Category: Chiller

FP163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-three.

Tonight we present, Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1.

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This episode is brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

It’s for your own good.

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we introduce The Achievers.

Flash Pulp 163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

The bungalow at two-fifty-three, Oaks Boulevard, had become a quiet war-zone. The grievances leading to the conflict were long forgotten, but the date marking the commencement of open hostilities was generally agreed upon: the thirteenth of March, the year previous. On that date, Mr and Mrs. Pope’s silk wedding anniversary, every piece of ceramic dishware, functional and decorative, had been shattered. It was a four-hour blowout that alienated the neighbours on either side and which required an extensive conversation, on the rear-bench of a police cruiser, to halt.

For eight months the only shots taken were verbal, but, in November, as a film of snow clung to the skewed roof-tiles, collateral damage was beginning to show. Bertie Pope, sixteen and president of her high school’s trivia club, was in the middle of an uncharacteristic throw down – the second time in her memory that she’d raised her voice to her parents, despite the regular heartbreak of their continued arguments.

She’d encountered a dispute in progress as she’d entered, and, dropping her backpack, she’d let her bottled-frustration vent.

“Won’t you both shut it!?” she’d shouted. “Try being nice to each other for, like, ten minutes.”

For a beat, she’d received a satisfying silence, but, then, Velma Pope, her mother, had finished formulating her retort.

“You want quiet? Just wait a sec and your Dad’ll be out the door and back to work. Then it’ll be just you, me, and the quiet.”

“- don’t forget the sound of your furious wine-chugging,” replied Bill, Bertie’s father. He leaned into the teen, kissing her on the cheek. “Anyhow, sorry, baby, but I’ve got a backlog of paperwork that -”

The outside door folded itself neatly, rocketed over the filthy beige mat intended to capture the brunt of the dirt infiltrating the home, and slammed into the fake-wood pattern of the coat-closet’s sliding doors.

“We’re here,” announced the pair of suddenly revealed men standing on the stoop. They dropped their home-made battering ram.

The duo were dressed identically: cheap black suits – a size too large, black leather gloves, and rubber masks intended to portray the likeness of Lemmy, founder of the metal band, Motörhead.

For a brief second, the twins cocked their arms at their sides, achieving the classic Peter Pan pose.

“Oh ####,” said Bertie, “it’s The Achievers.”

“‘Ello, Jello,” they replied, in unison.

None of the Popes believed the intruders’ Australian accents to be genuine.

The leftmost retrieved a straight razor from his right pocket, and approached Velma.

The rightmost rushed Bill, clobbering his jaw with a sharp jab.

The pudgy office dweller lost his footing and went over backwards, even as his wife was grabbed by her assailant. The blade flashed once, then returned to its slotted handle. As her wildly-flailing, but only mildly-lacerated, palm left a panicky spray of blood across every nearby surface, the invader adjusted his grip and closed his gloved-fingers on her hair.

Demonstrating the stun gun clearly before placing it against the base of her neck, he ushered her from the house, then threw her bodily into the rear of a black van parked out front. He locked the double-doors.

With a well-measured kick to Bill’s ribs, his partner followed. Snatching up the hefty ram, he jogged towards his getaway, and, as the vehicle peeled from the curb, the passenger-side kidnapper rolled down his window and waved to slack-jawed-Bertie and her breathless father, who’d managed to stumble into the front-yard before toppling onto the uncut grass.

Then they were gone.

Before Bertie could locate the cordless extension and dial for assistance, sirens filled the air.

A patrol car stopped short in the recently evacuated street-space.

“Ma’am,” said the first officer to exit, “we got a call saying, uh, that a forty-ish balding male had been seen dragging his wife from the residence -”

The officer, whose tag indicated his name was Bolokowski, had discontinued paying any heed to his own words, as he’d continued talking solely to cover the awkwardness of spotting the suspect in question, weeping openly on the front lawn in a considerably disheveled state. With a series of sharp gestures, his partner indicated they ought to approach and detain the wailer.

Although Bill would be released after twelve hours of questioning, it was under the strongest of suggestions that he remain close at hand.

Bertie had confessed immediately. She hadn’t expected it would actually happen. The Achievers were a rumour; a myth transmitted amongst the damaged egos and hopeless lives of the underbelly of Internet geekery. No one really knew who were behind the group – in truth, only the conspiracy-prone believed they existed – but the story told was that leaving a sufficiently tear-jerking request, in a public space, and containing ample usage of The Achievers moniker, would attract their attention.

In a moment of weakness, on a particularly wretched October evening, Bertie had done just that, misusing a forum dedicated to the films of Akira Kurosawa to lay out every barb she’d been forced to bare.

The detectives had listened to the tale patiently, then dismissed the girl and her explanation. Despite their obvious suspicions, the wreckage and blood were too little evidence to stand against the bizarre story told by both father and daughter.

Months passed, and the local press, having little else to feed on, used much ink in implying Bill’s involvement in a homicide. The knowing looks of his coworkers, combined with constant anxiety that The Achievers might suddenly reappear at any moment, drove him to drain his vacation time, then apply for stress leave.

Instead, Michael, from management, provided a very reasonable severance package and an apology.

Bill’s time at home found him a changed man. Maintaining the house’s condition became a secondary focus only to spending time with Bertie, who he now feared might disappear at any moment. The pair spent most meals watching recorded episodes of Jeopardy, and most evenings exploring their shared love of excessively-complicated boardgames.

