Scattered Thoughts

Nicholas Ozment

The first thing he saw when he woke up was a line of words floating like an after-image in the air halfway between himself and the ceiling. The words were large, stretching almost from one end of his line of vision to the other. At first the words appeared to be gibberish, until he realized they were backwards, like he was reading them in a mirror.

and introducing Eddie Reed as Frank Hunter

They vanished an instant later. Then he realized he wasn’t in his own room.

He sat up in the small brass-framed bed, pushing down the olive green blanket. He looked around at a room that reminded him of the bedroom in the Dick van Dyke show: two single beds a couple feet apart with a small nightstand between them. The other bed was empty and made up. Not much else in the room to distinguish it: a vanity table, a dresser with a vase of flowers and a porcelain Dutch boy pushing a wheelbarrow. Reminded him of his grandma’s house.

He didn’t have much time to sit there and collect his thoughts before the door was thrown open. In walked a blonde bombshell. She flashed big blue eyes at him that were full of concern. “Oh Frank, it’s awful! The infestation is getting worse. Come listen to the radio.”

His name wasn’t Frank, but since the young lady in the bullet bra and tight-fitting sweater already appeared distraught about an infestation, he decided to forego correcting her, for the moment. No need to add to her consternation.

Then he noticed something else he’d never seen before: a wedding band on his finger.

“We’re married?” he asked as she was heading back out the door. Under the circumstances it seemed a logical question. That stopped her in her high-heeled tracks.

“Frank, this is no time to joke around. Why would you ask that? Oh, I’m so worried!” She changed her mind about leaving the room, swished over and plunked down on the bed next to him, nestling her head on his shoulder.

Some locks of her bobbed hair scrunched up into his face and he swatted them aside. Then he put his other arm around her comfortingly.

I think I might like being Frank, he thought to himself, running his fingers through her hair. “There, there,” he cooed reassuringly.

She looked up at him and smiled. A bit heavy-handed on the make-up, but I’ll bet she cleans up real nice.

As he scooted over to give her more room, it occurred to him how crowded it must be to share a single bed. Then he glanced knowingly at the second bed. Aha, the old Dick van Dyke deal. People weren’t supposed to be reminded that couples sleep together.

That’s when he suddenly knew what was going on. Comprehension came all at once, flooding in to his conscious forebrain. He had woken up in a ‘50s B movie. He’d slept through the opening credits, but subconsciously he must’ve been aware of them: maybe that’s why he wasn’t more flustered. He was pretty sure it was a black and white film, though he could see everything in color because this was the real deal: he was in the world behind the film. If he pinched himself he’d feel it, by golly.

Things could be worse. He knew of a boy who’d awoken one day to find himself turned into a cockroach.

He, apparently, had been fated to wake up as Frank Hunter. Frank Hunter had a hot wife. What could go wrong?

“So what’s this infestation all about?” he asked.

She cast him a worried look, her blue eyes outlined with thick blue eyeliner and dark mascara and long—probably fake—eyelashes. “Frank, are you feeling well this morning?”

“The, um, stress of the whole situation—I think it’s had a psychological effect on me, some kind of selective amnesia, a mental defense, you know, blocking things out. If I ask odd questions, just humor me. It will all come back.” Good cover, he mentally patted himself on the back.

“Oh Frank!” she sobbed, burying her face against the nape of his neck. “The horror—the horror of it! Amnesia! Oh why? I need you to be strong. You’re my man.”

“Well, you’ll have to be strong for me too,” he said. “We’ll get through this together. Now refresh my memory: infestation?”

“The brains, Frank, the brains!”

“The brains?”

“The crawling brains. They attack people and wrap their tails around peoples’ necks and—oh god, it’s just too awful!”

“Where did they come from?”

“They don’t know. Some people on the radio are saying it’s an alien invasion. Some other expert said it was a top-secret government experiment gone awry. They’ve overrun Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh always gets it,” he said. “How do we fight these things off?”

“The Army and the police have their hands full. People are fending for themselves—guns, shovels, pickaxes—whatever they can find.”

“Do I have a gun?”

“Yes, of course. Omygod, has your amnesia affected that much of your memory? You’re a big-game hunter. You have all kinds of guns.”

“Hopefully I’m the star,” he mused aloud.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“A supporting character can die.”

