Liars' League

Nipped by Joshua James Jordan

Read by David Mildon (final story in podcast, at 1h 27m 40s)

Life #1

My mother chased after some alleycat purring like a little slut. She abandoned me in a parking lot. I walked around mewing like the little idiot I was. A Humvee rolled in & over me. That's when I learned what I looked like inside-out.

Ghost

In the Old Lady's living room, I pawed at the little plastic ball filled with my catnip. The nip inside had dried into crisp, shrivelled, brown leaves. Probably not even a split second of a high in there. I swatted at the ball again, and it rolled a few inches. The leather couch was covered in scratches. It's not my fault the Old Lady never got me a scratching post. I had needs.

Set for Life by Zannier Alejandra

Read by Keleigh Wolf

The forty-second floor office is preposterously swanky. I don’t think I have been at a place of business above third floor before. It seems the higher they get, the more luxurious they must become.

This particular office looks like something out of a TV show about sexy lawyers, saving the world one pro-bono case at the time. 

But it is not a law firm. And I’m definitely not an impossibly well-dressed lawyer. I am currently wearing a black polyester suit that I bought for a Hillary Clinton costume back in Halloween 2016. My shoes are equally unstylish and full of scrape marks, which I tried to cover up with a sharpie but it turned out to be purple highlighter.

The Trial of Goodwife Cutler by Ken Towl

Read by Silas Hawkins

When, on St. Crispin’s Day 1416, in the fourth year of the reign of Henry V and the first anniversary of the battle of Agincourt, Goodwife Mary was brought before the assizes in Guildford, her sex presented the court with something of a conundrum.

In English common law, maiming was the malicious rendering of the victim “less able to annoy his adversary”. Typically, this might involve dismemberment or the gouging of the eyes. Mayhem, as it was then called, was a serious felony. In those days when Exodus, Leviticus and Deuteronomy were respected legal authority, the sentence called for the loss of the like part, membrum pro membro, as the learned justices would have it.

The particular act that she had allegedly committed on her husband was the removal, by means of his own eating knife, of his privy member. Should she be found liable for this egregious act, it was difficult to see how she could be made to forfeit what she did not have.

The Pumpkin and the Vampire by Hannah Hoare

Read by Miranda Harrison

“So,” said the Vampire, tying his cape. “We’re walking, I presume?”

“We’ll take the car,” the Pumpkin said, with barely a pause.

Frowning, the Vampire turned from the mirror to study his friend. “Really? You think that’s a good idea, after last year?”

“Definitely,” said the Pumpkin. He dabbed at his make-up with a tissue. “If this party’s as wild as the one last year, we’ll be way too pissed to walk back afterwards. We’re taking the car.”

MAGIC & MAYHEM Hallowe'en Stories on Tuesday 12th October

Carve the pumpkin and bob the apples! We've picked a treat-bag of ghoulish fictional goodies to creep your flesh and chill your bones for our MAGIC & MAYHEM Hallowe'en special (click for Facebook event) on Tuesday 12th October at The Phoenix!

There are ghosts, gods, maybe-murderesses, birthday magic, Middle Ages maulings, undead D&D players & a special appearance by Buffy - plus our horrific literary quiz, & all the FREE sweets you can cram in your face. And as ever, tickets are only £5!

WINNING STORIES for MAGIC & MAYHEM

The Fear by Emma Grae, read by Lois Tucker
Mister Merlin by Sally Wild, read by Stephen Butterton
Time Gentlemen Please by Stephen Kehoe, read by Oliver Yellop
The Pumpkin and the Vampire by Hannah Hoare, read by Miranda Harrison
Set for Life by Zannier Alejandra, read by Keleigh Wolf

PLUS bonus 6th story: The Trial of Goodwife Cutler by Ken Towl, read by Silas Hawkins

VENUE, TICKETS & EVENT INFO

The show is on Tuesday 12th October. Doors open at 6.30pm for a 7.30pm start. Please book tickets online in advance (see below) - that's the best way to make sure you get a seat (and a treat ...) 

The venue is the basement bar, downstairs at:
The Phoenix pub
37 Cavendish Square,
London W1G 0PP (tube: Oxford Circus).

Access info: stairs down to the basement, no lift unfortunately.

 

Evidence by Rosa Muller

Evidence MP3

Read by Annalie Wilson

Patrick burnt himself on a hot pan on Thursday night.

I heard the clatter, his shout, rushed towards the kitchen - stopped. I changed my mind and scooped Jamie up from the playpen first.

When I lifted up Jamie, something seemed to pass across his face for a moment. One of those strange seconds where I could see what he’d be like as a man.

