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Tonight we present the first entry in a new tale of Thomas Blackhall, frontiersman and occasional student of the occult. Our story begins after the witching hour, in a small town in the Dalhousie district.
[ Music ] >> Welcome to FlashPulp episode 34. Tonight, the last ghost story, a black call tale, part one of three. This evening's episode is brought to you by Opoponax Feathers, a rainbow nightmare filtered through the storming rage of a feral teddy bear. Find it at Opoponaxfeathers.wordpress.com. [ Music ] [ Singing ] FlashPulp 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 the first entry in a new tale of Thomas Blackhall, frontiersman and occasional student of the occult. Our story begins after the witching arm, in a small town in the Dauhoozy district. The last ghost story, a black call tale, part one of three, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica Mann. William Stern's tavern was nearly empty. Conversation had guttered into only a small knot of regulars and a sprinkling of loners napping in their cups remained. The recent Evan's murder had dominated the barroom early in the evening, that as the night had worn on and the barley had grown heavier, the talk had turned to the occult. "There are no ghosts," said Porter, the raised eyebrow of the group. "I swear to you, when I was not eight years old, I watched my granny's phantom walk in the hall," replied O'Connor, a half-paced sergeant. "Tell me not of childhood dreams as if they were truths. How many dead have there been in history? If there truly were spirits, they'd have to start charging rent at the Tower of London." "Wouldn't Millie Tyler's old place," Big's Calhoun had been silent a long while, and, until his interjection, the debaters had assumed he'd nodded off. "The only curse on Millie Tyler's farmhouse is that the land she settled could barely grow grass, much less wheat," Porter replied. "My oldest lad once told me that he and the Casey boy went up that way one evening. Apparently neither of them could step in and count to ten once the door was shut. Felt fingers up his spine," he said. Big's took a long inhale from his mug. Porter snorted. "Next you'll be telling me they brought a third boy with them." He dropped to a dramatic hush. "But he never returned." "Isn't it usually the smart-mouthed know-it-all who gets it at the end of those stories?" asked O'Connor, smiling across the table at his skeptical companion. "Yes, but if you held so truly to every tale you heard at your father's knee, you'd be out wandering the roads looking to trade your prized cow for magic beans." "A wager then," Calhoun asked. Porter realized the smell of approaching gambling must have been what had roused Big's from his stupor. "That what rules? Shall I implant a dagger at the site and catch my coat, only to mistake it for the grabbing hand of poor Millie Tyler? Shall I enter and repeat Millie's name three times, hoping she materializes? Shall I spend the night and see if my hair has turned snowy by morn?" "Your jest's reek of excuse," O'Connor said, his smile fixed. "I'll happily follow whatever course you suggest, but I see a flaw in your plan. One of you believers would have to follow along to attest to the truth of my testimony." "I believe you're an idiot, not a lawyer," the sergeant replied. "We shall reconvene here, at lunch on the morrow, and you can report what terrors befell you then. What are the wager?" "I might suggest the night's tab," said Stern, the barkeep from behind his well-polished mahogany slab. "I'll hold it till lunch, although I'm not terribly optimistic for the condition of your stomachs." "Whatever the condition of my gullet, if you'll extend us the courtesy, I'll be sure to order up the Sunday patrons a mess of eggs." "At Porter's expense," O'Connor replied. "Fine then, and I'll beg you to be off to your haunted house, or otherwise rent a room and clear the tables, as Mrs. Stern has trouble managing the gluttony the Sunday faithful when left to herself." Those still waking stood. They were at the door when a shadow broke away from a darkened table, approaching. Holding up a hand in greeting, Thomas Blackhall stepped into the glow of the kerosene lamps. "I'd like to come along," he said. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash Skinner dot FM. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music] [BLANK_AUDIO]
