Liars' League

Convivial by Rebekah Lattin-Rawstrone

Read by Caroline O'Mahoney (fourth story in podcast, here)

Her heart is in the middle of the dining table next to the potatoes. It is pumping away against the tabletop. No one seems to notice. The white tablecloth is beginning to stain; a ring of yellow plasma is seeping beneath the tableware, the central red mark deepening into a dark, sticky burgundy that resembles port-wine gravy.

The thudding pumps have a cloying sound that marks the passing of beat to beat, moment to moment, keeping her silent.

Her husband’s family are catching up, ignoring, not seeing the heart. They began drinking when she was putting the children to bed. They are no longer sober.

An Esteemed Family Business by Sarah McDermott

Read by Rich Keeble (third story in podcast, here)

Memorandum from the desk of James Andrews, junior filing clerk at Mitchell, Sons and Candy, solicitors. Dated 25 September, 1896.

Dear Mr. Candy,

As I was reviewing the quarterly files, I couldn’t help but notice that one of our clients — a Mr Dracula — has bought five or six crumbling old houses in and around London.

Some of these properties have been on our books since Mitchell, Sons and Candy was merely Mitchell and Sons. They must be in a dreadful state of disrepair. Surely we could have found him a more suitable range of properties to invest in! Are the firm’s partners aware of this curious transaction?

Your humble servant,

James Andrews

An Odd Fish by Lisa Farrell

Read by Josie Charles (podcast here, first story)

My man went with the rest, down to the sea. To mended nets and patched boats, and stories of the night before. The sun was bright, so they strode bare to the waist, muscles flexing as they pushed their crafts into the foam, laughing at each other’s jokes.

The children went too, clambering sure-footed and long-legged over the rocks towards the cliffs, to see what treasures the waves had deposited in the rockpools. The braver ones might climb those cliffs or dive into the sea for pearls, their mothers scolding and praising those that returned with a prize.

I retreated into the cool shade of the trees, while the other women set to their work at the river, gossiping as they scrubbed the scales from yesterday’s catch, leaving flesh raw. I cradled useless hands inside long sleeves, and hung my head as I passed the others, their gazes slipping over me. Pity is a terrible mercy, so easily it gives way to something worse. My husband’s sisters bore the brunt of my work, when my wrists swelled and fingers stiffened.

New Tongues by Cassidy Phillips

Read by Peter Kenny (second story in podcast, here)

It is not true to say that the dead have come back. That it has been said – and shall no doubt continue to be said among the “panicking classes” – is regrettable, but also rather inevitable. Such pronouncements have a certain romantic appeal, after all, and that is the cornerstone of any good naive theory. However, these claims are founded on a series of culture-bound misunderstandings which necessarily distort our perception of the matter at hand. Cultural baggage cannot help us here: this is not an occurrence which can be understood by appealing to our knowledge of lurid comics, holy books or late-night movies. It is nothing so easy to digest.

The first and most common misapprehension is the assumption that we are discussing some kind of new and heretofore undocumented condition. We are not. The fact of the matter is that said condition has been known of for some time, but it is so slight a thing that most members of society shall not have encountered it.

Those whose work brings them into contact with cadavers, however – cadavers in their natural, non-sanitised state – have been reporting this phenomenon since the early 1960s. It is something which is to some extent familiar to paramedics, morticians, hospital orderlies, care home workers, police officers, even end-of-life counsellors, but which taboo and common courtesy dictate is not discussed outside of these professions.

 

Wetico by Jennifer Gaboury

Read by Katy Darby (fifth story in podcast, here)

“In our language we have this word ‘wetico’ which means cannibal: one who eats not literally the flesh and blood of another, but who eats the life of another”

– Jack Davis, Professor of Native American Studies, University of California.

The wire quivers, the wrists and ankles flick, the head jerks upright, the arms rise, the legs dance. The string winds round the world, conducting ten billion bodies and me. Black holes open in our palms; a thin blue line manifests where our mouths used to be. We no longer speak. We reach, we eat. Consumption consumes us. But didn’t it always?

