Lunatics Radio Hour
The history of horror and the horror of history.
Lunatics Radio Hour
Lunatics Library 41 - Ocean Horror Stories: Part 2
Abby and Alan present 6 more incredible ocean horror stories and poems.
Bloodington Pier was written by Tony Earnshaw and performed by Tessa McKnight. Follow Tony on Facebook @tonyearnshaw, X @TonyEarnshaw, Instagram @thetonyearnshaw and check out his website: www.antonyearnshaw.wordpress.com.
Uncharted was written by J.P. Relph and performed by Sara Luke. Follow the writer @RelphJp on social media and her website here: www.therelphian1@wordpress.com. Follow Sara at @saraluke25 on Instagram.
The Widow’s Cottage was written by Kurt Newton and performed by Jon C Cook. Check out the Fadó podcast to hear more of Jon's narration. And follow Kurt on Facebook here, X here, Instagram here, and Bluesky @kurtnewton.bsky.social.
Dream Within A Dream was written by Edgar Allan Poe and performed by Michael Crosa. This poem is dedicated to Lucas. Check out the Podnooga Podcast Network.
The Sea Took Our Names was written by J.R. Santos and performed by Avi Dobkin. Follow J.R. Santos on twitter and blue sky, both found under @ccskeleton.
The Sea Witch was written by Erin Bryant and performed by Dan Roberts.
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Hello everyone and welcome back to another episode of the Lunatics Radio Hour podcast. I am Abbey Brenker sitting here with Alan Kudan. Hello, and dare I say, after five episodes, this will be the final installment of our mega deep dive into horror on the high seas.
Speaker 2:We actually brought it to not really a high sea, it's a lake, but we're recording lakeside, so that's exciting.
Speaker 1:We're recording waterside to be very thematic yeah, we thought that was very. To be very thematic yeah, we thought that was very important to all of you.
Speaker 2:Yeah, I'm sure it is.
Speaker 1:As a reminder, this is the first time ever that we have had a two-part Lunatics Library series, because we have so many stories to share with you. We have six ocean-themed horror stories that we are going to present today. We have six today alone. Six today alone. How many do you have in the last one? Five grand total of 11 ocean horror stories.
Speaker 2:They're so good, they're all so good.
Speaker 1:I love them so much. And if you missed any of our history episodes, we have three parts of horror on the high seas haunted history for you. We talk about haunted geography the Bermuda triangle, atlantis. We talk about haunted geography the Bermuda Triangle, atlantis. We talk about the terrifying creatures of the deep. In part two and in part three we talk about pirates, legendary ships and all kinds of old-timey sailor folklore.
Speaker 2:Abby. This is cruel to our elderly listeners. They are going to die of old age.
Speaker 1:Before finishing the series Well, hopefully they'll hang on. I also have to admit that we totally forgot to talk about Cribdus.
Speaker 2:What? The whirlpool, yeah, the mythical whirlpool? No, we didn't, we did. We talked about it when you made the brief allusion to the Odyssey.
Speaker 1:I know, but we didn't talk about it in nearly enough detail. So what I've done to make it up to everybody is if you head to lunaticsprojectcom, I wrote an essay on cryptists so that we can all read about what was really left out in a blatant and horrifying way from this series.
Speaker 2:Yeah, but everyone already knows.
Speaker 1:I didn't, I didn't know. That's why it was left out, that's upsetting. I know I take full responsibility for that.
Speaker 2:For the first time ever.
Speaker 1:But I'm so thrilled and excited to share these stories. They are so freaking good. If you missed last episode, go listen to that as well. We're just again over the moon to have 11 stories, 11 fantastic stories, to present to you, and we're grateful to all of the writers and narrators who have come together to make this possible. It really is a fun. The most fun part of this project is getting to work with the community around us. Should we jump into the first one? We have a lot to get through.
Speaker 2:Please just start it. We've got to keep it moving.
Speaker 1:All right, here we go. Bloodington Beer. Written by Tony Earnshaw. Read by Tessam Knight.
Speaker 5:There were those that considered coastal towns out of season to have some kind of peculiar charm. The tourists were missing, the arcades with their slot machines were shut, even the fish and chip shops were empty and the pubs catered to the locals rather than the out-of-towners. Ray Harrison didn't buy into any of that charm talk bullshit. As far as he was concerned, bloodlington was a dump that should be washed away by the sea. He'd been born there, schooled there and was employed there At 55, he was still trying to get out, but it was a pipe dream. Like so many others, he was stuck. Life had become a continuous routine of sleep, work, eat, tv, repeat. He hated Bloodlington and all the people that lived in it, and he hated himself for not having the balls to get out. Small town boy, small town man, small town corpse in a small town graveyard, small town legacy, or rather no legacy at all that would be Ray's fate. Oblivion, these were the random thoughts that strayed through Ray's brain as he stared out beyond the end of the pier into the endless dark of the North Sea. Nothing else mattered. His fishing rod dangled disconsolately into the water. He wouldn't catch anything, nor did he expect to. It was just him and the silence and the darkness and the blackness of the sea that spread out before him like a tablecloth, never-ending and timeless. He hadn't had a bite in three hours, unwrapping and chewing on a Mars bar. He found YouTube on his iPhone. There was one bar of signal, so he settled down in his chair to watch Jaws. It never got old and he still experienced goose pimples when Quint's reel started to click as the shark took the bait. It was every angler's dream to catch the big one.
Speaker 5:The movie was still playing when, far behind him in the distance, he heard the thumping clod of footsteps. He knew instantly that it would be drunks, and he knew instantly that he would find no companionship in the bellicose camaraderie of tanked-up men who would force their drunkenness upon him. They emerged out of the darkness three indistinct shapes illuminated by the far lights of the promenade. Behind them, two were clutching bottles. Another was clinging to the handrail, unsteady on his feet. He looked as if he was going to throw up. The remaining pair strode purposefully towards him, exhibiting a combination of macho swagger with just a touch of beery stagger.
Speaker 5:Putting away his phone and holding onto his fishing rod, ray turned sideways to look at them. The rod wasn't particularly expensive, but it was the only one he had. He didn't need it damaged and couldn't afford to replace it. If it was, he hoped they would go away quickly. One came and stood next to him. What you fishing for, he said by way of introduction, looking at the rod and then out to sea. Congareel, said Ray. The other man did not immediately respond. Behind him, his friend was unzipping his fly. He launched an empty bottle out into the dark and seconds later released a gush of urine that arced down into the waters, lapping around the base of the pier. Ray groaned inwardly. Suddenly the man beside him asked Got any beer?
Speaker 5:Ray decided the best course of action was to try and entertain his companions, unwelcome as they were. There's a couple in the cooler, help yourself. The second man was closest. He wiped his hands on his jeans and flipped the cooler's lid, taking out both cans. He also helped himself to Ray's sandwiches, peeling off the bako foil to sniff out their contents. What's in these, he asked Deliberately, not turning and keeping his focus on the sea. Ray replied ham and pickle. He was rewarded with the sound of someone being sick.
Speaker 5:The third man at the handrail was noisily depositing the last few hours entertainment. Eight pints and a burger with cheesy fries over the edge. Great, thought Ray. It can swill, together with the piss from the other side. So much for catching any fish, you dirty git, said man number two. He'd been about to take a bite of the sandwich. Instead he threw it back into the cooler and popped the can of beer he'd appropriated. Man three wiped his mouth and slowly crumpled glazed eyes, closing as cool sea air washed over his face, swigging Ray's beer.
Speaker 5:Man two positioned himself next to his friend. He belched and then followed up with the obvious question. He belched and then followed up with the obvious question what are you trying to catch? Then His friend answered Congareels you. What Said the other man? He leaned on the handrail and fixed Ray with a wobbly stare. The first man standing between them turned and helped himself to the remaining can from the cooler, flipping the tab. He took a sip and returned to his place at the pier's end.
Speaker 5:Ray decided that bonhomie was the best form of defence. As casually as he could muster, he launched into an explanation. I'm fishing for conger eel. They tend to come into the shallows at night. They're common around here. With the right bait you can land four-footers, sometimes larger. You eat them, said the second man over the top of his tinny. Ray took a second or two to let the question sink in. You can eat them, but they're a protected species nowadays, so I tend to let them go.
Speaker 5:Man two snorted, drained his beer can in one lengthy swallow and flung it off the pier. It sailed into the blackness, falling thirty-odd feet into the water and landing with a plink. Bit fucking pointless then. Innit, waste of time, it's fucking freezing. Turning to where the third man was, curled up in a fetal position, his semi-conscious brain telling his body to try and stay warm in the chill of the night, he wandered over and nudged him with his foot. Here, jez. He called back to Ray's pier-side companion. Kieran's bladdered Twat's passed out.