Six months later, as Bill greeted his daughter upon her return from her first school dance, the van reappeared.

“‘Ello, Jello,” said the masked man hanging from the passenger-window.

The vehicle’s rear swung open, and a blindfolded woman stumbled onto the pavement.

“Mom!” shouted Bertie.

Before she’d closed the distance, The Achievers were gone again.

As her daughter lead the still-blinking Velma into the house and onto the couch, Bill was so pleased to see her return, he offered her a drink.

“No – I – I don’t do that anymore. I mean, I can’t promise I’ll always be perfect, but the last thing I want is for – for them to -” she took a moment to collect herself. “I’ve spent the last, uh, however long, in a twenty-by-twenty room, with a toilet, an exercise bike, and a cupboard full of arts and crafts supplies. They delivered three nutritional, if not particularly well cooked, meals a day. At first I painted. Mostly reproductions of liquor bottle labels. Then I started writing you both letters – rambling apologies. After a while I realized I really enjoyed the process, so I wrote a novel.”

All three, closely huddled, were in tears.

“They didn’t let me keep any of it,” she continued, “but it was only my first try. The next one will be even better.”

Her account of the incident made for a brisk-selling book, and the accompanying tour was the first family-trip the Popes had had in years.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP154 – The Haunting of Bilgehammer Manor, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifty-four.

Tonight we present, The Haunting of Bilgehammer Manor, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride.

To quote the reanimated corpse of Chief Martin Brody: “I think we’re going to need a bigger blog.”

Find out more at http://bmj2k.com!

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present a tale of torment regarding the occupants of the storied acreage of Bilgehammer Manor.

Flash Pulp 154 – The Haunting of Bilgehammer Manor, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Chiller Bilgehammer Manor had once been a sprawling country estate. The vast lawns had long ago been divided and sold as separate plots, and the outbuildings had, in years previous, been lost to fire or weather, but the central house was well maintained, and, despite its reputation, still looked as if it might make an excellent home.

Harvey Finlayson had purchased the property with no concern for its history – his imagination carried him no further than the agent’s very agreeable price.

Now he stood in the main hall, his furnishings piled about him. He clucked, tapping his lips with a pen.

Opening a cupboard, he noted the contents against his list. Satisfied with his findings, he closed the door, but found he’d applied too much force in the process, and sent a harsh echo through the entry area.

He winced, then began to whistle, as if it might cover up his mistake. Sheepishly keeping his eyes locked on his clipboard, he started up the stairs to the second floor. It was at the midpoint of his unobservant journey that he lost his footing.

His back arching, his hands flailed wildly, but never quite reached the banister.

Just as gravity began its inevitable process, ghostly fingers, wearing an ornate wedding band, closed about Harvey’s wrist, slamming his grip into contact with the rail.

“That was close,” Finlayson muttered to himself, never once considering the source of his salvation.

One of the movers pushed through from the porch.

“Hey boss, all this stuff ready to go?”

Unsure if the worker had seen his moment of peril, Harvey felt he needed to retake control of the situation.

“Well, Jerky, it ain’t stayin’ here,” he replied.

Frowning, the man positioned his bright-red dolly under a stack of poorly taped boxes, and wheeled the load onto the veranda.

* * *

A year earlier, when Finlayson had originally arrived, things had been different.

Upon his first evening, the three phantoms of Bilgehammer, the man in the blue jacket, the weeping bride, and headless Amy, had prepared an extensive welcome.

The spectacle had commenced at the stroke of midnight, an hour after Harvey had replaced the remainder of his six-pack in the fridge, and maneuvered up the runner that lead to his bedroom.

Once the man was settled, and the time for startlement seemed optimal, the man in the blue jacket initiated his pacing. Dragging behind him was a translucent duplicate of the chandelier which had collapsed, snuffing his life in that very same hall. To his surprise, the discordant chime of crystal, and the scrape of its metal frame, did nothing to disrupt Finlayson’s wheezing sleep.

A sure tactic for decades, the apparition was at a loss on how to proceed.

It was the weeping bride who next moved to disturb the dreamer. Passing through the wall of his bed chamber, she began to wail as if it were still the day the balcony’s rail had buckled, hanging her by her own veil. At first her efforts also went unnoticed, but, after a stuttering series of gasps punctuated by gusty shrieks, Harvey roused somewhat.

The man had long been a city dweller, however, and too cheap for air conditioning. Never fully coming awake, Finlayson began to shout noises which only vaguely resembled language, but which entirely conveyed his displeasure at the situation.

Embittered at the lack of proper reaction, the woman in white stepped forward, tugging hard at the high-pile of blankets under which the source of her frustration slept. He threw out a cluster of sharp expletives, and yanked the woolly-shell hard over his head, holding it there with a firm grip.

Within seconds he’d returned to snoring.

The gown hovered briefly, then took to the bed. Straddling his blanketed chest, she allowed her eyes to rot into buttery slop, and set her nose against his own. She unleashed a cry which she knew would leave her faint for days to come.

Harvey’s response was delayed, but the tactic was successful in finally making him conscious.

As he looked about the empty room, his gaze contained none of the terror for which the trio hoped.

Releasing a yawn, the interrupted slumberer rose. His kneecaps popped as he stumbled down the flight of stairs and towards the fridge.

He drank greedily from the open can of Old Milwaukee he’d opted to store for the morning, then extinguished the kitchen lights.