“Why are you doing this Mama? It’s wrong,” he would say, if he could talk. Babies always think they know best.

The Heart's Filthy Desire by Tom Leins

The Heart's Filthy Desire MP3

Read by Tim Larkfield

The torrential rain sounds like gunfire as it clatters against the roof of the blood-coloured Austin Allegro. I wipe the condensation off the window and stare at the crumbling mansion. The building looks enormous – stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions. Half of the windows appear to be broken and the ancient brickwork looks chipped and rancid.

The driver – a bulbous elderly man in a shabby manservant’s suit – unclips his seat-belt and turns to face me.

“Shall we?” His Westcountry accent is thicker than cow-shit.

Landline by Renee Agatep

Landline MP3

Read by Keleigh Wolf

I pressed the faded mustard handset of the rotary phone to my ear. I always expect to hear that woman crying on the other side, the one who first called when we were nine, playing with a Ouija board in the living room.

Paul and Eli hadn’t stopped talking about it since they stole it from Walmart. We touched the planchette lightly and let it glide over the letters.

B-A-L-L-S.

“Get serious, Paul!”

“Fine. But if you want ghosts to talk, you gotta say something smart. Egghead, say something magic.”

The Last Place Anyone Looks by Rikk Hill

The Last Place Anyone Looks MP3

Read by Lin Sagovsky

“She was never… seen… again!”

The underside of Dot’s face was cast in a harsh yellow glow from the electric torch wedged between her knees. Some stories have no business being told with the lights on.

“They say she’s still there, all these years later,” Dot’s voice rasped, her eyes darting between the other three girls sitting in the circle. “And if anyone’s brave enough to play on the third floor of the east wing, they’ll hear little Harriet’s voice, taunting them: you’ll never find me .”

Dot drew a long, hissing breath, which blended seamlessly into absolute silence. All four girls cast skittish glances at one another as the silence began to overstay its welcome.

Handyman by George Aitch

Handyman MP3

Read by Sean Patterson

The café is cold, and blanketed masses huddle over steaming cups of weak tea. The bomb blast took out the windows, even in this hamlet miles from the target. Those of us who still have our sight read old newspapers and our bitterness grows. I while away my hours here now. You’ll find me at the back; the man with rough hands and heavy-lidded eyes on a pock-marked face. Not that I’d stand out from the rest with that description. One way or another, the fallout has carved its marks on all of us.

My sentry post is at the back tables, watching those who come and go. I never sit with my back to the door now. It’s some advice I’ve picked up lately, reading Malcolm X. He always took his seat where he could see the exit, just in case. My hobby breeding new paranoia.

Never Goes Out by Sophie Bloom

Read by Patsy Prince (final story in podcast, here)

How to put this?

I was looking for a flat, and then I found a flat and Heaven knows … that didn’t go so well. 2019 hadn’t been a great year anyway. First I lost my job, then my dog died, then my boyfriend left me for a woman who was literally called Jolene. I know it sounds like a country song, but that was the actual order of events. And the worst thing was that our shared flat in Vauxhall actually belonged to my now-ex, Johnny, so I had to move out. Except I couldn’t afford to live in London any more because I’d lost my zero-hours contract at HMV.

I had six months’ worth of savings and no interest in living, so I decided to move back to Manchester to make the misery last. I slept too much, ate too little, took up smoking and made endless cups of tea which went cold while I stared emptily at the grey Moss Side rain. Apart from that, I pretty much wasted my time. The dodgy-looking middle-aged guy I sublet the flat from turned up to take the deposit and give me the keys, then instantly ghosted me. Which was ironic, given what followed.

The Burning Boys by Jon Hayes

Read by Zach Harrison (fourth story in podcast, here)

There’s a small town buried in the Californian desert where boredom can be fatal. Maybe ten thousand people total live there, battling the constant enemies of hundred degree heat, dust that clogs and chokes everything in sight, and a landscape that runs from rust coloured to burnt umber with nothing much in between. The locals refer to it as ‘shit-town’ and I can’t say they’re wrong. There’s not much you can do about the heat or dust, but the local kids do have a unique cure for the boredom.

During the week it’s quiet because there’s nothing much to do but get in each other’s business in a half-hearted sort of way and work on your car. But as Friday night approaches the teenagers start to get jittery and ornery like a junkie itching for a fix, and arguments spark over nothing at all. No one talks about it, but what they’re all feeling is that loose, liquid sensation you get the in the pit of your stomach when you get too close to the edge of a canyon, and dare yourself to peek.

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.