressure of depth in his ears as the grasping hands pull him further below, clawing at his arms, chest, his cheeks. Their ceremony complete, the sisters sit in a circle around the fire. Dawn is breaking in cold pinks and yellows. Far out to sea, they boil a kettle in the embers of the fire and share tea, singing songs and sending prayers to their families across the world. The next morning a body is found face down in the gritty sand of a beach near Folkestone a naked middle-aged man with lungs full of salt water and deep scratches all over his body. Police assume he's another desperate migrant who died on the crossing, the 40th corpse to wash up on the coast in the last 12 months. A few days later the body is identified as missing home officer minister raj kor. Holy fuck. It's such a well-written and meaningful and important story.
Speaker 2:I'm very, very impressed with this so raj got whammied by the same people that he was that he turned his back on that he I mean, he's a jerk and he got his just desserts yeah voodoo style? Well, not voodoo, because that's a, that's a very localized practice, right?
Speaker 1:wow, this is cool I think it's such a cool story. I also think it's obviously a very important timely story, but I love the use of the paranormal, if you will, and and these sort of the rituals from the before times, right before everything became as fucked up as it is now. It just all felt very purposeful as this reflection of where we were and where we are and community and the community being broken.
Speaker 2:I think that all this discussion about immigration reform and whatnot would not even come into play if people just had magic. That's something to think about, I suppose I mean sure, just think about it for two seconds, you know, if you had magic, then you can teleport Our little arbitrary barriers between countries are null and void.
Speaker 1:But don't you think people would just? Whoever the most powerful people are, the most powerful magicians would still do whatever they wanted to do to create boundaries around their territories?
Speaker 2:But do you think that the most powerful wielder of the dark arts would line up with the same people that hold the most generational wealth? Because I do not.
Speaker 1:Why not?
Speaker 2:Because I feel like it's like a bloodline thing. You know it's far more. I don't know. Arcane not daddy has a trust fund and now I'm a wizard. That's just my hot take.
Speaker 1:But going back to the story, I think it was really masterful the way matthew sort of combined telling this really relevant modern story but weaving in this again this ritualistic supernatural. And the the scenes of them on the boat, the scenes of him drowning, are quite horrifying yes, this, this is those one of the scarier stories.
Speaker 2:This is prime horror writing.
Speaker 1:Absolutely.
Speaker 2:And it's hard to do. It really is.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 2:Because everything was supernatural, but well within the realm of relatable situations.
Speaker 1:Right.
Speaker 2:We've all been in water that's a little too deep, a little too scary, surrounded by crashing waves. There's that moment where you think you're good to take a breath and you're not. And then you just have that choking moment. You're sick in a boat and all these things right, it's just relatable enough. And you stack them just one after another and you just beat this guy down, all because he makes bad laws.
Speaker 1:Yeah, I totally agree that it's horror writing at its prime, and when you mix in a bigger picture, you know a relevant point. I just think that's really like you said it's really really hard to do on its own, and together it's excellent. So thank you again, matthew, for sharing this work with us.
Speaker 2:It's also very easy to do voodoo doll stuff and make it hokey.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 2:Like we've seen that many times in usually either low budget movies or, I don't know, movies that just don't hold it with any kind of ethnic gravitas. You know, it's just like ah this is a thing. Let's hit him with the voodoo doll Sure and it gets silly very fast. This felt scary.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 2:And I loved it.
Speaker 1:It felt powerful.
Speaker 2:It did, it felt powerful, you felt reverence for this little thing and for these women and even for this guy that you're like, you feel bad for. But I get it, I get everything.
Speaker 1:It's like well, I don't know. It's almost like these characters are not one-dimensional. Yeah, yeah, exactly exactly. We have one final story today and I wanted to end on a lighter note because I know we've had a lot of heavy loaded stories so far. So we're pivoting palette cleanser, incredibly fun, well-written story to to end us off for today. How, how does that sound?
Speaker 2:Is this the one you wrote about the wave on the bridge?
Speaker 1:No, that's not going to be in this series.
Speaker 2:I thought you were just gassing yourself up.
Speaker 1:This story comes to us from our friend, alex Gray. The piece originally appeared in a charity anthology, rampage on the Reef, which was published by Dead Sea Press in January 2022. Rampage on the Reef, which was published by Dead Sea Press in January 2022. You can check out Alex's first speculative poetry collection called Last Species.
Speaker 3:Let's take a listen. Revenge of a Vampire Sea Snail. Written by Alex Gray, read by Michael Groser.