The spooks had held back their most potent scare for last.

As Finlayson plodded his way to the second floor, Amy revealed her presence on the landing. The girl stood in her billowing Sunday dress, and carrying her gory head in her hands as she’d been forced to since having it removed by a tumbling pane of glass in the decrepit greenhouse that had once dominated the back-lawn.

“Must be a nightmare, I guess,” Harvey said aloud. Rubbing at his brows, he passed directly through Amy and into his sleeping quarters.

If the night had been bad, however, the spirits found the days considerably worse. Having expended themselves in their exertions, in the sunlight hours they had little recourse but to observe the tromping and snorting that filled whatever corner of the house the new occupant entered. There was no shelter, either, from the clamoring television, which was left to spew unending political commentary at all hours. The one-sided arguments Finlayson conducted with the electronic equipment eventually drove the haunters to spend the majority of their time in the cellar, where at least the sound was reduced to an unintelligible blaring.

Worse still was the damage the clumsy homeowner conducted upon his own property – it seemed no journey to the washroom could pass without some scratch to the formerly grand plaster walls, or some new stain on the plush carpets.

Unnoticed by the opposing side, the nocturnal warfare continued for twenty-nine days, with little effect. It was on the thirtieth that Amy had nearly succeeded in ending the intruder’s life, with an extended leg, as he explored the disused coal chute.

The incident had precipitated a critical conversation between the long-serving companions, and a change in tactics.

* * *

The last item to leave the house was Harvey’s wallet. It had been forgotten on the kitchen counter, but unseen by the living, it had floated from its misplacement, out the front door, and directly through the passenger-side window of the former tenant’s car. It would be unmissable atop the dewy cans which were already warming in the sun.

“I’d rather he not have an excuse to return,” Amy later explained.

A celebratory meeting had been called in the library, which the phantasms found to smell pleasantly of settling dust.

“It would have been nearly worth the pleasure of killing him if he’d spent another afternoon complaining to himself about the current standing of the bloody Red Sox,” spoke the man in the blue jacket, sitting atop his restraining lighting fixture.

“Yes, but imagine if he’d managed to die here?” the bride replied, “I’d rather be moldering than suffer an eternity with that fellow always around complaining.”

The headless girl nodded from her lap. Her hands worked unthinkingly at her braids, as any child’s might upon a beloved doll.

“I’m just glad you thought to simply remain consistent with sabotaging his telly signal – otherwise he might never have gone,” she said.

It was sixteen months of undisturbed death until another resident tried their luck.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

FP149 – Bargain, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and forty-nine.

Tonight we present, Bargain, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Relic Radio network.

Are you familiar with The Six Shooter? Luke Slaughter? The Man Called X?

You should be.

To find out more click here!

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present a short chiller tale regarding one Dr. Henry Faust.

Flash Pulp 149 – Bargain, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Dr. Henry Faust, aware of the dark humour in his name, sat waiting in his study.

He assured himself he was prepared for what was coming, and yet his stomach looped as if his still leather chair were a roller coaster.

Chiller On the morning of his thirty-eighth birthday, exactly one year previous, the signs had begun to manifest. The middle finger of his left hand had taken on scar tissue, as if a ring were growing from his flesh, and at its center, where a gem might have been inset in a metal band, a pinprick wound had opened. There seemed to be no end to the hole in his flesh – it did not bleed, although it appeared so deep that bone ought be visible. Instead, inside was naught but darkness.

A month before the day of the appointed meeting, his cellphone began to ring nightly, at the stroke of twelve. Each time he would be greeted with the same response: the sound of a child’s weeping, and then a baritone voice, numbering the days.

Finally, on the previous evening, the count had reached one – and so, having sent away young Hank with his beloved Nicole, Faust had enacted his long birthday vigil.

The demon appeared.

It made it’s entrance through a portal of flame, its horns challenging the shadows that slid across the library’s towering ceilings.

“Faust!” it bellowed from beneath the stink of sulphur, “I have come for your first child!”

Henry nodded, eying the beast over the rim of his glasses.

“Uh huh.”

Martox the Castigated, lord of the twelfth realm of the underworld, raised a thorny brow at the human’s lack of reaction.

“Do you not recall that, upon your seventh birthday, you promised your child’s life in exchange for enormous knowledge, even beyond the ken of that of your fellow men?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Henry scooped up a pen and set it traveling between the knuckles of his right hand.

“As agreed, I have come, at the time of your thirty-ninth birthday, to collect.” Spitting on the plush carpet, the fiend continued, “Gaze now upon the contract that is your ruination!”

It thrust a tattered scroll across the desk.

Henry hated fumbling for the switch, so he’d had the clapper installed. With a sharp double crack of his palms, the room was filled with illumination.

Taking up the unnaturally warm paper, he noted his crayola-signature at the bottom.

“Sure, looks right.”

As Faust continued to look over the fine calligraphy detailing the pact, Martox lifted the photo of Hank, three, which the father kept on a nearby shelf.

“I have seen none so callous about their own offspring,” said the demon. “You chill even such as I. Where is the boy? Come, do not try to hide him.”

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much I can do.” Reaching into the small fridge he kept to sustain his constant need for Mountain Dew, the doctor retrieved a small parcel and set it on the supernatural parchment. “There you go.”

“Do not play games,” replied Martox. “I have come for your first, where is he?”