Speaker 5:The man called Jez glanced at the drunken heap. Then he said Ever caught one? Ray was stuck. Keeping the conversation going might mean them sticking around. If that happened, how long would it be before they asked for his phone or his wallet? But if he didn't speak to them they could take umbrage. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
Speaker 5:Ray was about to respond when his reel clicked. The rod tip baited with squid rattled. Then there came a succession of quick, violent jerks followed by the reel letting out a yard or so of line. The man called Jez suddenly came alive. You got one, he said. Maybe, said Ray, glad of the distraction.
Speaker 5:The tugs on the line were becoming stronger, pulls that yanked his arms forward. He held the rod steady, not wishing to strike too quickly in case he pulled squid bait from the conger. Then, deliberately and methodically, he wound the reel until he felt the weight of the fish. It was big, bigger than he'd landed before. Heavy too, he estimated, maybe thirty to forty pounds. He began to haul back on the rod. Callum, come and see this. Fuckers bending the rod, the man called Jez said animatedly.
Speaker 5:The conger, fighting to release itself from the hook, was writhing on the line, threshing the sea into whiteness. Ray pressed his wellied feet against the base of the pier's barrier and leaned away from the handrail, his arms strained to draw back the rod and to control the fish, which was now spinning itself. In a bid for freedom. Ray peered into the blackness and saw the conger begin to emerge from the water. He reeled and drew, pulling the fish clear. Then there came a sharp, jarring movement that wrenched him forwards and painfully jammed his chest into the handrail. He almost lost hold of the rod. The movement was repeated as the conger was seemingly hauled downwards with great violence. He reeled back once more. Beside him the two men were staring, transfixed at the battle going on before them. The man called Jez moved to help, standing behind Ray and attempting to assist with the rod which was heaving up and down with the force of the hooked fish.
Speaker 5:The threshing in the water had become more frenzied. The conger squirmed and struggled. Had become more frenzied. The conger squirmed and struggled, twisting on the line Twice. Ray was almost pulled off the pier At one point his feet momentarily left the wooden planking. Only Jez's grip kept him out of the water. Then, abruptly, the line slackened.
Speaker 5:Ray thought the fish had gone, but instead he was able to reel back and recover what was left of the conger. Handlining the weight, he pulled the remains of the fish up over the handrail. Around eleven inches of what had been a considerable eel clung to the squid on the hook. The rest had been torn away and Ray saw there were marks on its flesh where something had dug deep into it Sucker marks, big ones. He brought the rod over the handrail and lay it and the conger's head on the planking. Bloodied water dripped along the woodwork towards the handrail, where Ciaran lay drunken still, and down through the gaps into the swirling waters below. It was a dull thump that seemed to impact the pier foundations.
Speaker 5:Ray, along with Jez and Callum, looked down to the sea that buffeted the barnacled stanchions of the old pier. Fucking hell, muttered Callum. There was something in the water, something with disc-like eyes, the size of dinner plates, that occupied a space just beneath the surface, something that rocked the safety of the Victorian pier, something huge. All three men were gripped by the view. Here was a genuine monster of the deep, a mighty beast capable of tearing to pieces another creature, literally rending it in two. It was a squid, possibly the biggest ever seen in UK waters, and it was resting just 30 feet from where they stood.
Speaker 5:They watched the squid glide beneath the pier Out of view for a handful of seconds. Its disappearance was matched by the trio's dumbfounded silence. Then there came a mighty slam as something collided with the underside of the planking. Jez dropped his beer can in shock. The rapid sound of solid impact occurred again. Then it repeated a third time, followed by a fourth.
Speaker 5:Ray's eyes were deceiving him. Did the planking just appear to move, maybe crack slightly where the shredded conger's head lay dripping. Callum clearly had the same idea. He pitched forward, stamping his foot loudly on the deck of the pier Beneath him. Through the wood, there came an odd swishing sound, as if something large was drawing away.
Speaker 5:Thirty feet below the three men, the creature powered itself away from beneath the pier. It emerged along its length and fired its tentacles up towards the handrail, seeking what might be there. They found Ciaran. Tentacles coiled themselves around the man's inert body, suckers attaching themselves to his clothes, before finding the bare skin of his arms and then his face. Ciaran's eyes opened as his bare, fogged brain sought to communicate to his body what was happening.
Speaker 5:The squid felt for a grip, wrapping its limbs around the hapless man who was incapable of defence even as his fingers raked at his attacker. Then, with a tug, it began to pull him from the flatness of the pier. Ray darted forward. He attempted to grab the man's head but drew back. Repulsed by the tentacles that wriggled and writhed, jez and Callum each grabbed at a foot, pulling their friend back from the edge as his body, engulfed by the squid's strangling embrace, began to tip off the pear's edge. Callum was screaming, but it was noise, not words. Jez grunted and heaved. They were losing the battle.
Speaker 5:The squid had a cruel, unyielding grip. Ray wrestled with his disgust and tore at the tentacles seeking to free them from Ciaran's face where evil-looking suckers with curved claws were connected to his skin. The wretched man howled in agony and terror. The squid fought back. One tentacle wound itself tighter around Ciaran's head, spearing his skin with hooks that caused pain like multiple hypodermic needles. The other flicked free and fired towards Ray. Suddenly it encircled his neck and, with a mighty movement, both men were swept bodily from the comparative safety of the pier and down into the turbulent, surging sea.
Speaker 5:Ray found himself being drawn swiftly into the depths. The huge squid propelled itself through the sea, gliding into the darkness with its dual victims. In those moments, one thought, and one thought alone, dominated Ray's consciousness Survival. He pulled a knife from his belt and fought against the flow of water to slash at and sever a tentacle enclosing his neck. Quite suddenly, he found himself released. The sea beast continued on its journey, taking with it the doomed Ciaran. Ray began to push for the surface, his head and heart pounding and his lungs desperate for more air than they held On the pier. Jez screamed ineffectually at the choppy waters that beat against it. There was no sign of his friend or the fisherman who had been taken with him.
Speaker 5:Callum took off in the direction of the seafront. Breathing heavily and crying in shock. He ran blindly in search of help. The tempestuous sea seemed crowded with lustrous forms that seemed to carry Ray along. No longer in control of his movements, he was barrelled upwards by a throng of bodies that fired him ten feet up out of the waves and into the night air. Cartwheeling, he lost the knife and caught a blurred sight of the pier and seemingly far beyond a line of lights. Then he was plunged back into the sea. All about him, in the waters, around his legs, was furious movement. He fought to tread water but was in fact buoyed up by scores of little bodies, for far and wide there was squid, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The sea thrashed with their movement. Ray was stuck in the middle of it, as if through a long faraway tunnel. He heard a voice Beyond the threshing of the sea. Jez was urging him to reach the pier.
Speaker 5:Ray was at least sixty feet out. He tried to swim and found his hands and feet colliding with the living contents of the squirming sea. At any moment he expected to join Ciaran of the squirming sea. At any moment he expected to join Ciaran, but the squid did not attack. He made for the pier. Jez encouraged him on.
Speaker 5:Ray floundered and flapped, struggling against the squid and the dead weight of his clothes and boots. Yet he made progress. All the time Jez was rallying him, ray tried to keep the other man's face in focus. He could barely hear his exhortations. The sound that enveloped him was deafening.
Speaker 5:Then something happened. Ray felt the water beneath him move like a solid mass. He was first driven backwards, shooting 40 feet through the sea and out beyond where he had begun swimming, he caught sight of Jez, who jerked himself back from the pier's edge. Then the water erupted as something immeasurably vast emerged from the primordial deepness On the pier. Jez began to run Behind him.
Speaker 5:A squid that seemed to rise vertically out of the swelling water blotted out the moon. It loomed against the cloudless sky, its tentacles flailing through the night and seeking out prey. A colossal being crashed through the end of the old pier, snapping timbers and ironwork like twigs. Far bigger than the creature that had taken Ciaran and Ray, it battered the pier's frame with tentacles as thick as tree trunks and laid waste to what had once been a marvel of Victorian engineering. Jez had no chance. The tentacles found and caught him in a crushing embrace that, combined fatal pressure with a thousand searing cactus stings, snuffed from life, his arms broke and his ribcage collapsed as he was drawn up and off the pier, which had begun to collapse into the sea. The squid then disappeared beneath the waters, taking the luckless Jez with it and manoeuvring the man towards its massive beak, which methodically tore chunks from him and fed, high above the inky blackness, a floating beer can served as a pathetic memorial.