Speaker 5:Part 1. I have dragged myself this far, but I will go no further. Here I lie on the gritty sand awaiting my fate, at the dubious mercy of sunrise and the tides turning. Are you feeling sorry for me? Do you imagine that my fate is synonymous with my doom? You humans are so very gullible and ignorant. Remember how you walked barefoot on the beach this morning. Remember how you held your lover's hand. You turned to the dawn, its glory illuminating memories of your happy childhood and kindling your hopes of a future together. You saw me lying on the sand and picked me up.
Speaker 1:Can you hear the sea?
Speaker 5:you'd asked him, he looked bewildered. Of course, the sea's right there.
Speaker 4:No silly. My mother taught me Hold a shell to your ear and you will always hear the sea.
Speaker 5:He'd taken me from your hands and held me to your ear. Can you hear me say I love you? He'd whispered, yes, you'd reply, dancing away from him.
Speaker 4:Whenever I hold this shell, the sea will tell me that you love me.
Speaker 5:Oh you poor, deluded girl. What you heard was the sound of my predatory laughter.
Speaker 5:I'll remember this moment forever you said, putting me in your pocket as a memento. Dazzled by your lover's smile, you did not notice the scrape of my tiny rasping teeth against your skin. Now it is nearing sunset. You lie on the sand, shivering and delirious, as the toxin I shared with you invades your mind. Your lover has gone for help, though I sense that he has stopped at the bar for a quick drink. He thinks you have a touch of sunstroke. Nothing serious. My venom enables us to share our thoughts.
Speaker 5:I am pleased that we have some time to converse Mollusk to human. You are very pleasing and I think you deserve an explanation. Did you really think the world of the undead was populated only by humanoids? How very narrow-minded to discount the possibility that the undead have their own rich ecosystem. But then again, how much attention do you pay to your own? Of course, those humans who perceive the diversity of the undead rarely have enough time to write legends in our name. I see in your memories that you always loved a bedtime story. You had an active imagination, and even now you wonder whether this is all a dream. I assure you this is quite real.
Speaker 5:Nevertheless, shall I tell you a story before you fall asleep? I am a vampire. It is so fortunate that you chose me. I am one of the more subtle predators. A zombie mollusk would have burrowed into your ear and feasted on your brain before you'd taken ten steps. There are far too many zombie mollusks in my opinion Oysters, slugs, snails, the list goes on. But given how many of our living counterparts have been killed by humans, it is hardly surprising that they will rise. Wouldn't you want revenge if you had been doused in acid and eaten alive? Then think of how many you have killed in your own garden. I admit, those whom you drowned in old beer rarely complained, but those whom you left writhing in frothy agony under a blanket of salt, all for the sake of your prize Marrows, small wonder that they seek retribution. Ah, I can hear your thoughts. If salt kills snails and sunlight kills vampires, how can you survive on the beach? I am so glad you asked.
Speaker 5:Vampire mollusks are perfectly designed. I have a fine brain which directs my strong foot to carry me to the best hunting grounds. My precious mucus protects me from the brine. My shell keeps me safe from the sun's rays, though I admit it can tingle if I stay out too long. I never stay out too long. I do not need to. In common with all vampires, I have an allure that humans find hard to resist. Do you remember how I shone in the soft light of the rising sun? Do you recall how smooth my shell felt as your fingertips traced my perfect contours? You were so enchanted you never even felt the quiver of my flesh, as you claimed to me so willingly. Indeed. You took me for your own.
Speaker 5:Now I will return the favor. You think your lover will save you. No doubt he will return tomorrow, but by then you and I will have spent the night together. He will not want you. When we are done, you see, I will have taken that which defines your beauty, upbraiding your skin, mouthful by delicious mouthful. They will blame the grating sand and rolling surf for your ruination. They will not think to test for my venom. The sea will wash away all traces of my crime. The outgoing tide will carry me to another beach, another victim. Oh, I see tears glistening in your eyes. You are delectable. I can wait no longer for our consummation. My foot leaves a shining silver trail. As I explore your exquisite face, I sip the tears from your blue eyes, glide along the contours of your pert nose and smooth, fevered cheeks. I approach your panting mouth, admiring the delicate rose of your lips. I sense a flash of disgust, the last of your resistance before you submit to my glamour. Your tongue seeks my vampire's kiss and we share a sublime moment. You are so lovely, I might even let you.
Speaker 5:Part 2 I was framed, said the Kraken. We shook our heads, not believing a word. His arachnoid strangeness screamed guilt in our minds. We chose not to see his wisdom in his ocean-deep eyes. I'm not a monster, said the Kraken. We shook our heads, recalling the skinless bodies of our townsfolk and tourists left on the shore where salty wavelets caressed their agony. It wasn't me, said the Kraken. We shook our heads.
Speaker 5:Our elders warned us not to trust the hideous beast, so unlike us, whose lies would lead us to death in his arms. Please listen, the kraken, implored. We erected our defenses. Stout posts prevented the brute from reaching the beach, protecting the innocent from the flaying grasp of his tentacles. Do not trust the shells, said the Kraken.