“Bingo,” said Faust, pointing at the tiny package. “You’ve come for my first – Hank is my second. Maybe you need to check your paperwork.”

The furious collector ripped aside the brown wrapping which surrounded the plastic box. Through the clear sides, the contents were plainly visible.

“There is nothing within but goo!”

“Yes. The issue of my loins, mixed with the issue of a sweet volunteer who thought she was donating to a nice young couple who couldn’t have children. That was ten years ago, but the moment after the egg was fertile, I froze the whole thing. You made me, amongst other things, the world’s leading biomedical engineer – what did you expect?”

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Flash Pulp 140 – Bearing, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and forty.

Tonight we present, Bearing, Part 1 of 1

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Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the artistic variety of the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org/blog/

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, we enter the home of a family in transition – a family on the cusp of a life-altering move.

Flash Pulp 140 – Bearing, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Carlos was pulled into consciousness by the smell of cooking bacon, and the sound of Aretha Franklin. Both were drifting into the bedroom from the distant kitchen, and he took a moment to bask in their potent combination before damning his late start to the day and climbing out of bed.

He hadn’t risen that way in at least a year’s worth of Sundays – and now it was two weeks till their move to Texas, and his wife’s new job, and he considered the swelling brass and frying pork a hopeful sign.

Violet smiled as he entered the kitchen, and Carlos found himself tearing slightly as he closed the distance to hold her.

They took two brief dance steps together before she was forced to attend her preparations.

“Haven’t seen you smile like that in a while,” she said, scooping a double-helping of flapjacks onto a plate.

“I haven’t been staring down the barrel of a meal this big since Billy and I forced the Chinese buffet place, down on third, into bankruptcy.” He took in the pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, and the leaning tower of toast. “Seems like you’ve had a busy morning.”

“Just feeling good – and hungry. Yum.”

Billy dragged his heels onto the linoleum, rubbing at his eyes and tugging at the shirt-hem of his dinosaur pajamas.

“Hey, pal,” said Violet. “You look pretty pooped – have a bad sleep?”

“Yeah.” The five year old yawned. ”It was loud all night.”

The boy’s mother and father exchanged an embarrassed smirk, and Carlos began to transfer some of the bounty onto plates.

* * *

Chiller He awoke to rough shaking.

The clock told him it was just after three in the morning.

“I heard something,” said Violet.

“Huh,” he pinched the sleep from his eyes, “Can you be more specific? Was it a murderer something? A burglar something? A Billy something?”

A month earlier, they’d discovered that their son had taken up the habit of climbing from under his covers and spreading his various collections of Lego, cars, and Batmen, across his floor. Finally sick of his denials, they’d un-boxed their baby monitor, and set it in his room so they might keep tabs on his behaviour.

“I think he’s out of bed and tossing his stuff around. It’s quiet now, but I’d swear that he tipped over his big bucket of trucks a minute ago.”

As they lay staring at the bar of red lights which would flare at any noisy provocation, he began to doze.

He started to a slamming sound, familiar to any afternoon on which Billy was too excited to carefully close his toy box.

Carlos’ brought his feet to the floor, and the annoyance of being turned out of his own bed sped his footsteps down the hall.

Grasping the door handle, he started his lecture.

“Buddy, what do you think -”, even through the night-murk, it was obvious Billy was sleeping peacefully – and yet Carlos still found his foot impaled on the rear-fin of a rogue Batmobile.

“Dad?” asked Billy, his slumber having been interrupted by the truncated chiding.

“Uh, nothing pal,” replied Carlos. “Lie back down, we’ll clean this up tomorrow.”

Violet was asleep by the time he’d finished his detour for a stolen mouthful of milk from the jug, and he thought it best to wait till morning to discuss the possibility of their son’s sleep walking.

Despite the comfort of his sheets, and the warmth of his wife’s nearby body, something sat wrong in his stomach, and it was a long two-hours, spent with his ears strained for any disturbance, before he nodded off.

* * *

Three uneventful days later, with Violet once again on her side, snoring, Carlos was watching Letterman and preparing for sleep.

“Goob, goob, goob,” said the monitor.

In a single, silent, motion, he stood from his bed and reached for a t-shirt. With a steady wrist, he noiselessly exited.

“Buh,” replied the monitor.

Under the photographic eyes of distant cousins and cherished aunts, a moment’s creeping brought him to Billy’s door, where he set his ear against the thick layer of stickers they’d allowed the boy to apply.

There was a pause, then a thud, as if something had been thrown against the nearest wall.

With a twist and a push, the dim glow of the hall’s nightlight followed him inside. The area was once again in a state of disarray, but he didn’t bother to wake Billy.

He’d finally recognized a familiar pattern in the chaos.

The next day he re-packaged the monitor. He also made a point of adjusting his cellphone’s alarm, so that he might rise early to tidy, before Violet woke.

* * *

Three days prior to their departure date, Carlos’ eyes were black with a lack of sleep. Using packing as an excuse, he’d transitioned the equally unrested Billy into the living room, setting him up on the couch for the final phase of the move. The child slept better, and it gave his father an opportunity to sort and discard action figures, as necessary.

A new concern had made itself known on the previous morning, when Billy, carrying a single, gnawed, plastic-arm, had approached Carlos.

“I can’t find the rest of this guy, and look, I think something’s been chewing on him!”

“Huh,” he’d replied, noting the watchful eye of his wife. “Must be a rodent.”

“That’s disgusting,” Violet had stated.