Speaker 5:Running on century-old woodwork that shook and splintered beneath him, callum had reached the promenade. He was greeted by a handful of puzzled locals, all dressed for bed, who, on hearing the noise of the Pears' destruction, had emerged from their homes. Callum, hysterical and sobbing, made no sense to those straining to see beyond the cluster of huts that marked the pier's entrance. But they could trust their ears. What's more, they could believe the angry swell of the sea as it smashed against little boats that were tied to the promenade wall. One man went into his home to call the police, another rang the RNLI. A third shone a torch out to sea. Its 600-metre beam illuminated something no modern man should ever see, a thing of legend, a thing of myth and mystery, a thing that belonged in the dark depths, a thing of horror, a gargantuan thing that knowing seafarers of old called Ganshuan. Thing that knowing seafarers of old called Kraken.
Speaker 5:Having obliterated the town's pier, the ocean colossus propelled itself towards land. Its enormous bulk drew the sea with it, driving hundreds of tonnes of water towards the breakwaters and hungrily onwards to the promenade and harbour. It engulfed the seafront of Bloodlington, taking with it the little craft in the harbour, the benches and street furniture, overlooking it and driving into shops and cafes and amusement arcades. Also carried along was Ray, thrust onto the break wall. By a miracle he found himself wedged amidst the uppermost rocks with his head mere inches above the heaving waters. Trapped and helpless and shivering. He could only look on as the raging seas crashed into the little town and lay waste to the Victorian cottages that looked out onto the black water All around him. The North Sea raged and flared with the movement of hundreds of sleek bodies. Some of them are small, some of them large and some of them bigger than a ship. They were headed towards shore.
Speaker 5:The pier was barely standing now, ancient iron girders pointed to the dark sky like the fingers of a dead man clawing for mercy. In a final hopeless gesture, a police car had pulled up with two officers inside. They barely had time to call for armed response support when they were met by the Kraken's searching tentacles. Despite slamming their vehicle into reverse, it was meticulously drawn along the length of the shattered pier until lights gleaming it and its occupants disappeared into the murkiness.
Speaker 5:On Harbour Street, locals bolted into their homes and slammed the doors. In the harbour itself, seemingly hundreds of squid tentacles reached out like live antennae to investigate boats, snapping masts and punching through holes. One creature missing the end of a tentacle could be seen wrathfully flailing at the metal railings that line the promenade wall. Suddenly, the door to the cosy tea rooms burst open. A man clutching a shotgun fired both barrels at the writhing shape. Incredibly, the pellets found their target. The man who ran a deck chair business was able to reload and fire twice, hitting the squid each time. Then he retreated into his home, pulling Callum with him.
Speaker 5:A police armed response vehicle arrived as the Kraken arose once more. One of three officers armed with 9mm submachine guns, radioed a report to an incredulous handler. Then, together, the trio opened fire in an impressive and cacophonous fusillade. High-velocity rounds pounded into the behemoth's hide but had little effect other than to enrage it. Those tree-trunk tentacles reached out from within the destruction of the pier to snatch one man and whip him towards its wicked beak, which tore him bloodily apart, even as he shrieked and his weapon still fired. The other two officers fled in different directions, one falling from the flooded promenade and into the swirling waters of the harbour where he was swarmed by squid. His weapon did not sound as he disappeared beneath the foam. The remaining man jumped for the radio and, ignoring code, words and procedure, screamed a garbled and terrified beg for help.
Speaker 5:Ray's leg was broken. It was jammed between two rocks and he couldn't pull it free. His body was wracked by sharp jabs of pain and he felt faint. There was squid around him, but none had attacked. All the violence was playing out around the pier and in Bloodlington itself. All the violence was playing out around the pier and in Bloodlington itself, which he had watched in silent, confounded awe.
Speaker 5:The Kraken was positioned in the harbour. It was demolishing the seafront, dislodging and hurling away huge chunks of concrete and stonework. Periodically there would be a volley of gunfire. It was as ineffectual as a child's catapult. Ray was suddenly illuminated against the rocks. A searchlight found his shape and beyond it, a voice called to him Stay where you are. Pinned in one position. Ray could not turn. He was too exhausted to speak. Instead, he raised an arm to signal he had heard the order.
Speaker 5:The lifeboat began to move toward him. Beneath it, something ploughed smoothly through the water. The men on board looked on in utter disbelief as the titanic kraken wrecked more of Bloodlington. It was captured in stark relief by the town's streetlights what few of them remained. Ray felt the sea seethe beneath him. He knew what would happen next.
Speaker 5:The lifeboat couldn't get close to the break wall, and so two of the crew launched a dinghy. Instantly. It was overwhelmed, with its inhabitants smashing at the squid's tentacles with their paddles. Almost simultaneously, both men were yanked from the little craft by stinging tentacles and lugged beneath the surface. The skipper of the bigger vessel made to turn back towards the open sea, but the squid that had taken Ciaran arose beside it and flung its tentacles onto the deck. It was joined by others. Steadily, the boat was pulled over until it was swamped by water and squid. The crew pitched into the sea their life jackets, keeping them afloat and making them easy targets for the teeming predators.
Speaker 5:One man let out a high-pitched screech of agony as the squid grabbed him. One drew his flailing legs towards its beak and, with shearing scissor action, tore a piece from his booted foot. Seconds later he, like his boat, had vanished, craning his head. Ray could only look on in helpless, weary resignation. He was getting cold now. He didn't know how long he could last. He wondered whether he would succumb to hypothermia, to drowning or to the squid. He was fading. His brain wasn't working properly anymore. It was full of awful images and sounds, things that made for a horror story.
Speaker 5:Ray tried to free his broken limb and winced as pain fired its way along his leg. But there appeared to be movement. Maybe it would come free. Black waves, made impenetrably black by squid ink, continued to lap across him as the kraken wreaked its annihilation. But was it calming down? Perhaps it would soon be sated? Then he heard it In the distance, unmistakable the droning whoop-whoop-whoop-throb of a helicopter. What was it? Police, air ambulance, the Navy? He didn't care, he just hoped for salvation. And then, amidst the madness and the terror and the thrashing of the squid, he smiled. Bloodlington was on the map now, wasn't it? Well and truly? And what a tale he would have to tell.
Speaker 5:The helicopter choppered in from the open sea. Ray raised his arms in welcome, but it passed overhead and hovered above the town From the harbour. There came a magnificent, devastating eruption as the Kraken propelled itself from the water and in an instant pulled the helicopter from the air. It slammed into the remnants of the pier, its rotors scything and shattering as they smashed into debris. Then it exploded in a fireball that lit up the shore and the thousands of creatures that filled the waves. The immense kraken, which appeared unharmed, drew the blazing wreck into the water, where it sizzled and steamed and was extinguished.
Speaker 5:The night suddenly felt impossibly black. Ray began to weep. He dimly recalled ancient woodcuts that depicted a kraken assaulting a sailing ship, its body and tentacles looming higher than the mainmast. There was no hope for him now. All was lost.
Speaker 5:He batted away a small squid that swam close to him. It returned and wrapped its tentacles around his forearm. He allowed it. He hoped the bigger ones might not venture across the rocks, and then remembered how the kraken had been unaffected by the pier, the harbour, the wrecked boats and houses and the helicopter he vowed to hang on. It was still dark, but dawn couldn't be too far away. Another small squid attached itself to his leg. Its eyes, like little silver discs, regarded him blankly. He felt it testing the fabric of his trousers with its suckers. The squid on his arm detached itself and fired off into the sea. One on one. Gone, he closed his eyes to reality and gave himself over to hope. Out in the North Sea, the Royal Navy, frigate Nyad, received an unusual report. A giant squid had apparently destroyed the small coastal town of Bloodlington. Its commander, asleep in his cabin, laughed when he was waken to be told the news. We're not the USS Stein, and no cephalopod exists. That's so big, he said confidently as he casually gave the order to swing about.
Speaker 1:Before anything else I just have to say Tessa has my favorite voice of all time.
Speaker 2:I mean, I don't know how many times we can beat this dead horse. She's cheating, she's horse.
Speaker 1:She's cheating, she's cheating, she's cheating. She has an amazing voice.
Speaker 2:It's too good. It immediately elevates any story from amazing to better amazing.
Speaker 1:But Tony's story is so good.