She doesn’t look at me when she groans through stitched lips. Her ghosted eyes rove over racks of clothes as she pulls down ten articles at a time, the tongues of her palms slavering over the fabrics, the teeth in her hands cribbing the hangers. When I rub my hands down my jumper and jeans, the drool forms a hoarfrost-sort of lacquer, like a dry hound-lick. I’ve spotted designer boots. I leave her swimming in a pile of cashmere cardies.

Hallowe'en event: TOIL & TROUBLE, Tue 8th October

Double double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble ...

We grave-robbed six terrifying tales for our TOIL & TROUBLE pre-Hallowe'en special on Tuesday 8th October at The Phoenix. These brand-new short stories, read by our professional actors, featured spiritual cannibalism, lovelorn witches, talking corpses, ghosts on fire, Dracula's estate agent, and the shade of a post-punk icon ...

WINNING STORIES for TOIL & TROUBLE

Wetico by Jennifer Gaboury, read by Keleigh Wolf

New Tongues by Cassidy Phillips, read by Peter Kenny

An Esteemed Family Business by Sarah McDermott, read by Rich Keeble

The Burning Boys by Jon Hayes, read by Zach Harrison 

An Odd Fish by Lisa Farrell, read by Josie Charles

Never Goes Out by Sophie Bloom, read by Patsy Prince 

Doors open at 7pm for a 7.30 start and tickets are £5 on the door (currently cash only, sorry, but there's a cashpoint 2 minutes away). Entry includes a programme, participation in our infamous book quiz where terrific horror fiction can be won, and of course all the sweets and candy you can eat. Drinks and food are available at the bar throughout. There's no pre-booking, but tables for four or more can be reserved by calling 07808 939535.

The venue is the downstairs bar at: The Phoenix Pub, 37 Cavendish Square, London W1G 0PP

Accessibility note: Access to the basement is via stairs: there's no lift, sadly. The Phoenix is 5 minutes' walk from Oxford Circus tube station, which is on the Victoria, Bakerloo and Central lines

Hide. Go Seek. by Dan Howarth

Hide Go Seek MP3

Read by Math Jones

Amy liked to hide.

Whenever she got the chance, she would jump out on Mummy or Daddy. Amy always liked to hide in the cupboard under the stairs when she got home from school. Mummy would go into the kitchen to make tea; Amy always hoped for chicken nuggets but rarely got them.

While Mummy made the tea, Amy would burrow into the cupboard under the stairs. Beneath the coats and behind the shoes. She shoved the broom to one side and wriggled behind the ironing board with a soft metallic clang.

The cupboard under the stairs was dark but not totally black. Light got in under the door and around the sides. Amy hugged her knees to her chest. Daddy would be home soon and she was going to get him. She listened as Mummy clattered in the kitchen, moving pots and pans. The steady chopping sound as she cut things up. Mummy hummed as she cooked.

Amy sat in the darkness. A smell rose up around her. What was Mummy cooking today? It smelled gross. It reminded Amy of the time that Tommy from school left a sandwich in his bag for weeks until it went green and turned to liquid. All rotten and mouldy. But there was something else to this smell. Something worse. A burnt smell. Like the time Miss Jacobs lit candles for them in class and licked her fingers to pinch the match.

The Dungeon Master's Guide by Rhys Timson

Read by David Mildon

Welcome, heroes, to the stygian plans of Morkalanazzxx! I am, as always, your Dungeon Master and guide through these ashen wastes. And what a terrible place to be on Halloween, of all nights. Evil is at its zenith on this day, and only the pure of heart will survive.

What we call Halloween is known in this world as ‘Gloomfeist’ in the common-tongue, and ‘tis said that on this night every year the souls of evil-doers return to the scenes of their transgressions, and are justly punished.

No, Ollyganth the mage, you may not ‘nip to the loo’. There is no time for such fripperies. Adventure awaits!

But seriously, Ollie, now isn’t a great time for a toilet break. You’ll find out why very soon. There’s a good reason. Trust me.

I’ve always been trustworthy, haven’t I? Scrupulously so. What a pity none of you can say the same for yourselves.

Another Mother by Michael Harris Cohen

Another Mother MP3

Read by Miranda Harrison

She wakes, gasping, sputtering sea and sand, thrashed by coughs, till the saltwater is out, only air in her lungs, at last.