“Can I have it as a pet?” Billy had asked.

“I’ll get some mousetraps,” was Carlos’ reply, He’d pocketed the damaged limb, then added, “good thing we’re moving.”

The issue was that, as the hours ticked down, it wasn’t just the Bat-appendage – nearly every plastic and pliable surface within the boy’s room began to display the nicks and dents of toothy wear.

Once the job was complete, and the last of the Transformers posters, and Star Wars colouring books were sealed, Carlos used buying steaks for supper as an alibi, then deposited every box that had Billy written in thick black marker across its top at a nearby Salvation Army depot.

* * *

Twenty four hours before their scheduled takeoff time, Carlos slammed his son’s former-bedroom’s entrance, and picked a fight with Violet. It wasn’t hard – they’d both been on edge over the impending relocation, and his lack of sleep had done little to brighten his mood.

“What is your problem?” she shouted.

“You know,” he replied. He knew she didn’t.

“You’re being ridiculous. I’m taking Billy to Mom’s for the night, but you’re staying here.” The whole family had intended on embarking from Violet’s Mother’s, but he was happy to cut open the tape on a few boxes to locate bedding if it meant she was leaving immediately.

She did.

When he heard the screen door bang to a close, he let out a deep breath.

Entering the kitchen, he began to fill a bucket with soapy water. As he closed the tap, he paused, thinking he might have heard a distant crying – he was relieved to be wrong. Retrieving a rag, he carried his load to the room he’d been defending.

Carlos could live with Violet’s rage – he knew it was temporary, and he’d much rather take the blame for griping than divulge to his wife that he suspected the spirit of the girl she’d lost during birthing, fourteen months earlier, was slowly aging inside the house.

As he scrubbed at the looping and aimless marker scrawl that now adorned the walls, he began to weep for the child he felt he must abandon for the sanity of his remaining family.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Flash Pulp 135 – Influence, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and thirty-five.

Tonight we present, Influence, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the free audio-novella, Boiling Point.

Find out more at http://neilcolquhoun.com

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we tell a chiller tale, regarding Clifton Wade – a man who finds himself in a tenuous situation.

Flash Pulp 135 – Influence, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Clifton Wade leaned against the exit, his eyes locked on the ground, and the sliver of light that was the only illumination in the tiny room.

His breathing seemed to bounce from the ceramic tiles and close walls, in perfect time with the metronome tapping of the dripping sink. He whimpered in the darkness of the bathroom, his left hand solidly locked on the brass knob, and his right on the white, plastic, light switch.

Flooding the room with fluorescence was tempting – so much so that his fingers were sweating. He knew, however, that he couldn’t; if he flicked on the glowing tubes, he would be unable to tell if a shadow passed over the far side of his meager barricade.

Fearful tears stung his eyes.

There was little he agreed with his Mother-in-law on, but now, as he wished himself invisible, her words rose to taunt him.

“Cliffers, you should have that doody-mouth washed out with soap.”

In the apartment beyond, a latch rasped, and the sharp click of a suddenly-released handle brought his lungs to a halt. He brushed aside the pink bathrobe, hanging down the back of the door from a white hook, and pressed his cheek to the cheap plywood.

At first there was nothing, but, after a moment, a dragging tread began to shuffle across the carpet, approaching his hidden position.

The glimmering thread, at his feet, dimmed – grunting snuffling filled its place, and he clenched against the urges of his bladder. Long seconds were measured by the ever-leaking faucet.

With a final snort, the sounds moved further along the hall, and the faint sheen returned to the tiles.

He knew it was only a brief respite.

* * *

Chiller It had started an hour earlier, while he’d been sharing a breakfast of bran flakes with his wife of twenty years, Vanessa.

“Maybe we could consider looking into a nice place for your mom to go to? I don’t mean like a home with meanie nurses and rude neighbours – I could get a second job and swing one of those fancy golf villas in Florida? Like that pamphlet we got in the mail?” he’d said.

“Oh dear, sweetie! How in the heck can you even start talking like that? Mama doesn’t know any place but ours!”

“Honey-bunches, when you first asked if she could move in, you said it was just going to be for a bit.”

“Darnit: “The keys to patience are acceptance and faith. Accept things as they are, and look realistically at the world around you. Have faith in yourself and in the direction you have chosen.” Mama sent me that quote – I don’t remember who it was by, but it’s on Facebook – and she’s absolutely gosh darned right.”

“I have shown patience – but she… she always tells us what to do. I don’t like spending my evenings watching The Bold and The Beautiful. I don’t want to learn to knit! I don’t like that she picks out what we wear! I don’t think it’s appropriate that she makes me a packed lunch every day for work, and that it always includes stuff I repeatedly ask not to have! I don’t like bananas, however much potassium she may think I’m deficient of!”

“She’s just trying to do what’s good for you.”

“Honestly, honey, I love you, but – she kind of scares me.”

“Jeepers! You’re impossible when you’re like this. Let’s wait till Mama’s here, she always knows best, she can talk some sense into you.”

“Oh, #### off,” he’d replied.

It had just slipped.

Vanessa wasn’t a child – she didn’t say “I’m telling” – but he knew she’d thought it. He could read it on her cockamamie face.

* * *

There was a knock

“Mamas gotta number two. Please don’t be in there much longer, Cliffers. Poopy, or get off the pot, as they say.”

Clifton decided he had no choice but to face his fear.