Speaker 2:Yeah, it's a great story, although, although I have one issue with this story that must be addressed, tell us so. I don't know anything about England. Nothing Sure, however, this have you ever?
Speaker 1:been.
Speaker 2:No, okay, if I did, I would know something.
Speaker 1:Okay, sure.
Speaker 2:But apparently in the story we hear that the conger eel is a protected species that doesn't get eaten, Right? The conger eel is one of the most delicious fish in the sea.
Speaker 1:You've eaten it Absolutely Well.
Speaker 2:you're part of the problem, it sounds like If you go down to South America specifically, you know, like the western southern area, yeah, you can get. Well, you'll get congreel, which is congreel, and it is the most delicious fried fish on the planet.
Speaker 1:Yeah, well, I would say, this is probably a regional law, it's not a global law.
Speaker 2:I don't know. It's just it's presented as it's a protected species. I don't know you can protect species somewhere and eat them elsewhere.
Speaker 1:I think you can. I think it depends on how abundant they are in that region.
Speaker 2:I don't know that because I don't know anything about England.
Speaker 1:Anyway, back to the important bits. It's so good though you got to try it. The story or the eel.
Speaker 2:Congreo, congreo frito. It's just again the best fried fish you'll ever have.
Speaker 1:I don't like eel, I don't eat eel.
Speaker 2:You can also make a congreo soup, and that is so so you'd never know it was eel. It's like a white fish. It's so good.
Speaker 1:Tony does an amazing job at presenting almost an epic feeling short story. It's so exciting. I feel like you're on the edge of your seat the entire time and Tessa again does just a great job bringing it to life.
Speaker 2:It is a rock and cracking story.
Speaker 1:It's a rock and cracking story, hell yeah.
Speaker 2:It's super well written and really conveys the scale of helplessness of the town, which I think is actually really hard to do in literary format. Sure, I thought this one came together super well, and I also got to say that the helicopter takedown was just really cool.
Speaker 1:So epic, yeah, I thought it was incredibly well written, like you said, was on the edge of my seat the whole time, and typically this sort of Lovecraftian type of monster story isn't always my go-to and it kept me very, very intrigued the whole time. They developed characters very quickly that were fascinating and amazing. Well, well done all around.
Speaker 2:Good short story 10 out of 10.
Speaker 1:10 out of 10. Well done, tony. Thank you for sharing your work with us. 10 out of 10 all around. So if you want more from Tony, let me tell you a little bit about Tony Earnshaw. So if you want more from Tony, let me tell you a little bit about Tony Earnshaw. Tony Earnshaw is a British writer who was born, bred and lives in Yorkshire. Sorry if I pronounced any of this wrong.
Speaker 2:It's a Yorkshire.
Speaker 1:He roots his stories in the everyday, focusing on ordinary people who somehow find themselves drawn into extraordinary situations that nonetheless maintain a basis in credibility. He has written seven nonfiction books and contributed to 20 more, which is incredibly impressive, and his work has been featured in tons of different magazines and outlets. You can follow him at Tony Earnshaw on Facebook and X and the Tony Earnshaw on Instagram. He also has some new stuff on the way, so we are going to link all the different ways that you can follow Tony on social media and on his website so that you can be up to speed when his next book comes out.
Speaker 2:I do have one thing to say about England.
Speaker 1:Okay.
Speaker 2:I recently learned how to say England in Spanish. Do you have any idea?
Speaker 1:Inglaterra.
Speaker 2:Inglaterra. Yeah, I don't know. I've never heard, never. I've never heard that out loud before. I think it makes perfect sense. It's just kind of funny.
Speaker 1:Yeah, I love the UK. I've been to London a few times. I've been to, and you know, towns outside of London, dublin towns outside of Dublin. Actually, I've been to quite a bit of Ireland but I really want to go to Scotland.
Speaker 2:Why.
Speaker 1:That's where all the spooky magic happens. So I'm told, Lots of historic cemeteries, lots of ruins, which of course are across all countries.
Speaker 2:Yeah, but all the best fish are protected.
Speaker 1:That's a good point. What are we going to eat? All right, let's keep things rolling here.
Speaker 3:We have another excellent story in the queue Uncharted, written by JP Relf, read by Cyril Luke.
Speaker 7:There are more human remains in the ocean than in all the terrestrial graveyards combined. Coraline, when I drowned, the sky above was deepest blue, sequined with stars. I had one last thought before the ocean's embrace, tight as a yearning lover's, smothered me to velvet cold. A memory of a sparkling dress worn at a Christmas party, with red shoes shocking red shoes, with killer heels. I'd chosen them to take the attention from my face, from the smile, doing little to embellish the hollowness that was always revealed by my eyes. I'd chosen them to hide behind. I don't even like red. I hated Christmas. In the end, I hated everything, especially myself. By walking into the ocean, pockets filled with returning pebbles, I hoped that hollowness would be forever filled with cleansing salt water. As I was conveyed to uncharted depths, the stars vanished from my sight like summer freckles. In winter, when I woke, the water around and above me shimmered with preternatural light. I stared at my hands, turning them over and over, shocked by how they flickered from solid to translucent, allowing small, curious fish to slip through my palms before becoming corporeal again. I spun in the water like a jellyfish. What had I become? Was this what death looked like? I felt the ocean surge through my body warm like blood. Yet I couldn't feel my heart. Its shattered beat had been all I'd known once. Its absence was oddly comforting. I drifted through currents, finding a grace and ease of movement. Crustaceans and seafloor became enwoven in my hair. I was never completely alone. I pushed myself to the ocean's bed, the exquisite midnight blue where satiny covers puffed, with the tossing and turning of restless bedfellows. I burrowed into the sand like an eel, curled and closed my eyes. I had given myself to the ocean. She had brought me back. I still didn't know why.
Speaker 7:Yet in this strange form, purged and remade by seawater, I'd found a peace long denied me. I rested. There's no consideration for time. In the deep ocean, I swim and I rest. I never surface in daylight. Thoughts of the sun's revealing glare repel me. I am of the salty darkness now, a darkness teeming with color. Months may have passed Longer, it doesn't concern me. I am untethered in this subaquatic world, freed from physical pains and emotional torments. I know the ocean wants something from me in return. I still wait for my salt-burned eyes to show me the way I skim the ocean floor, stirring sand with my fingers. In the glimmering green gold, something incongruous is unveiled A tragic human form Female Scraps of sea-bleached cloth clinging to white bones. Scorpionfish whip strands of silver hair around the skull as if they wish to plait it. Tabby cat mackerel brush against two hands, grasping upwards like pallid crabs. Threads of faded blue rope trail from her wrists. I look down, see the same knotted at the ankles. As the sands shift further, I see rocks beneath her pelvis, gray, not of this place. This isn't someone who gave herself to the ocean as I did. She was discarded here. She doesn't belong.
Speaker 7:When I rise, the cuckoo rays whirl a funnel to carry the woman, freed from a sandy grave, up, up up. I push her into the shallows, the cover of night hiding our grim purpose. The ocean sighs, waves, shiver Roll her gently onto the beach. I stare a while at the lonely bones, luminescent in the moonlight. I hope she is soon discovered, named, rested in a terrestrial grave bed. A while at the lonely bones, luminescent in the moonlight, I hope she is soon discovered, named, rested in a terrestrial grave bed, perhaps visited by loved ones with tear-spattered roses and lilies. For a selfish moment I want to crawl up beside her, feel the cold press of stones and shells on my knees, the piquant wind on my lips, but I do unveil the lost. With each sand-softened bone, each circlet of blue threads around, a fragile joint rage thrashes inside me, builds like a tidal wave. I can do nothing but let it wash over the beach, bearing the wretched dead, hope their discovery will lead someone to the door of an earthbound beast, while my salt blood burns with the urge to lead the beast here to the anguish of the ocean.
Speaker 7:To me, susanna, you should have trusted that twisting in your gut, the prickle that raced like hot goose flesh over your skin. He was all wrong. You smelled it, tasted it somehow in the air around him. You felt it. When his eyes pond, scum green, abandoned his practiced smile, you should have lashed out, scream, run. You can't now. You can only close your eyes, find a memory to hide in, away from his clammy hands on you. The fried fish stink of his breath. Summer heat still baking the sand Laughter, bright as the fairy lights strung between poles, an unexplored swirl of glowing skin, sweat and coconut eyes, so blue they must have drained the morning sky, her kiss, all grapefruit lip balm and hot need.