Speaker 5:The shells drew us in. Their lovely iridescence awakened our sympathy. We knew somehow that they were refugees, driven from the sea by the Kraken. They are deadly, the Kraken cried. We knew he would come. The shells were the bait Closer. He swam, calling his warnings. We pulled the net tight around his flailing limbs. Do not touch them, cried the Kraken. We did not heed him, our ears filled with sea whispers from the beautiful shells, the sting of their poison. Unnoticed Mercy, begged the Kraken. We made him suffer for each of the deaths we believed he had caused. The monster who claimed to protect us. The sea turned purple with ink and blood. Give them mercy. The kraken's last words. We did not understand. He was calling to them to grant us compassion. There was none to be had the sun set gold, the shells glowed as we fell, gleaming feral as they slithered over our beach, naked skins, their razor teeth rasped, stripped our skins, slowly anchored by toxins. Immobile, aware, we suffered as he had betrayed.
Speaker 2:Okay, I loved it every time. You have just like a little nefarious gremlin little guy and he's just doing all a bunch of nefarious gremlin-y things and he's a snail, come on. That's great.
Speaker 1:You could not have chosen a better voice actor to do this one I know I read this and I was like this is a michael kross story if I've ever freaking read one I can't believe that michael didn't write this himself I know it was written by alex, who has such range. We've seen so many different stories from alex and different tones and moods and it was really fun to see something so comical yeah, you have just.
Speaker 2:Are snails cephalopods?
Speaker 1:I don't even know what that means.
Speaker 2:I mean they're invertebrates for sure. We'll just say an invertebrate. Anytime you have a small invertebrate, that's like I'm gonna fuck you up yeah then you know I'm on board that's that's. You gotta root for the little guy in life yeah, and especially when he's a vampire, it's rock and roll and like how's a snail gonna bite? You ever thought about that?
Speaker 1:snails don't have teeth I used to have a bunch of snails go on it's actually. I don't know if I want to talk about it, it's quite. It makes me look like a weird person oh, this, this.
Speaker 1:So this is where you draw the line when I was very young, I think my sister got snails for like a school project that she had to take care of them, and then I think what happened was later in life, maybe in middle school. I went to the beach and took some into like this little tin box and brought them back with me and they died and started to smell really bad in my room. I don't know if I should share that with the world that's the opposite of where I thought the story was going yeah, this is like I was a bad snail mother this is like growing up.
Speaker 2:I think I was in elementary school no, elementary school I was in preschool okay and as a birthday gift, someone gave me a butterfly garden oh so oh no you. You set up like this little cardboard enclosure yeah with windows and everything, and then you mail your coupon in.
Speaker 2:Your coupon and they send you back eggs and the eggs hatch into caterpillars and they have the little food and stuff they just leave out and pretty quickly they eat the food and they become the chrysalis and then they hatch into monarch butterflies. Pretty cool, right, pretty cool. And like, the whole thing just takes a few weeks and then you're supposed to release them. Well, we mailed off for these butterflies to be in late fall, so by the time that they were indeed butterflies and they became butterflies, it was too cold for them to make the migration, and so now we got a problem.
Speaker 1:Sure.
Speaker 2:So, like, what do we do? We can't just, in good conscience, let them out into the frigid air to die. No they're never going to make it to Mexico.
Speaker 1:No.
Speaker 2:So what are we going to do? Instead, we did our absolute best, but you know, then the little caterpillar food runs out. You know what do you do? So every day, my mother went to the florist, got flowers and then injected them with sugar water dang and then she put fresh flowers in their enclosure every day. These butterflies are supposed to have like a lifespan of only a few months.
Speaker 2:They lasted for seven months because they were hand-fed by my mother every day your mother is such a animal whisperer even when one got sick, I don't he just like he couldn't feed himself anymore yeah she would take, like a, a pencil yeah and unspool his little long nose thing oh and plunk it into the sugar water and then he recovered. You know she's like she was an excellent she caregiver, absolute pinnacle caregiver. But, yeah, they lasted past their natural lifespan Sure, which was just absolutely incredible.
Speaker 1:Yeah, well, on that beautiful note, I think this is a great place to take a break. We have six more stories for you guys next episode, and thank you so much to all of the writers, to all of the narrators, to everybody who submitted. We're thrilled to kind of see the ecosystem that's being built here. If you have not already checked out our new Horror on the High Seas, merch, head to lunaticsprojectcom and click on merch, because we are incredibly proud of it. It was designed by our friend Pilar Kep. It's just such a spooky and haunting but perfectly themed design for this whole mega series that we're doing. As always, we hope that you all stay spooky, stay safe and we'll talk to you soon. Bye.