Picking the knife up from the counter, he blew a kiss towards his wife’s punctured corpse. Her body was smeared in a mixture of Mr Bubble and blood, and lay awkwardly on top of the rubber-ducky patterned bath-curtain which she’d ripped down as he’d chased her into the tub – but he could see none of it in the dark.

He turned the door handle.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Flash Pulp 104 – Hero, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and four.

Tonight we present Hero, Part 1 of 1
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we encounter a woman with incredible power, a true hero of her age.

Flash Pulp 104 – Hero, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

At 2:13 on a warm Thursday morning, her eyes full of fury and her lips smiling, Catherine “Cat” Finch was victorious. The breeze from the open window rustled her long coat.

She was a hero, but better yet, she had had her revenge.

At the age of thirteen she’d seemed destined for greatness in an Olympic-level career in gymnastics. It was at a competition in Guadalajara, Mexico when her father – her coach – got the call. The judging was still under way as, weeping, the pair had booked and boarded a return flight to Texas.

That day, as their jet broke through the clouds which had smothered their few moments of tourism, she swore she would one day slay her mother’s killer.

Her time at the gym did not wane, but thereafter the fire she’d shown for her routines came through in her schoolwork as well. If she wasn’t training, she was reading. Her father began to worry over her drive, but could little complain when she was accepted into university under an academic scholarship, and not for athletics as he’d expected.

She made two and only two friends while away for her schooling: a librarian, and a personal trainer.

Despite her eagerness to begin the hunt immediately, it was obvious once away from campus that she would need to begin with lesser efforts, to prepare herself for the confrontation that now defined her life.

She dreamed of the day of her triumph, both while sleeping and awake. Sometimes she was jubilant, sometimes the thought of the moment left her in tears.

It took decades; years in which her reputation became legend.

The final effort required a team of specialists brought in especially for the job, and no little investment in equipment.

Still, she stood alone in the end, abandoned by her fatigued comrades.

In the darkened room, now silent, she was glad to be able to enjoy the victory unaccompanied.

The vaccine wouldn’t save her Mom now, but it could have then – and it would save thousands of those still alive.

Her fist tightening on the results sheet till it crumpled, she laughed.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 094 – Aspect, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Ninety-Four.

Tonight we present Aspect, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Ella’s Words.

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present a suburban haunted house tale, in the classic style.

Flash Pulp 094 – Aspect, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Mike watched as a lone blackbird wheeled below the clouds, riding winds too high to cool the boys roasting in the hot and sticky sun.

For the moment the other two eldest were focused on the youngest, which was a rarity.

“Miller was whispering it to a couple of people, and I heard it while I was on the swings,” said Joe-boy, Mike’s little brother. “The house between Anne Eaton’s and the place with the camping trailer in the driveway is haunted.”

“Ain’t no such friggin’ thing,” said Tucker, Mike’s best friend.

“Hey – I was in a haunted house once, things were flying at my head, my mom got like totally lifted off the ground and stuff, it was crazy!” replied Puggs. Mike could have done without the lanky fourth-grader hanging around, but whenever he opened the door to the outside world there he seemed to be, waiting on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, right. When was that, before or after you and your uncle supposedly caught a UFO on tape?” Tucker had considerably less patience for the braggart.

“Hey, you know I’d love to show you the tape, but my stupid sister recorded over it with a bunch of iCarly episodes.”

“Whatever.”

Mike ceased listlessly spinning his bike pedal backwards.

“Have you got a better suggestion?”

Tucker shrugged. It was at least another hour before lunch.

* * *

The place on the left had opted for paving stones in the driveway and the place on the right had decided the windows overlooking the garage from the second floor would be round instead of square – otherwise, the trio of houses, as could be said about every home in the Whispering Pines suburb, were identical.

Still, the pulled curtains and dying potted flowers that fronted the reputedly haunted residence were enough to stifle Tucker’s skepticism.

“My Dad says he hasn’t seen the guy who owns the place since he moved in,” said Puggs.

“Your Dad says he killed nearly two-hundred people in the Persian Gulf,” replied Tucker.

“He’s gonna show me his ear-necklace when I’m old enough.”

Mike ducked his head back and forth to check the road for elders, then dropped his bike onto the lawn and approached the shining expanse of glass surrounding the front door. The others followed.

Except for a single chair, slightly askew, the entry hall was empty. None of the boys could identify anything further in the dimly-lit space beyond.

“Maybe the guy moved in, then got so depressed about living here that he hung himself,” offered Puggs.

“There’s no one in there. He’s probably at work,” replied Tucker. Despite his bravado, the boy was no longer peering into the darkness.

“Yeah? If you’re so sure, why don’t you go in and check?”

To the surprise of all, Mike tried the handle.

It was locked.

“Miller said he was walking by at night and saw red-glowing eyes upstairs, but when a car drove by, they disappeared.” Joe-boy retreated to the entrance’s step as he spoke.

Mike took another long moment to stare into into the shadows that crowded the lone chair.

“What if we try the magic window?”

The magic window was the name the boys had given a basement frame that had been consistently mis-installed throughout the neighbourhood; the locking mechanism rarely seated properly, and they occasionally used the defect to their advantage when they’d forgotten their home-keys.

The group rounded the side of the house.

“If I start running, its not a ghost, its ‘cause I heard an alarm beep. You run too.” The lead boy bit his lip, considering, then added: “Joe-boy, get on your bike.”