She breathes.

Alive.

Her eyes focus. A beach. No boats or houses. No people. An island. No lights but the moon and its shine on the sea.

Endless sea. It’s calmed now, a sheet of black metal. Not like before.

The memory of the storm cyclones her head, as if she still reels under house-sized waves and shrieking winds, the terror of the sea depths. Of her death.

She wrenches her thoughts back. She’s here. Alive. Unlike her boat, whose bones nod in the waves, she’s unbroken.

Rounds by Anna Savory

Rounds MP3

Read by William Teller

1am: St Thomas’ Hospital I.C.U.

I’ve been in a tremendous amount of hospitals over the course of a distinguished career, and this is the first that has smelt of Vicks. I don't think that’s normal. Hospitals have a list of approved smells and it runs, in order; bleach; urine; the tinny reek of blood; sweat; faeces; the earthy musk of fear. They’re more unpleasant odours than Vicks, objectively, but they’re fitting. A place for every smell and every smell in its place. Vicks is inappropriate. Facetious, even, because it creates the impression that here, in this intensive care unit, all they have to treat the patients with are tubs and tubs of Vicks.

‘Get more Vicks on him!’ they cry as a patient flat-lines.

‘Quick, Nurse! This woman’s body is rejecting her new heart, get a line of Vaporub into her, stat!'

Mr Ernest Lassiter, supine in his plastic-fenced bed and stinking, like everything else, of camphor, is long past the smelling stage. His organs are failing and no-one’s worked out why. It’s agonising, but the sooner they establish nothing can be done, the sooner he can be moved, pumped full of diamorphine, and guided out.

I want to be there when that happens. He’s got at least an hour though, so there’s no point in me hanging about, clearing my airways. I’ve got rounds to make.

Strawberry Creams by Victoria Finan

Strawberry Creams MP3

Read by Margaret Ashley

It’s a cold one tonight. Funny, isn’t it? The most sweltering of summers can lead to such chilly autumns. My Bill used to always say that if we’d a really hot June in Yorkshire, he’d make sure we were booked in for a week in Majorca or Lanzarote in October. He never took us though. Bridlington, more like, to a caravan up on Thornwick Bay. Once, to the Grand on Scarborough sea-front. That was the month before all the guests ended up with dicky tummies, and they had to shut it down for a week. Harry Gration, that nice man from BBC Look North, came and did a report outside the hotel. We watched it on the telly. We had fish and chips that night from Drake’s. Batter weren’t brilliant.

Trixie's Treat by Diane Payne

Read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard

“Trix,” I repeat, eyeing the potion I’ve just mixed up from the nameless dregs of our drinks cabinet, “do you really think this is a good idea?”

She rolls her eyes and waves her green nails whatever. She’s wearing yellow cat contact lenses and her eye makeup is more panda than Wanda (her sexy witch character) but the effect’s actually quite creepy, like she’s possessed. She never does anything by halves, my housemate. Other accessories include besom broomstick, gnarled ebony wand, and a velvet corset so tight she’s in constant danger of disappearing behind her own boobs.

“Jeez, Dr Buzzkill,” says Trixie, “just down it will you? It can’t actually kill us.”

“No,” I say doubtfully, “I mean, probably not …”

Hallowe'en event: TRICK & TREAT, Tuesday 9th October

Interested in our next event? It's Naughty & Nice for Christmas on Tuesday 11th December - more info here. 

BEWARE!

For on Hallowe'en, the dead crawl from their coffins, the witches celebrate their unholy Sabbath, and the veil 'twixt the worlds of flesh and spirit begins to fray! However, on Tuesday October 9th at our pre-Halloween event Trick & Treat, (click for the YouTube playlist of all the story videos) we just scared the pants off you with a pumpkinful of twisted, terrifying, and always entertaining short stories. And it only cost a fiver. It's literally the cheapest thrill in the West End. 

Those who braved our Trick & Treat night encountered monsters in the cupboard, death up a ginnel, the dread Castle Woebetide, four feral sisters, Wanda the Witch Wench, and even Death himself, all lurking in the shadow-haunted Pit of Terror (A.K.A the Phoenix's basement bar) ... 

