The Dark Verse (Horror and Fantasy Fiction Podcast)

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 59: The Power In A Father

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Excerpt:

It was a fare as ripe as an appetite had ever known. Its short, curly brown hair bobbed innocently. Its blue eyes blinked unabashedly. Its smile cut space curiously. The cheer of its mouth lit the atmosphere with the chorus of purity while it held the hand of its father, who led it in a capsule of abundant confidence. It knew no worry, nor the idea of it.

The Father and his child walked a winding road in a peaceful afternoon, enjoying the company of the other and the wonderfully cool breeze passing its gentle caress on the wanderer who was willing to stop and feel it. Through excited words, the Father passed to his son wisdom and an eagerness to be. Two miles off from home, this pair had not a care in the world.

But watching and listening keenly from within the smallest shadows that laced across the terrain, the Snatcher followed with nether stealth, diabolical and starved. The muscles on its limbs were paper thin, but they were quicker and nimbler than the speed of sight. In its mind danced a mechanism of musical craving—hunger by sound, by pitch, by noise—and its prey’s laughter was the ring of sweet devouring.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 60: The Stone House

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Excerpt:

From the letter addressed to the Strong, written by the hands of Tinus Perpentin:

There is an immovable place at the edge of a far-off, isolated cliff (this is all I can divulge with regards to location). On the outside it is but an enormous rock, seizing space like a gorging wolf. But on the inside lies the madness of evil—both the spawning pool and deathbed of ever-cycling nefariousness. Time wears on the exterior of this boulder, but within, time is departed. I can say assertively—with no one else believing this other than myself—that this place is a home, but not I, or evil and its brood, can possibly bear the turmoil in passing on the name of the master that lives there.

This place has been told of here and there in passing rumors—more incorrectly than correctly, for only I know of its real truth—and those tongues that have relinquished such woes have shriveled before blighted eyes. I would always say, “Better the tongue than the soul,” but the sting of such a comment is as potent as a weapon. It is as such that I have not shared any of my knowledge of the Stone House until that day that I have chosen to die; thankfully, it is that day, and I may finally drive away the haunts stored in my mind and soul. As I further write about the House, I will, to the best of my ability, describe also the way in which my life is taken, for it will assuredly follow my words steadily.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 61: Knave (Part 1)

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Excerpt:

I once had in my possession a unique thermometer I called the Gapetha. Using the buoyancy of five silver circlets in liquid contained in a tall, slim, clear cylinder, it determined temperature. If the temperature was to reach a very specific reading, down to fractions of a degree, these five silver circlets aligned in a pattern that, for while they were in that alignment, unlocked a gateway in the space between airs. The precise distance between these air particles, which would alter at any minor change in temperature, allowed matter from a place called the Devoted Man’s Bazaar to connect with the world. To enter the Devoted Man’s Bazaar by means of the thermometer was to let air slice between flesh, allowing it to come together again in a strange domain.

The Devoted Man’s Bazaar was indeed a marketplace, and it was operated by none other than the Devoted Man—the traveling being who was not man, but only called himself so. He engineered things beyond understanding and found ways to come and go, creating pockets in the continuum of space—havens where he could lead his trade at the apex of mystery. Under these circumstances, people acquired merchandise from his inventory, whether knowing or not—intending to visit or not intending to visit. More often than not, people had no idea they procured items from this inter-dimensional economy because the Devoted Man had his ways of blending his refuge flawlessly with the world and had other ways of masking his secrets. When he chose to carry out business, the Bazaar would appear in a remote location—never within or even close to a city. There would nearly always be a large, silver meadow surrounding the Bazaar, with the Bazaar itself appearing as a glowing, striped tent. And it always came at night—never when there was a single spot of sunlight.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 62: The Thief Of Timeworn Lives And His Fortress

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Excerpt:

I sat beside my grandmother, who lay calmly and quietly within her bed. Nothing but her shallow breaths penetrated the atmosphere of her room. I intently watched her chest as it rose and fell. Only by the visual motion could I even discern and align the sound of those faint breaths with my audible perception.

My mother was in the kitchen cooking dinner. My father was in the den, listening to the radio. But those sounds did not matter; they were distant and out of mind.