His brother required no convincing.

Standing at the edge of the small pit that was the window well, Mike had a notion, as he often did when he awoke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, that if he let his legs descend, his ankles would be grasped by some long-nailed horror.

“Uh, I’m going to pull it open from up here, in case someone inside yells.”

Setting himself on his knees, he reached below. Using the friction of his greasy palm against the pane’s cool surface, he moved it first up, then over.

The pinky on his left hand, the hand he’d had pressed firmly against the window, disappeared in a roar surrounded by a halo of shattered glass.

Puggs wet himself.

Tucker stood in a stupor, his eyes wide, his arm extended towards the injury, uselessly.

Spotting the red running down Mike’s wrist, Joe-boy began to cry.

Bike forgotten, the injured youth began to run home, blood and tears leaving a trail behind him on the sidewalk. The others followed like a flock of starlings alighting from a tenuous perch.

* * *

Despite spending the majority of the remainder of the summer grounded and healing from his gunshot wound, Mike was greeted in the fall as a schoolyard hero: the boy who’d discovered the booby traps of the haunted grow-op.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Seven.

Tonight we present Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Made with 100% genuine pulp.

To subscribe, click here!

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present the short terror tale of Teddy Watkins, and his most pressing fear.

Flash Pulp 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

In 1924, at the age of eight, Teddy Watkins began to wake in the night, weeping and telling tales of a monster he referred to only as Bonecruncher.

His mother, a harried but loving woman, assumed it was a passing phase, something put into his head by one of his five older brothers, and told him so at length. Their apartment was small, and his father spent his evenings working molten metal at the Pribax foundry, so it was up to her to settle his night troubles.

Teddy shared a bed with three of his brothers, and Mrs. Watkins began to note that his terrors most often came when the young boy was forced to take up a more middling position in the bed, caught between the crushing shoulders of his larger siblings.

By the time he was eleven she’d grown short with his notions and regular cries of “Bonecruncher”, and began to enact the family punishment for misbehaviour. Teddy would often then spend hours shut up amongst the pressing and musty clothes of the front closet, tearily entreating his mother to let him out lest the monster find him in the dark and squeeze the life from his body.

At the age of thirteen he made his first escape attempt. He found the streets cold and the open sky exhilarating. He ran for two days, until he was picked up by two well-meaning police officers who suspected him of truancy.

With tears in her eyes Mrs. Watkins told the judge of her distress. She explained that she’d done what she could for the boy, but that she had a half-dozen other children to tend to, and could no longer stand the strain.

The man on the bench found it difficult to believe the stories regarding the round-faced lad, at least until the bailiff attempted to place cuffs on Teddy so that he might be moved to a nearby holding cell. The youth’s screams brought the court to a halt, and his flailing kicks left the uniformed man with a broken nose.

It was twenty long years of straitjacketed terror for Teddy then, as he was shuffled from cell to asylum, and from psychologist to psychiatrist.

His horrors finally ceased on a clouded night at the State Hospital. The night shift had only recently begun work, but they were already once again growing tired of Teddy’s shouts of “Bonecruncher! Bonecruncher!”

“He’s playing your song,” Mitch O’Donnell, the orderly in charge, told his massive friend and underling, Casper Johnson.

Teddy, now a man, had become something of a celebrity amongst the denizens of his ward – for the kindness he would show during the few occasions he was allowed to roam the grounds, and for the constant and wearing screaming he would let loose once he was returned to his bonds.

The pair of orderlies were walking the floor when they realized that the familiar backdrop of shrieking had ceased.

They ran to Watkins’ cell.

Despite his lack of freedom, Teddy’s muscles had grown taut and knotty during his constant struggles against his restraints, and his persistence had won him a temporary victory.

Throwing back the door of his room, the two men in white found the lanky man sitting on the edge of his bed, his straitjacket puddled at his feet, humming and smiling to the dark. His look of content was short lived, however. As he realized what the intrusion meant, he once again took up his wailing. He stretched to his full height, bowling over Mitch, and nearly made it to the door before being scooped up in Casper’s thick arms.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the giant shouted at the thrashing form in his arms. Teddy only redoubled his efforts, and panic soon took hold of both the combatants.

It was only once Mitch had pulled himself from the floor and shook his friend’s shoulder that Johnson realized Teddy had ceased his screams of “Bonecruncher”, and that it was in fact O’Donnell who was now screeching the name.

They’d worked together twelve years, and Mitch had long since jokingly replaced towering Casper’s older nickname of “Troll” with the constant refrain of their persistent burden.

His face white, the large man set the now lifeless body upon the room’s cot.

Its arms sprawled wide as it reclined.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 039 – Sunday In Geeston, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Thirty-Nine.

Tonight: Sunday In Geeston, Part 1 of 1

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This evening’s story is brought to you by a creeping sense of anxiety.

– still, if you’d take the time to subscribe via iTunes, we’d appreciate it.

To subscribe click here.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present a chiller tale centered on the small hamlet of Geeston, on a Sunday not unlike most others – in Geeston.

Flash Pulp 039 – Sunday In Geeston, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Sunday, June 21st, 1998

Eddie sat in the darkened recess of the tiny strip-plaza office. Over the gray movable barrier that made up the demarcation between the sitting area, and the shabby little walnut desk he spent his hours behind, he had a clear view of the red-brick post office across the street.