Speaker 7:The beach has blurred. You only see her, feel her, her hands on the pale skin beneath your bikini, scorching like the sun. Cora, your greatest love, your greatest loss. Your mind clings to that pecan skin, those beautiful eyes. She wasn't haunted then. She was wild and free as the ocean. You're yanked hard from that summer haze into stinging cold air. The same ocean, but darker, uglier, horribly close. It seems to whisper your name in sussurrant urgency. You fill your eyes with stars, let tears full of light spill over. You barely feel the tightening of the ropes, the gouging bite. You let the shush of the waves mask his ugly, breathing fetid and fevered. When the hard slap of the water comes, a numbness spreads over the pain, blanketing. You're falling through layers of deepening blue, a fist of ice in your chest. In the final moments, your mind conjures grapefruit, kisses and a love blistering as an August sun, wild and free Tyranny.
Speaker 7:He watches the melee from atop the cliff, pressed against his car window like a fretful dog. Rain clouds mask the sun, fill the car with cold shadows. The news of a twelfth body spewed onto the beach, laid out on the stony sand like rattling flotsam. They might identify this one. Six others had been named so far. Finally find the common thread A tenuous, fraying connection between the victims. Between them and him, red strings on a corkboard. The car had gotten stuffy sour from his sweat and breath. He swipes the window clear with a sleeve. Below, the beach is clearing no more to be mined from the pebbled sand. A green tent collapsed. A trail of black and yellow tape snaps in the wind as it's rolled up.
Speaker 7:He stares at the ocean, its mocking calm. His hands tighten around the steering wheel, turning white as the beach belch bones. Why is this happening? How? He's shrewd, cautious with his work. There were no markers to lead to graves, certainly no trophies. His deeds left intentionally unmapped. He sent them all to the ocean floor with rocks and ropes. Their remains should have been scattered and scoured, buried by the sands, lost. It was as if they'd found willful purpose, driven by a desire for reckoning.
Speaker 7:His chosen ones returning in more than just his dreams, impossibly pushing their fleshless arms through the water, their skulls breaking the frothing surface, their disarticulated skeletons clatter, clambering onto the pebbles, waiting to be found by fishermen and beachcombers, waiting to be named to name him. His frustration sours to foreboding, like clotting milk making him wretch. It's a wholly unfamiliar sensation. He can't bear the way it squirms in his belly like elvers, weakening him. In the mirror he seeks his own eyes then lurches from what now cowers there whimpering in the muddy green. The urge to take another now shivers impotently beneath a pressing dread. Won't be prized free. Is he broken, lost?
Speaker 7:He can't fathom what possesses him to leave the car, descend to the beach, the very place of his unraveling. The pebbles cleared of accusatory bones are silvered and pearled by a sharp moon. He feels lured here, as if tempted by a blood-red apple, a blood-red kiss tainted by salt. In a way he believes that by returning to the churn and chop of the ocean he'll learn why it schemes against him. It's a mild night, he's weary, sweat, sour, and the shushing water is a dark temptation.
Speaker 7:He kicks off his shoes, presses his toes into the yielding sand. He closes his eyes, remembers the last time he felt that cold squelch, winter white skin, silky as the heart of shells, limpid brown eyes, diamond tears quivering on lashes, blue rope parting under his blade, with a sound like sensual breath. When he fails to become aroused at the memory, he realizes the breadth of his anxiety. He remains flaccid, letting out a cry, mournful as a seabird. He wades into the wavelets, watches them break like pale necks where they impact his shins.
Speaker 7:The water tugs at his ankles, then his calves he imagines it is another of his chosen ones returned to him trying to snag him with a fleshless hand. He isn't soothed by the chill water nor the expanse of star-filled sky. He only feels a gnawing inside him. A devouring Anxiety becomes fear. He's rocked by it. Then he's yanked hard, a sensation like claws digging into his flesh and dragged to deeper water. He rolls and thrashes like a crocodile, coughing, choking on vile froth. He tries to swim, grabbing at the water with numbing arms. He tries, kicking. He has no strength. He's truly flaccid. The grip is relentless, like rope around his ankles, thin his thighs. Screaming only invites frigid brine into his body, an excruciating pain like boiling vinegar in his lungs.
Speaker 7:Spent and fully submerged, he sees terrifying dogfish circling like subaquatic vultures, snapping with needle teeth. A black certainty intrudes on his consciousness he's drowning, even in a semi-delirious state. He sees the irony in that, as he claws at the last residues of air, the dogfish bolt away and in their place madness comes. For surely the diaphanous woman appearing before him is a hallucination, an artifact of his diminishing brain. Yet she seems unbearably real. Something in the furious glare of her blue eyes, like impossible gas flames. He feels his own eyes crackle, shatter, a brutal shiver of sharks grin eagerly behind. The woman promised that drowning will merely be a part of his torment. This is to be his sentence, delivered by this judge of the ocean, a woman in washed denim robes, a wig of brown and green, crowned in shells. A delicate plaited bracelet of faded blue strings encircles her wrist. She smiles like a beautiful monster, drifts aside to present him to the executioners. When he hears her speak, her voice is so cruel in its whispery kindness, you belong here. Then she's spinning away and retribution comes fully, with teeth ripping and bones snapping. And he knows there'll be nothing left to wash ashore.
Speaker 7:Coraline, I swim and I rest. I never surface during daylight. I am of the salty darkness now, a darkness teeming with color. I sometimes rise to look at the sky. When it's sequined with stars, months pass Longer. Then a shoal of tabby cat mackerel whips aside a blanket of sand reveals what slumbers beneath. I run my fingers across the skull, fill the smooth hole. He doesn't belong here. My duty is to give him the peace he's been denied the justice. I summon the cuckoo rays and together we take him up, up, up.
Speaker 2:There's a lot of symbolism going on here.
Speaker 1:I really love this story and it also feels incredibly unique compared to a lot you know. In this mix of 11 stories, it feels very unique, which I really really love. Shall I share my interpretation of this story? Sure, okay, I don't want to lead anybody's thoughts on it, but this is my interpretation. The story starts with this woman who has taken her own life in the bay of the ocean right, yes, near town, port town. Then, throughout the story, other women or people who are being killed by this serial killer. Their bodies are being dumped and she's trying to save them or bring them to shore, help them be found, and then, at the end, the actual evil killer ends up in the water and she sort of helps bring him below the depths forever. But it was very poetic and beautifully read by our friend Sarah. Indeed, it was.
Speaker 2:As always, Sarah Luke does great.
Speaker 1:Sarah Luke's voice is just. It's one of those moments I know I've said this all the time, but I feel like it was when I read the story I was like Sarah's voice. We need Sarah's voice for this story.
Speaker 2:If Sarah was British, she'd be unstoppable.
Speaker 1:Yeah, she's almost unstoppable now. So this story was written by JP Ralph and it was previously published in print in Sand, salt and Blood, a charity anthology with Sliced Up Press in 2022.
Speaker 2:It's a great name.
Speaker 1:And I'm going to leave all of the links and the website for JP Ralph so that you can follow her work and be up to date on when the next thing comes out.
Speaker 2:Fantastic.
Speaker 1:Absolutely beautiful, haunting, poetic, incredible work. Thank you so much for sharing it with us. We have a poem next.
Speaker 2:Oh boy.
Speaker 1:I love this one. Ah jeez, we're just going to play the tape and then we'll come back and talk about it, as I suppose we always do.
Speaker 3:The Widow's Cottage, written by Curb Newton, read by Charles C Cook.
Speaker 4:The cottage sat on the edge of a cliff above the swirling sea. It was made of stone and cedar and was once the home of a lady by the name of Merrily. Merrily was married to a fisherman who left one early morn, never to return. A sudden storm was blamed. A wake was held at the edge of the sea for all who lost their lives that day.
Speaker 4:For years Merrily lived alone and it was said her voice was heard talking now and again as if someone else were in the cottage, though no one was ever seen, and when the fisherman's widow disappeared one day, never to return, it was commonly believed that she had found herself cold comfort in the arms of the swirling sea. The widow's cottage, as it's called now, has been empty ever since. Death is always the deterrent when prospective buyers overhear the rumors that still persist. It is said that late at night one can see candlelight flicker behind the shuttered window boards and wet footprints have been discovered leading to and from the door. For most, it's just as well, and the cottage should be left alone above the somber, swirling sea. No one can call it home because it still belongs to.
Speaker 1:Merrilee. Okay, so let me just say I'm so impressed that this is such a short poem and we get a beautiful ghost story. We get the somber angst of losing of somebody drowning in this storm, which I think we can all kind of call us back to other literature references. It's a good romantization of death by drowning. There you go and we get this like into the arms of her lover of the sea, which I just love, that personification of the ocean.
