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Friday, 24 February 2017

Bits & Pieces | Horror | Michael Whitehouse

Another original horror story by Michael Whitehouse for you to get your teeth into. Grab your tools, fedora and whip, for we are going on an archaeological expedition. We might find something historically important, or perhaps we'll just find a few sinister Bits & Pieces...

Written, narrated & scored by Michael Whitehouse

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Tuesday, 7 February 2017

'The Tell-Tale Heart' by Edgar Allan Poe | Classic Horror

Watch above, read below, Or Listen here, if you dare...

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Tuesday, 31 January 2017

'The Premature Burial' by Edgar Allan Poe | Classic Horror

Watch above, listen here, or read below...
THERE are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or to disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and majesty of Truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of "pleasurable pain" over the accounts of the Passage of the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague at London, of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the stifling of the hundred and twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these accounts it is the fact-it is the reality-it is the history which excites. As inventions, we should regard them with simple abhorrence.
I have mentioned some few of the more prominent and august calamities on record; but in these it is the extent, not less than the character of the calamity, which so vividly impresses the fancy. I need not remind the reader that, from the long and weird catalogue of human miseries, I might have selected many individual instances more replete with essential suffering than any of these vast generalities of disaster. The true wretchedness, indeed-the ultimate woe-is particular, not diffuse. That the ghastly extremes of agony are endured by man the unit, and never by man the mass-for this let us thank a merciful God!

Monday, 23 January 2017

'Man-Size in Marble' by Edith Nesbit | Classic Horror

Read below, watch above, or listen here... If you dare...

Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the "rational explanation" which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.

Friday, 13 January 2017

'Dracula's Bride' by John Bhrel & J. Sullivan | New Horror

Watch Above Listen Here or Read Below...

Every neighborhood has a haunted house. When I was a kid, it wasn’t an actual house, but a wooden chapel set back into a small immigrant cemetery known as Sunshire Hill. I’d grown up in the Village of Lestershire, went to school and college nearby, and built a successful lawn and gardening business. I had mostly forgotten the old cemetery on the hillside when my family moved across town in my late teens, that was until I took on a summer’s-long service contract to cut the grass at Sunshire. It was the first time in my ten years of business that I didn’t see a contract to its end.

I went to the cemetery without my work crew for the first few weeks, usually at the end of the day. It was only an hour or two of labor. I would breeze through with the mower, wack a few weeds away from the overgrown markers and monuments, paying little attention to the memories conjured with each pass by those aged, wooden walls. Yes, the chapel was still standing. Minus some rotting beams and a few cracked windows, it didn’t look much different than it had in my youth -- like the sort of place Vlad Dracul would have stopped to take Holy Communion on the road to Bucharest. Real Old World. It loomed over the neighborhood when I was growing up, and was the center of our lore-filled adventures and dare-based one-upmanship. The chapel at Sunshire was a throwback to another time; it stood out like a sore thumb amidst the hillside of tidy, factory-built homes and manicured lawns.

Thursday, 7 April 2016

'The Picture in the House' by H.P. Lovecraft | Classic Horror

Watch the Video Above | Listen to the MP3 | Read the Story Below...

Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. For them are the catacombs of Ptolemais, and the carven mausolea of the nightmare countries. They climb to the moonlit towers of ruined Rhine castles, and falter down black cobwebbed steps beneath the scattered stones of forgotten cities in Asia. The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines, and they linger around the sinister monoliths on uninhabited islands. But the true epicure in the terrible, to whom a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient, lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England; for there the dark elements of strength, solitude, grotesqueness, and ignorance combine to form the perfection of the hideous.

Thursday, 3 March 2016

'The Great God Pan' by Arthur Machen



"I am glad you came, Clarke; very glad indeed. I was not sure you could spare the time."
"I was able to make arrangements for a few days; things are not very lively just now. But have you no misgivings, Raymond? Is it absolutely safe?"
The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond's house. The sun still hung above the western mountain-line, but it shone with a dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was quiet; a sweet breath came from the great wood on the hillside above, and with it, at intervals, the soft murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in the long lovely valley, the river wound in and out between the lonely hills, and, as the sun hovered and vanished into the west, a faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills. Dr. Raymond turned sharply to his friend.
"Safe? Of course it is. In itself the operation is a perfectly simple one; any surgeon could do it."
"And there is no danger at any other stage?"
"None; absolutely no physical danger whatsoever, I give you my word. You are always timid, Clarke, always; but you know my history. I have devoted myself to transcendental medicine for the last twenty years. I have heard myself called quack and charlatan and impostor, but all the while I knew I was on the right path. Five years ago I reached the goal, and since then every day has been a preparation for what we shall do tonight."
"I should like to believe it is all true." Clarke knit his brows, and looked doubtfully at Dr. Raymond. "Are you perfectly sure, Raymond, that your theory is not a phantasmagoria—a splendid vision, certainly, but a mere vision after all?"