Mrs. Krukowski was pulling herself up the steep cement stairs, the effort sending her knobby knees popping beneath her beige raincoat. He knew the old woman: she’d been in to buy insurance for her prim Chevy Vega, and on her way out the door she’d helped herself to a pocketful of his green and white mint candies.

He licked his lips, his cheeks twitching in anticipation.

By the time she was at the halfway point, he was up from his chair, leaning over the desk, confident the shadows would keep him invisible behind the bay window.

She reached the landing, taking a moment at the black handrail. She moved to the door.

It was locked.

Eddie hooted.

“Suckers’ll do it every time! Everyone knows the post office is closed on Sunday.”

She turned.

Eddie was sure the distance was too great for her to have heard him, but he ducked his eyes, focusing on doodling rough circles on the ancient cork mat that covered his desk.

He didn’t notice when Mrs. Krukowsi finally broke the stare of her eyeless sockets, and began to move on down the street.

* * *

It was later, and a noise from down the block rattled his attention away from the display pamphlets he’d been arranging and re-arranging in the sitting area.

Glancing at the street, Eddie moved to the rear of the office, recalling that he’d intended to clean up his coffee nook.

On the road, a man was running. Over seven feet tall, he had to stoop to keep the baby carriage upright at such speeds.

The navy blue buggy was on fire.

Annoyed at his inability to open the flower-patterned metal canister he kept the sugar in, Eddie began to slam it against the fake wood grain of the small table he kept the coffee pot on.

His eyes remained firmly fixed on the dark brown stir sticks.

* * *

Night was falling, and it struck Eddie that he should consider locking up.

In the distance, a ringing began, wobbling in and out of his hearing on a panicked wavelength.

Dogs flooded the street. Their bellies were lean, and their eyes were milky. They moved as a wall, over two hundred strong. They ran shoulder to shoulder, nose to anus. He could hear the whine of the pack through the thick glass of the window.

Then the children came, and he seemed to remember having seen them before.

One boy let go of his lunch pail as he ran, the flying blue plastic box slamming into the face of a pudgy companion in jean shorts.

The injured boy fell, and was immediately trampled by twin girls wearing matching pink spangled t-shirts and white skirts.

Bringing up the rear was Monica Telfort. She was a volunteer driver for kids headed to Sunday school – a service offered up by some of Geeston’s high minded, to keep the young on God’s path while their parents slept off their Saturday night hangovers. Her good humour was legend amongst the chatterers who held court on the benches outside Monty’s convenience.

The notion that she’d picked up his own son that morning, to go on a picnic with his church-mates, slipped into Eddie’s mind.

She was screaming at the children, screaming and pointing into the distance beyond his view.

As Eddie watched, the woman fell to the ground, clutching at her throat.

No child stopped, and he could see tears and vomit on their shirts as they pounded past his window.

He backed away and sat down, deciding it was a good time to complete some paperwork.

His pale hand reached into his rotting and empty desk.

* * *

Monday, June 22nd, 1998

“I can’t feel a thing from my lower back to my ankles,” Les said, stepping down from the battered jeep.

“Sorry, but I wouldn’t risk running a car with actual shocks all the way out here, I’d just be asking to pay for something. Jeep-asaurus dies, I’ll unscrew the plates and we’ll just leave it here and hike out, find a payphone along the highway,” replied Bailey, slamming the flimsy door and pulling a green rucksack from the open trunk.

“Well, it’s not much of a holiday so far though, is it? At least back at the office my spine doesn’t ache.” Stretching, Les surveyed the buildings beyond the access road. “So, the town is pretty safe? I mean with the chemicals and everything?”

“Sure, the Chembax plant burnt down over twenty years ago now, just don’t go eating any moldy sandwiches, or rubbing moss into your eyes. It’s pretty clear around the buildings that aren’t charred cinders though, I guess the same cloud that gassed everyone settled into the soil – it keeps the forest from reclaiming everything. The rescue people took all the bodies and survivors away, but otherwise, things are pretty much Geeston, 1976.”

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 037 – Beef-pocalypse Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Thirty-Seven.

This evening: Beef-pocalypse, Part 1 of 1

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Tonight’s episode is brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Statistics show that Flash Pulp listeners historically have a 0% chance of being assaulted by Somali Pirates.

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Due to a recent illness in the Flash Pulp family, tonight we belatedly present a short chiller tale on the nature of choice.

Flash Pulp 037 – Beef-pocalypse, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Mom and Dad had always been accepting, but they’d never really understood.

“A little steak would do you good, get a little protein on them bones,” was about as bold a statement as they were willing to make on my eating habits.

At the time most of my friends didn’t even realize – I wasn’t the type to call attention to himself. My first year of university, however, I dated a girl named Helena, who was pretty hardcore into raw food. She pushed about it, but it just never happened for me.

It takes a lot to stand between me and lemon pie.

What broke the relationship wasn’t my need to bake, it was a discussion we were having regarding veganism.

“I don’t care if I’m wearing a cow on my feet, I just don’t want to put one through my digestive tract,” was the last thing I ever said to her.

A few days later I was talking it out with a friend, and he struck right at the heart of beef-pocalypse:

“You can fool some of the people some of the time, but not all the people all the time,” isn’t just an old saying, it’s a survival trait.”

So, great, genetically modified food and homogeneous farm practices have poisoned 96% of the country, and I’m proof of some sort of socially instituted survival of the fittest.

I just wish it hadn’t turned them all into zombies.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.