Speaker 2:Sounds like a novel title.
Speaker 1:Yeah, in the arms of the lover of her sea. What was it In the arms of her sea, in the arms of her lover?
Speaker 2:the sea. Yes, that's it Exactly. It's a three sentence long title.
Speaker 1:Yes, snappy.
Speaker 2:However, there was mention of wet footprints.
Speaker 1:Yep.
Speaker 2:And wet footprints are very hard to make.
Speaker 1:That's true. I know from experience.
Speaker 2:Yes, your feature film which comes out. Probably it's already out by this time. The series is done. There's a shot of wet footprints.
Speaker 1:And I mean that's generous.
Speaker 2:It was supposed to be a shot of a wet floor. They don't look like wet footprints at all.
Speaker 1:It's hard to pull off without a, without like glycerin, you know.
Speaker 2:How dare you? I was about to tell you my movie tricks.
Speaker 1:Yeah, well, you already told them to me.
Speaker 2:Yep. Well, that's the trick everybody you make them out of glycerin.
Speaker 1:Now, we know Too little, too late.
Speaker 2:I just did another movie that had wet ghost footprints. They outsmarted us and yeah, that's the trick.
Speaker 1:So Kurt Newton's poetry has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies, including Amazing Stories, space and Time, eye to the Telescope, love Letters to Poe and Spectral Realms. His collection Songs of the Underland was recently published by Raven's Quoth Press and you can follow him at Kirk D Newton on Twitter, instagram, and we will also link his Blue Sky, his Facebook, again, so that you can stay totally up to date and support him when his next work comes out. And, of course, the dreamy voice behind this poem is our friend John C Cook of the Fido podcast, if you are not yet familiar with the Fido podcast, which has been on a bit of a hiatus, but there is still a stunning library of stories that John has read and narrated just beautifully for you to dive into. So I cannot recommend the Fido podcast enough, truly from the bottom of my heart. But without further ado, and speaking of Poe, we have another poem.
Speaker 2:Is it by Poe?
Speaker 3:Dream within a dream, written by Edgar Allan Poe, read by Michael Glosser.
Speaker 8:Red-eyed Michael Glossier, take this kiss upon the brow. And in parting from you now thus much, let me avow you are not wrong. Who deem that my days have been a dream. Yet if hope has flown away in a night or in a day, in a vision or in none, is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore and I hold within my hand grains of the golden sand. How few yet. How they creep through my fingers to the deep while I weep. While I weep, oh God, can I not grasp them with a tighter clasp? Oh God, can I not save one from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?
Speaker 1:So this poem was read to us by our friend Michael Crosa, who dedicates this to Lucas.
Speaker 2:Which Lucas.
Speaker 1:I think a Lucas that you maybe don't know, Alan.
Speaker 2:Oh, I thought that was a very cute seaside poem.
Speaker 1:I love the imagery that Poe drums up of trying to grasp and hold and count the sand and not being able to contain it, especially when a wave comes, it feels, you know, like such an interesting way to talk about helplessness.
Speaker 2:Yeah, you need a bucket.
Speaker 1:You need a bucket. We also have a deep dive from a few years ago on this podcast into the history, the life of Edgar Allan Poe. Maybe we also had a multi-part lunatics library then, actually, but we have a bunch of Poe stories that were narrated for us by all of our friends, including Michael Krosa, so please go check that out. It's one of it's still one of my favorite topics that we've ever dove into.
Speaker 2:You think we had a multi-part library back then because you made a whole to-do about this is the first one.
Speaker 1:Yeah, but it kind of doesn't count because it was all public domain stories, so nobody submitted anything.
Speaker 2:I see.
Speaker 1:But Michael Krosa, our very talented friend, Michael Krosa, from PodNuga Podcast Network and my part of town, Chattanooga. He's an incredibly talented podcaster and voice actor and friend and we're very grateful for him to send this story to us to be part of this. All right, Alan, we have two more stories.
Speaker 2:Okay, here's the next. Okay, here's the next.
Speaker 9:The Sea Took Our Names. Written by JR Santos, read by Avi Dodger, domingos clutched the harpoon in a desperate grip. It was a long and clumsy weapon for self-defense because it was never intended for that role. He thought back to his home on an island from the Azores archipelago. It had been blessed with green hills and, of course, a plentiful sea. Neptune's realm is a beautiful thing to watch from the comfort of one's home. Unlike where he found himself then, on the half-sunk whaler, domingos did not know how to build one or repair one, but he knew enough that he could tell this was going to be the ship's grave. Soon the sea would claim the broken hull, so barnacles and corals could grow around the wooden bones. He stood alone, praying to the saints that seemed deaf to his pleas. Domingos waited, but no angels came to carry him home. There was only the sea and whatever waited in those dark waters. Night devoured the ship as he kept falling in and out of sleep, thirsty and hungry, the harpoon in his hands keeping him from falling forward Silently. He muttered a plea. He begged that God might guide his arm one last time.
Speaker 9:The ship had set sail and made an easy going at first all sunlight and soothing sea breeze. Sometimes the men had to fend for themselves, but the hunt was called out of need. The fear of going hungry and cold in the coming winter was too great. They sailed, men with deep lines and dark tans, men molded by the sun and wind. As for the whaling ship, it had no proper name. It was not a common practice and in fact it could not be truly unnamed or it would not be allowed to sail. So it was in that half-gest that the name agreed upon by all was that of Sen-Nom, which meant no name. Captain, why not name the ship? The captain was an old sea wolf, half his face pulled down like a hood, his age made manifest by folds of skin, sagged muscle. He seemed to always be stuck in a perpetual playful wink. All things are lost at sea men, ships and their names. We shall have no name to lose. Let the waters have nothing to take from us but our lives, so baptized. It remained the no name, even after the old man had been lost to that cold, cruel mistress. Time moved on with the tides. Now now, shouted one of the men, an old hand, his eyes wide and his face red from the sun. Domingos steadied his aim in reply, or as much as one could in a rocking ship taking deep breaths could.
Speaker 9:In a rocking ship, taking deep breaths, with the rehearsed practice of many other throws. He launched the harpoon, a rope tied to the end that others would hold onto so they could pull the beast to them. It hit the target and the whale, already wounded, stuck by another harpoon before, made a last-ditch effort to escape. Every man went for the sturdy ropes which the women of the fishing village had hewn together. There was a rhythm to this dance Heave ho, heave ho, tugging of the ropes to draw the wounded critter nearer.
Speaker 9:This was a small one compared to ones Domingos often saw in the distance. Those had tails and humps which made great splashes whenever they emerged or submerged. But it was for the best if the whalers kept themselves humble. Larger whales were a riskier bet and if they were caught in a storm there was a higher risk of having to lose precious cargo. As for the one they reeled in, it bled and cried until they quickly butchered the creature on the open sea to better preserve and carry its fat and salted remains. They would avoid eating the meat if they could To feed themselves. Would risk starving their own children. Do you think the Lord accepts them into their kingdom? It was a strange question for Domingos to ask, and only Alameda had been around to answer. Domingos to ask, and only Alameda had been around to answer. Only God knows. His mysteries are as deep as the seas. We can only hope the tide will take us into his arms. It was to be expected. There were no easy answers in this life, even though they might be simple ones.
Speaker 9:Their wailing proceeded without interruptions for a couple of days, after which they felt the winds had changed and knew they had to make their way back. It's the strangest thing, alameda commented, that fog over there. Do you see it? Domingo saw, and no sooner did the wind carry the sound. It was like a whale song, but full of distortion. At the heart of the rolling gray, a dark shape moved Soon. All the men saw that great shape. Together they acted as one changing course, turning back. The wind that carried the fog certainly would carry them easily. Also, it was not meant to be All felt a premonition of horrors to come.
Speaker 9:So, by any means necessary, the ship was made to sail as fast as they could muster. They failed, for it was an old ship, too heavily mended, like their clothes and tools were. As the fog soon overtook them, the whale song became so loud every man covered their ears. Domingos prayed to himself his own prayer prayer so that the sea would not claim him that day. It was all so disorienting that even after the cry ceased and the men recovered their wits, they had no hope of knowing how far they had sailed in that mist or in which direction. They dropped the sad, rusty anchor and voted wait, rather than to risk becoming lost in the weird haze.