As I gave my attention to my grandmother, I began to notice the uncanny vibration of life within her. It quivered with each breath as an aura of pale color. The hue of this color waned in and out of darker and lighter shades as death came and went, fighting for full, undeniable control. And with this apparition, all sounds vanished. Like a dream, I witnessed visual phenomena that I could hold no conscious understanding of or control over. Then, with a new breath, I saw the aura of life around my grandmother change as like the gentle change of a breeze. I walked over to the head of her bed, leaned against the edge, and moved in my face close to hers. Then, with what was supposed to be her last breath, I breathed. Before she could sip in, I snagged the breath from her, taking it into my own essence, stealing away those last seconds of life she had left.

For a moment, I tasted death. As a fortune teller communes with the future, so this breath within me told of death and its beyond. It tainted my insides, burning them yet tingling them with vibrant, magnificent feeling. And as this breath reached the ends of its paths within my lungs, I sensed the beginnings of an incredible power, an indestructible presence. This first breath that I had stolen was laid within me as a brick—the first brick lain towards the construction of a menacing apparatus. I could not fathom its shape or even guess at its purpose, but it now rested within me as an artifact of vision, destiny, and perseverance—those things required to complete its work.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 63: Blood Host Authentication

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Excerpt:

The blood determines the majesty of the host.

For most, the constituents of blood are—in order of greatest volume—plasma, red blood cells, and then white blood cells. But for those I served, these typical figures were not so. The Templars Aryiglen had a notably higher amount of red blood cells and less plasma, and thus, had a significantly higher density and thickness of blood. However, this extraordinary blood—Templar Blood—had more unique attributes than just its thickness. Those who contained this blood healed faster, lived longer, and rarely, if ever, got sick. This blood was rich and said to have been passed down from a lineage of beings that dwelled inside stone—prisoners of a world lost in darkness. In a distant time, several of these lava-skinned beings escaped and began a new life upon the surface of what is known, forging bonds with different races, blending and diminishing the occurrence of their special blood over the centuries.

When I served the Templars Aryiglen, I was known as a Validator. I was the authenticator and certifier of Templar Blood—for not always did the offspring of a Templar bear the blood of a Templar; its occasion was rare, and as such, it was in my right to prove or disprove this exalted blood’s existence. And even when the Templar Blood did flow in the veins of its host, its thickness differentiated. It was also my responsibility to accredit this thickness. The thicker the blood, the higher in the ranking of authority a Templar could reside. And so in my duty, I, a simple servant, was able to bestow the hierarchy of power amongst the greatest leaders of the Hurrowing world.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 64: There They Freeze

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Excerpt:

The Cantlebrin Bridge was high up and made of ice. It connected one side of the Rezlinought Canyon to the other, a railless pathway joining opposing caves that nested thirty yards down from the canyon’s ridges. Although made entirely of ice—ice partially fused, partially wedged—the bridge had been a reliable mode of travel for centuries; it had been crossed countless times.

This was to be my four-hundredth and forty-ninth crossing of the Cantlebrin Bridge. And the Nebulae of Dust standing rigidly at the other end caused me to believe it would be my last. These were nefarious beings that traveled in packs, leeching upon the misfortunate. And they were evasive; they could be solid or gaseous when desired, and travel to places unbeknownst to the world of man. To encounter a Nebula of Dust without the proper safeguard was to encounter a certain but slow death. Once upon its victim, it would oscillate rapidly between its forms beneath the flesh, never fully allowing either form to settle. In this manner it would burst like bubble-sized, miniature explosions while feeding on the wounded, pulped leftovers. The only defense against such creatures was a tempered rod imbued with a copper outer coating, which acted like a magnet, drawing the things away from their hosts—hopefully before too much damage had been exacted.

I had no such implement, and the base of the canyon—nearly two clicks downward—holding hundreds of pockets of frozen water—a sheath of giant, frosted honeycomb—would have killed me had the Nebulae failed. This was not a depth wisely gazed upon for but a moment. There was no course safe except to trek back the way I had come. And I would have reversed, if I was able, but such a choice would have left me in the cave upon nightfall, stranded as easy prey for the Coming of Death.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 65: That Which Makes Up The World

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Excerpt:

The articulate sound of the school bell’s conclusive note awoke me from my hazy hell. It came as if with swift reckoning—a domino effect to my distant self that lived the same moment fractions of seconds earlier and fractions of seconds later. Perhaps even a transfer of consciousness occurred, shifting me between universes via the cracks of unnoticeable time.