(P.S. If you want to submit a story for December or come along to the next event, see here for our next deadline & event.) 

WINNING STORIES for TRICK & TREAT 

Hide. Go Seek. by Dan Howarth, read by Math Jones

Trixie's Treat by Diane Payne, read by Sophie Morris-Sheppard 

Another Mother by Michael Harris Cohen, read by Miranda Harrison

Rounds by Anna Savory, read by Will Teller

The Dungeon Master's Guide by Rhys Timson, read by David Mildon

Strawberry Creams by Victoria Finan, read by Margaret Ashley

As usual, doors open at 7pm for a 7.30 start and tickets are £5 on the door (cash only, sorry, but there is a cashpoint across the street). Drinks and food will be available at the bar, though there are also free spooky sweets and the infamous interval quiz features fabulously frightening books to be won! There's no pre-booking, but tables for four or more can be reserved by calling 07808 939535.

The venue is the downstairs bar at:

The Phoenix Pub
37 Cavendish Square 
London 
W1G 0PP

Accessibility note: Access to the basement is via stairs: there is no lift, sadly. 

The Phoenix is 5 minutes' walk from Oxford Circus tube station, which is on the Victoria, Bakerloo and Central lines. Map here)

The R27s by Anna Savory

The R27s MP3

Read by Susan Moisan

I recently spent an agonising weekend completing my first ever tax return. It was the sort of long, grey slog that made me wish repeatedly for death. Once you’ve spent two hours trying to locate your 10-digit Unique Taxpayer Reference online you really do begin to question whether you’re living at all any more. Imagine then the pleasing sense of irony (and less pleasing sense of dread) I had when HMRC called me in my lunch break to tell me I’d been dead all along.

‘According to our system,’ said a girl who sounded only minutes from the grave herself, ‘according to our system, you were marked legally deceased on the 28th of August last year…’

I cast my mind back. 

‘No …’ I said ‘I don’t think so. Was that the bank holiday?’

Render Unto Caesar by Tom Heaton

Render Unto Caesar MP3

Read by Greg Page

The address was ‘Cobbes, Fetters Lane’, but no one on Fetters Lane had heard of ‘Cobbes’, until at last I stopped a grey-haired old dear who was being pulled along by two eager Norfolk terriers.

‘The Cobbes? The loggers?’ she said.

‘The what?’

‘They sell firewood,’ she said.

Do they now? I thought.

She sucked her lips as if thinking something over. ‘Two hundred yards that way, there’s a cattle grid. Park there, cross the field and find the track going up the hill at the end. The Cobbes’ place is on the left, but they don’t take to visitors.’

A Piece of Me by Matt Kimmich

A Piece of Me MP3

Read by Anton Thompson-McCormick

I am sitting in front of the television, on my favourite chair. It’s been an uneventful day. Now, while I am sitting there, the doorbell rings. This in itself is unusual, because I’m not expecting anyone. I get up, walk towards the door and look through the fisheye. There’s a man outside, dressed in a blue uniform, almost like a postman’s uniform. He also has that typical unconcentrated ‘postman’ look on his face, like he’s already thinking about what he’ll do once the job is done. As I said, I’m not expecting anyone, so this is a bit of a surprise.

I open the door, and he gives me a flat look.

“Mr-” He glances at the pad he’s holding and says my name.

“Yes?”

“I’m here for your thumb.”

Raising Taxes by Jennifer Rickard

Raising Taxes MP3

Read by Louisa Gummer

You're two days dead when they come and see me. They say they have to visit that early because if they're going to perform a Raising, they need to freeze the deceased as soon as possible. But it's not a coincidence that they're also visiting when the grief is still raw. It means they're more likely to get a signature, because at that point you’d agree to anything to bring the person back into your life.

They didn't have to apply that tactic to me, because I decided to sign as soon as you flat-lined. As soon as the hospital rang me and told me about your moment of inattention and that speeding car.