Speaker 9:On moved the tides. How long have we been like this? I don't know, alameda, I don't know. I fear we may die of thirst. Devils, take me man. Not a breeze or a tide. The water flat and the fog ceaseless. The men felt trapped in limbo and were beginning to go mad. They whispered in their sleep. Some cried as if to imitate the sound that had haunted them. That was when Domingos found the captain was gone. No point crying his name. He must have been taken by the mermaids. Forgive me if I do not laugh, alameda.
Speaker 9:The men looked at each other with distrust. An oil lamp allowed them to see what little they could With the blubber. They could make fuel to keep the lights and heat, but that had to be managed with utmost care. Their survival and their families depended on it. The depths were cold and dark, but never silent. They were full of song for those who could hear.
Speaker 9:Domingos woke up to the rain and was quick to drink it, and then attempted to collect it after he felt sated Sweet water, even wind. He stopped realizing the ship was moving, then ran to find that the unthinkable had happened. Someone broke loose the anchor and smashed the till to pieces. We're at the mercy of the winds now. Alameda looked tired but busy collecting water, focusing on what he could control. Domingos realized then some of the fog had lifted, but all he saw around him were the gray skies and the gray water. Still, the sheets of rain that drenched them both were as waving curtains. None of this makes sense. We should all gather and find a way home. Alameda laughed bitter, then fell on his ass. Yes, let us all come together. To me, my brave ones, to me. He shouted like a madman, laughed and cried as Domingos looked around them expecting someone to offer help, but none did. They were alone on the whaler. Something moved beneath the tides, an unseen doom.
Speaker 9:The two survivors shut themselves inside the ship, barred the doors with all they could find and hunched away from each other like cornered animals. They managed their rations carefully and took turns sleeping. I heard noises outside, people moving. I think Steps Domingo sat by the door and knew his friend was awake. Also, as Alameda breathed faster when the noises occurred. Ghosts, the wind, nothing. Don't let it drive you mad. I know the sound of wind and the sound of footsteps. I am yet to meet a ghost. Fine, you're dreaming then? Alameda answered sullenly, turning his back. You're supposed to be the one who's asleep? Good then, I'm dreaming about how annoying you are. There was a pause and then both men laughed, a celebration of the life in them. Still, the mist dispelled. The devil looked away for a mere moment.
Speaker 9:Domingos woke up and saw daylight. Feeling pain, he touched the sore nape of his head to find it wet with blood, his throat dry. He tried to call his friend but realized he could not remember the name he was trying to call. Call his friend, but realized he could not remember the name he was trying to call. He tried to chase it in his mind but found nothing. Even the face of the man was blurry, with details like the nose and the eyes shifting around.
Speaker 9:Domingos began to worry then, as he attempted to recall something, anything important to him, only to fail completely. Searching the ship, he found the only weapon he could rely on that hadn't been broken, rusted or taken away by the sea A harpoon with words he could not read but which awoke in him the memories of their meaning. He held to his harpoon and prayed for strength While he was gone. The ship had been found, his food was gone and all the clay pots that might once have held drinkable water were smashed to pieces. He began to recall that he had dreamt, strangely, of a great leviathan that sang a whale song and moved through mist.
Speaker 9:Possessed with fear, the whaler looked around him dismayed. He had the oil lamp still the glass cracked but still functional, and more blubber than he could carry, flammable. At the thought of flame, domingos imagined a great column of fire, a great signal pyre to bring over other ships, to bring rescue. Perhaps with fire he could claim all that had been lost. He set a great blaze in the middle of the ship. He refused to sleep, standing like an ancient hunter guarding his encampment. Night returned in its pale chariot and along with it the song and the mist, domingo stood closer to the water, nearly falling overboard from weakness. Harpoon in hand, he waited to greet the monster monster. As the wordless song lulled him into a waking dream, he readied his weapon, pulled back his arm and waited, and waited and waited. Fire and smoke rose higher through the mist to the heavens. Tides and winds turned the gears of the world. Morning followed night and the mist was gone and Domingos gone with it. His harpoon left behind creaking. The ship drifted away like a dream.
Speaker 2:Well, this was another fantastic tale of harpooning.
Speaker 1:I knew you were going to like this, because you're a big Moby Dick guy.
Speaker 2:I love it. Yes, yeah, but I love a good whale whaling tale, sure, and there's not enough of them, in fact, I I can't even name a second one there's certainly others, but anyway name one the sea took our names oh, cheating, I mean any whaling tale is fun. I love just the the, the man versus the beasts, yes, with the little boats and just a pointy stick, that's cool.
Speaker 1:Very primal. Yeah, I think again. Jr Santos has been a constant contributor to Lunatics Radio Hour.
Speaker 2:What a guy.
Speaker 1:He's very talented. Yeah, we're always so thrilled to be able to feature his work and I really love this story. I think it's one of his best stories and has such a beautiful plot and subtext and I was quite moved by it actually.
Speaker 2:Any tale of man versus large beast big fan.
Speaker 1:You're a simple guy. Huh yeah, I am. There was no poetry in this one.
Speaker 2:I thought it was poetic. In its nature it was poetic, but JR Santos is a straight shooter, I see, you know.
Speaker 1:Yeah, that's your interpretation. This was also performed by our friend Avi Dobkin, and I've said it before, I'll say it again when you have a great old-timey piece of literature or old-timey, inspired, avi's your guy.
Speaker 2:He is, and this case I don't think it was necessarily old-timey.
Speaker 1:But it was inspired Like it was set, not in modern times. You don't go out and harpoon whales. Now it does Talk about illegal hunting.
Speaker 2:It does become elevated with a historic perspective. Yes, yes, absolutely. What do you mean? Illegal hunting?
Speaker 1:You're talking about the eel earlier, the conger eel. Yeah, I don't think most people are allowed to go out and hunt whales, unless you're in indigenous communities nowadays, right.
Speaker 2:No, but this was sure. Wait. Can indigenous communities still hunt whales?
Speaker 1:Maybe I think so.
Speaker 2:Seems still mean.
Speaker 1:I think there's certain animals perhaps, but like way up in, like you know, Northern Alaska or places like that, I think.
Speaker 2:Can you imagine if an indigenous community just like goes to SeaWorld and starts throwing harpoons? That would be pretty wild. That would be so mean, unless they'd go after the administrators.
Speaker 1:Yeah, that's the way to do it, so you can follow our friend JR Santos on Twitter and Blue Sky, both found at CS Skeleton. Again, we're such big fans of his work and there will be more to come from him, so, without further ado, we have a finale story. Shall we?
Speaker 3:Yes, the Sea Witch, written by Aaron Bryant, read by Daniel.
Speaker 6:Roberts. On dark and stormy nights, the Sea Witch felt particularly restless. Her cave on the beach was small and not up to her standards. Thalassa looked at her bed with an old, worn-out blanket. Then, at her side table with one broken leg, it was propped up by a small crate that had washed up after a storm. Her mirror was cracked and she frowned at the fractured image. Her hair was a dirty blonde and hung stringy and flat well beyond her shoulders. A smudge of cave dirt was on her right cheek. She used the sleeve of her green tunic to wipe it up. It was time for an upgrade. It was time for a shipwreck.
Speaker 6:She hadn't prepared for a terrible storm in years. It took a lot of energy, but when you needed supplies, you needed supplies. She walked out to the dark beach and stood in the cold rain that beat down. She smiled. It really was the perfect night. She felt the power like a tickle in her stomach at first. Then she called it up from her core until it culminated into more and more power. Finally, a ball of light appeared in her hand and she sent it skyward. The storm's intensity picked up twofold. Lightning cracked across the sky and booming thunder answered the call. The sea responded with ferocious, capping waves and then, like a mouth, lapped the sand away from the beach into its dark belly. The waters hissed and crashed. They grew so tall that anything caught in their path would have no choice but to be swept away or sucked in. A bright light from a lighthouse in the distance shone out to the sea and onto a struggling ship. It was tossed around back and forth like a small toy as the waves brought the ship closer. She could see the men on board struggling with ropes, sails and steering. Come to me. She whispered in the wind, feeling her power dance across the soapy, churned water and wild waves to find them Like fingers. The power grabbed up the ship and started to pull it down into the dark, unkind water. She laughed, a very evil laugh that came straight out of her belly and made her smile with delight. She watched intensely as the ship was sucked down. She watched intensely as the ship was sucked down. After it disappeared she sat on the beach Waiting for the debris and items to wash onto shore. It would all come to her, no extra expense of power needed.