After the ring faded, I could not even recall what I had been speaking about. But before the children in my kindergarten class could leave, I quickly addressed them and gave them my tidings. Then they were gone, and I was left alone to the quandary of my day.

I was a good teacher, for the most part, but the days were beginning to drag. On and on they went, baffling my orientation within the world and my permanence within my thoughts. There was nothing within me to hold me still and keep me in tangibility. There was not a child that deserved my best; there was not a future that deserved my wisdom. I was fading away.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 66: Knave (Part 2)

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Excerpt:

There is such a thing as the chaos of fate—an endless-fingered glove, a maze of only dead-end paths. And there is such a thing as living separated from life—not by the escaping of death, but by the living outside of life in a place where its wholesome reaches fail. There is such living and there is such a place. The living is like being a dog: aware, emotional, but void of self purpose. The place is like a beehive—active, inconstant, volatile.

Life is linear: it runs from one point of time to another while immuring its contestants in a singular transition at any given moment, placing them on a one-track outcome: fate. There are boundaries in place—rules. There cannot be multiple futures or multiple endings. There cannot be purpose beyond what is attained in a two-dimensional timeline. But if not governed by these rules, then what? Life is these rules, and so to be outside of these rules is to be outside of life, and this uncertain place of living outside of life is the chaos of fate.

***

The chaos of fate was my home, and had been since I ingested into my body the myriad of Obstructions of Fate from the Devoted Man’s Bazaar. Life disgorged me in a mass of unscrupulous discord. Every particle in my body—down to the most miniscule—was pitted against every other particle in my body. There was a battle within me; every part and piece of me wanted to go a different way, make a different choice, follow a different fate. By these things alone, I was not human; I was Knave—a servant to pandemonium.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 67: The Summit And The Sacrifice

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Excerpt:

I found the perfect summit to erect the altar for my sacrifice. It was sunken down in a valley surrounded by mountains of tremendous size. Instead of aiding in the formation of the valley, this mountain housing the summit I eyed stood independent within the valley, standing against erosion of age old time—an oddity of nature. As I stared at this gem of existence, my heart raced with gladness. I knew there was no better place to proclaim and exalt the One Whom I Followed.

I had walked hundreds of miles in search of such a destination—miles covered by the scourge of rock, plant, and tree. Not a single civilization was remotely nearby; there were not even wandering nomads, and so certainly there were no roads, paths, or trails. My journey was dominated by coarse, seemingly impassable terrain. And all through this traveling, I carried with me an immense prisoner wrapped in a thick tarp tethered to my back that writhed in such ways that sent ripples of exhaustion through my limbs. It longed to kill me even in its capture, and it often came close. Every time I propped open its immurement of tarp to pour it water or feed it food, I cringed terribly at this thing that laded me; it only avoided death by the facet of my purpose.

[Sharkchild]

Download Episode 68: Filling The Empty Throne

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Excerpt:

I thought I had told the Doctors nothing but the truth regarding my wounds, yet their doubt in my words led me to not wholly believe in those insects of memories crawling behind my eyes. They wanted to know how the rings of flesh were once missing at the wrists of my bloodless arms and how a ring of flesh was once missing at my neck without the décor of crimson.

Indeed, anyone should wish to know such answers, so I told them the truth—the only truth I knew and the only story I knew how to tell. But the Doctors would not receive it. Every week they came and withdrew me from my cell and every week they asked me the same questions. Mainly their probing led to the defining of the role I played concerning the wounds, but my account did not involve any of my doings; I was a victim, and especially not of myself.

As the weeks came and went, I began to divulge less and less of what I remembered when the Doctors came to inquire of me. For one thing, I realized that the florescence of my details gave ignition to punitive results, and second, the line between nightmare and reality had become a pool of mixed elements, leading me astray from the substantial qualities of confident testimony, and beyond that, cognizance. I would rather have not remembered anything regarding the incident at all; that would have saved me great torment, or at least given cause to administer it.

***

The wounds they found upon me as I lay on the floor of my prison cell were deep—almost all of the way to the bone. They were circular cuts—rings: one on each of my wrists and one around my neck. There was no bleeding; the wounds were completely clean as if those rings of flesh had been removed by teleportation and the fissured blood vessels somehow instantly sealed.