Number 35 by Joshua Osto

Number 35 MP3

Read by Lin Sagovsky

I’ve lived on Lonsdale Road my whole life. My brother lives across the street and three doors down, in the house that we both grew up in. When I married Harry I made sure we moved onto Lonsdale Road. It wouldn’t feel right to live anywhere else, and birds of a feather need to stick together, they say. But there’s been so much trouble these last years, to do with number thirty-seven. Then Harry let me down Christmas just gone, after the party at Devan’s, sucking on that young girl’s ear like some kind of pervert. He was drunk though, and thought it was all a laugh.

I’d thought it was all over.

A year before that they arrested Cresswell. They found all sorts in the basement, stuff that you wouldn’t want to think of. Not just bodies but bits of bodies. Some people said that they weren’t surprised; that Cresswell had one of those faces. Not like my Harry, who has the face of a naughty cherub.

“It’s because I’ve led a blameless life,” he says to me. He’s a cheeky one.

LifePlan by Liam Hogan

LifePlan MP3

Read by Carrie Cohen

It has long been a problem that has plagued actuaries, politicians and indeed, prudent individuals such as yourselves. Planning, for an uncertain future. How much should you pay into your pension not knowing how long, or indeed, if you'll ever claim it? How much should you set aside for periods of unemployment? For healthcare issues? For assisted living?

Until now, this thorniest of problems has been tackled - but far from solved - by the crudest of tools, by the bluntest of instruments: statistics. Your life expectancy and other, similar data are simply averaged. Which means that the man who dies the morning of his retirement party is subsidising the woman celebrating her 100^th birthday surrounded by friends and family and with a congratulatory message from the Queen.

October event: DEATH & TAXES Hallowe'en special, Tue 10th October

You've seen the pumpkin costumes at the checkouts, you've clocked the skull-shaped sweets in the shops ... Yes, Hallowe'en is coming - and to celebrate the terror and horror of the season, our October event theme is DEATH & TAXES (click for Facebook event).

 

Here's the podcast from the night, the videos are on YouTube and the story texts and author & actor bios lurk sinisterly here. 

 

We selected six spine-shuddering stories to chill the very marrow of your bones: whether you're a bereaved lover or an insurance hawker, a hapless (soon to be limbless) couch potato or officially dead - from rural pig-farm to suburban slaughterhouse, there was no escape from Death & Taxes! The show took place on Tuesday 10th October, starting at 7.30pm (doors open at 7pm), and as ever it was a spookily cheap £5 admission. What's to be scared of?

 

DEATH & TAXES WINNING STORIES 

The R27s by Anna Savory *NEW AUTHOR*, read by Susan Moisan
A Piece of Me by Matt Kimmich *NEW AUTHOR*, read by Anton Thompson-McCormick
LifePlan by Liam Hogan, read by Carrie Cohen
Render Unto Caesar by Tom Heaton, read by Greg Page
Raising Taxes by Jennifer Rickard, read by Louisa Gummer
Number 35 by Joshua Osto read by Lin Sagovsky

 

The night will also feature our infamous book quiz, with some seriously dark novels as prizes, inflatable bats, orange tinsel and (of course) buckets of ghoulish candy. Tickets cost £5 on the door (cash only, no advance booking) and seating is unreserved - so best to get there a bit ahead of time if you want a good table. Accessibility note: access to the basement bar is via stairs - there's no lift, alas. 

The venue is downstairs at:
The Phoenix
37 Cavendish Square 
London 
W1G 0PP

(The Phoenix is five minutes' walk from Oxford Circus tube station, which is on the Victoria, Bakerloo and Central lines). Map here.

The Dead Wives' Club by Ilora Choudhury

The Dead Wives' Club MP3

Read by Gloria Sanders

George Vandemeer Jr., one of the most successful American writer-directors of his time, with a string of blockbusters to his name— but as yet no Academy Awards— was asleep in his palatial villa in the Hollywood Hills, dreaming pleasantly about his latest conquest, when he heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked in his ear.

“Wake up.”

He opened his eyes to see a nine-millimetre Beretta pointed at his face. A woman’s face came into focus, peering at him with a deadpan expression.

“Gaaah! What the fuck—?”

He jumped, falling back against his monogrammed satin pillows. Three other figures were gathered around his bed, shrouded in darkness. There was something distinctly menacing about them — dark, morbid, brooding. A powerful, rotten smell assaulted his senses, like dead cat.