Speaker 6:She had not minded living in her bleak cave for the last fifty years Because she was in a terrible slump. Being immortal did that to you every now and again. She had spent many days sleeping and complaining about her life. The food tasted bland. The night seemed so dull. The night seemed so dull. The townspeople had become a bore. She hadn't even been in the mood to harass them. The locals had probably forgotten about her. Soon that would all change. She would claim the town back and find the best house to live in and eat and drink to her heart's content.
Speaker 6:She could look however she fancied. She could be a beautiful busty blonde or a sultry brunette. She had taken so many forms over the centuries that she often forgot what she actually looked like. Finally, the first boards and debris started to wash up on the shore. She walked over with schoolgirl Giddy to take her prizes. A chest full of gold and jewelry tickled her fancy. She had to step on two dead men to get over to it. But it was worth opening the chest and delighting in her prize, her riches, other items like a barrel of wine and fancy clothes landed at her feet. It must have been one of the queen's ships.
Speaker 6:The last present was a surprise. A very handsome man with tan skin and blonde hair came in with a wave. He moaned and slowly opened his eyes. She squatted and offered a hand. He took it slowly as he spat some water out of his mouth that he had coughed up. She quickly changed her form to that of a young maiden. He looked up at her with his unique gray eyes with thanks. He stood and asked her how is it that you stand on this beach after an awful storm? She replied sweetly. I was out for an evening stroll when the storm struck. Then I saw a ship torn apart in the storm and rushed to the beach. He then asked how is it that a young maiden would go walking in the night without an escort? His question seemed suspicious but she answered.
Speaker 6:I have lived here all of my life and know the people in town. I have nothing to be afraid of. So you know William the baker. He asked More questions. She thought, feeling annoyed yes, william is the only baker that I buy from. He smiled a strange smile and walked closer to her. She flipped her hair over her shoulder, matching in steps, and smiled seductively.
Speaker 6:Now they were but a hand's distance apart. How is it that you do not know that William the Baker died twenty-six years ago? Startled by his response, she took a step back, but he grabbed her hand. It's because you've been asleep for too long, he said. As he jabbed a dagger deep into her chest. She grunted from the force and then put her hand where the blood flowed out quickly. She fell to her knees as her power left her drained. As she lay helpless, dying on the damp sand, she noticed that the shabby clothes of the sailor had changed into a long black dress. Your reign is over, you, old croon. Now it's my turn, said the new sea witch. Thalassa faded into nothing more than a memory as the new sea witch walked into the cave. Now let's see how we can upgrade these digs, she said. Her laugh echoed into the beautiful dark night.
Speaker 2:Well, this was a good story of gender reversal.
Speaker 1:I like the classic fairy tale vibes of this story.
Speaker 2:Oh for sure, and you know you also. You swap around who's your protagonist.
Speaker 1:Yeah, which is great, or who's your antagonist? I mean, it depends on who you're rooting for.
Speaker 2:I guess you're you're, you're following an anti-hero, that's right. I don't know, I don't know how these things?
Speaker 1:work. You know, I don't know, I'm okay to it's and become the witch.
Speaker 2:Yeah, so it's layers on layers, yeah.
Speaker 1:It's good clear rules to follow.
Speaker 2:Yes, yeah.
Speaker 1:Which we like.
Speaker 2:We like rules.
Speaker 1:So this story was written by Erin Bryant, who is an artist, actor and animal lover. She thrives on adventure, whether it be through travel or in a captivating novel. She is the mom of one daughter, two dogs, one rabbit, one cat and a happy pot-bellied pig named Hamlet. She's living the dream.
Speaker 2:No wonder she's writing stories about witches.
Speaker 1:Yes, she's truly living the dream. Thank you so much to Erin for submitting this story to us very long ago, and I was so thrilled that we were able to feature it in this, and our friend Dan Roberts narrated this story and did such a great job.
Speaker 2:So, as you could tell, dan is also British. So another another flawless narration that was just elevated by the accent.
Speaker 1:I am just such a fan of Dan Like when I thought, oh, this is a fairy tale type story, I again thought of Dan, because he has this fun, jovial and he's not afraid to take some risks as a narrator, which I think is what we needed.
Speaker 2:He's got fast and loose diction. Hell yeah, as do we. What are you talking about? Everything here is fact-checked like 500 times.
Speaker 1:Yes, well, that brings us to the end Cool Of our five-part series on ocean horror, and there's just so much more that we could get into. And again, I found so many bits and bobs in different stories or different mythologies and I'm like, oh, we should have talked about that. So I am going to be filling in some of the blanks on lunaticsprojectcom in the form of articles and essays, and also on all of our social media handles. I'm going to be releasing some extra videos with visuals to some of the things we talked about, or covering some of't that didn't make it into this series in those places. So follow us on TikTok, on YouTube all of those good places. We are almost everywhere.
Speaker 2:I'm just excited. It's time to move on to spooky fall.
Speaker 1:I know we have ridden the summer waves as far as we possibly could. I just I think I've said this before, but I'm really into seasonal horror this year and looking at like summer horror versus fall horror versus winter horror, and I am very, very excited for what we have teed up going into the end of September and into October and beyond. So get ready for some seasonal choices, seasonal curation of topics coming your way.
Speaker 2:Well, I am also excited that we're now switching into fall stuff, because I've been doing nothing but watching high seas horror movies for the last few months or so. So you know, with a brief dive into the Alien franchise, which I don't know if we're ever going to do an episode on, but we really should. Among the more notable, I am glad that I watched Jaws number two.
Speaker 1:Tell us.
Speaker 2:It's Jaws number one, but worse. Okay, it's the same. Everything Classic, studio sequel, okay. And they try to make the shark look real scary by in the beginning they burn his face.
Speaker 1:Is it a different town or the same town?
Speaker 2:Same town.
Speaker 1:Different characters.
Speaker 2:Same characters.
Speaker 1:Like the same actors.
Speaker 2:Well, it's the same sheriff of, whatever his name is Okay, got it and his wife. She's there and their kid. It's all about them.
Speaker 1:Got it, but it's worse.
Speaker 2:Yeah, it's way worse.
Speaker 1:What year did it?
Speaker 2:come out. Who can say? I mean, it looks very similar to the first one Got it. With the difference of a lot of money is still there, but, like you can just tell, it just doesn't have the magic. Yeah, but the fact that they had to burn the shark's face to make him look scary is hilarious. Yeah, sharks are pretty scary. They kind of defined the idea of the toothy aquatic predator. Sure, but you don't need to turn him into Freddy Krueger, but they did.
Speaker 1:That's funny. Yeah, Okay, Alan, I know that you've watched quite a bit of ocean horror films, so what's your favorite? Like what stands out after you know three months of deep diving here.
Speaker 2:That's a great question. We watched a lot, for some reason. The one that I keep coming back to, though, is Mar Negro. Oh, the Brazilian.
Speaker 1:I thought you were going to say open water too.
Speaker 2:The whole open water franchise is surprisingly memorable, yeah. However, mar Negro is just such a unique film. It's Brazilian aquatic themed dead alive. Yeah, very cool, with all the blood, all the gore, all the camp, and it's just, it's a hilarious movie. That's really disgusting.
Speaker 1:Yeah, that's very fun.
Speaker 2:It's dead, alive. It's amazing.
Speaker 1:Yeah.
Speaker 2:And there's a zombie whale. Like how cool is that? A giant zombie whale that comes on tour.
Speaker 1:It's hard to beat a giant zombie whale.
Speaker 2:I mean, you can do it, but this is a good one.
Speaker 1:Yeah, amazing.
Speaker 2:What's yours?
Speaker 1:I didn't watch quite as many films as you did, but I have to say I'm quite I was quite happy to watch Jaws finally.
Speaker 2:Oh yeah.
Speaker 1:I had never actually seen it before, which I know is a bit of a sin for someone who has a horror podcast. So it's good. It's a great movie, yeah, so that was pretty good. I'm trying to think of if there's any other ones, but I think Jaws was really the standout film for me. Sure, a lot of rewatches, so that was a new one For sure. Yeah, that's fair.
Speaker 1:Thank you guys so much for being here. This has been an absolute blast and we had again been planning on this series for years and it feels really great that it finally all came together. Thank you to all of the writers and narrators and research helpers and all of our friends and models and, you know, designers and people that helped us put this series together in a big way. If you don't yet have your Horror on the High Seas merch, head to lunaticsprojectcom on merch, check out our beautiful design there and we have, uh, some spoiler merch up, actually, for some of our fall themes already. Thank you all so much for being here. This officially marks the end of summer horror and the transition into spooky season, starting with next episode. Stay well, we'll talk to you soon. Bye, episode. Stay well, we'll talk to you soon. Bye, bye.