“Frank, you’re not making any sense.”

“No? I suppose not.”

She sobbed again. “Oh, Frank, how much have you forgotten? Do you remember me?”

“Does this answer your question?” He planted a kiss on her lips. This was a rather bold move for Eddie Reed, but he figured it was just the sort of thing Frank Hunter would do. Eddie was the sort to respect boundaries, and to first ask a lady, “May I kiss you?” But he’d watched enough Saturday afternoon matinees as a boy to know that wouldn’t be Frank Hunter’s style! Besides, this was his wife, and she was expecting a bold, forthright leading man, not a sensitive twenty-first-century wallflower.

After the brief kiss, she pulled away and looked into his eyes. He drew her back and this time the kiss was long and passionate. He squeezed her tightly and caressed her tongue with his own. She melted into his embrace and suddenly was kissing him back just as intensely, her tongue darting in and out of his mouth like a famished anteater on the king of anthills.

When they drew apart for breath, she was flushed and panting.

“Whoo!” she sighed, fanning her face with her hands. “Whatever you’ve forgotten, you seem to have remembered a few things too. You haven’t kissed me like that since—well, I don’t think you’ve ever kissed me like that, really.”

His blood was pumping, now, and he pulled her back, hoping to move things to the next level. But a strange thing happened. Suddenly, he felt the wind go out of his sails, and found they were staring into each others’ eyes with a safe yard of space between them.

The damned Hays Code! he thought in sudden frustration. If I’m stuck in an old movie, that means the scene will cut away before things get too hot and heavy! Double damn!

“There’s going to be a few changes around here,” Frank said, wiping off a red swath of lipstick with the back of his hand. “If we come through this crawling-brain ordeal, you’ll be getting kissed like that a lot more often. Now, how close to here are the brains?”

“There’ve been a few spotted on the outskirts of town.”

“Is the house barricaded?”

“The doors are locked.”

“Can they open doors?”

“Usually they just crash in through the windows.”

“Then we need to board up the windows. Come on. Don’t worry, I watched a lot of these when I was a kid.”

“A lot of what, Frank?”

“Never mind. But I think that kiss helped jar the ol’ memory a little. Before we start, howsabout one more?”

And she obliged.

“Now let’s get to work.” He got up out of bed. He was wearing blue pajamas—usually he slept in the buff, but he was growing accustomed to surprises this morning.

He rifled through the drawers until he found something comfortable—the clothes he presumably hunted in rather than the rows of suits hanging in the closet. Outfitted in khakis, flannel shirt and hiking boots, he walked out of the bedroom into a large but typical ‘50s tract house in an affluently middle-class suburban neighborhood.

“Do we have kids?” he asked suddenly.

She blushed. “Why, of course not, Frank. That would be impossible.”

“You’re on the pill?”

“The pill?” she looked confused. “No, the birds and the bees. We haven’t, you know…”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How long have we been married?”

“You’ve forgotten our wedding too?” She was on the verge of tears.

“Only temporarily,” he squeezed her shoulders.

“We’ve been married almost a month. We were going to start trying to get pre…preg…”

“Pregnant? You can go ahead and say it.”

“Yes, that, but then this invasion happened and we decided to hold off until the world was sane again.”

“If you wait for that you’ll be waiting a long, long time. But what about contraceptives?”

She looked at him with some alarm. “Frank, we’re Catholic.”

“We are? Oh, we are. Hail Mary! Now where do I keep my guns?”

“In the trophy room. Down in the basement.” She pointed to a door that presumably opened on stairs to the basement. He started towards it but his screen-wife suddenly said, “Frank…”

He stopped. “Yeah, darling?”

“Do…do you remember…my name?” Her voice choked as she asked the question.

Oh hell. A tense silence filled the house. A grandfather clock in the living room ticked away the seconds.

Then he noticed cards sitting on a table next to him—wedding cards. Scribbled on the front of one over the phrase “On your wedding day” were two names. Frank, of course, and…

He turned and looked her straight in the eyes. Mascara was beginning to run in thin lines down her cheeks.

“Of course I remember your name—Cindy, darling.”

“Oh, Frank.” She threw herself into his arms, wiping mascara on his flannel shirt.

“I’d offer you a tissue, but I don’t remember where they are.”

They both laughed, easing the tension. He was grateful she had a nice laugh, and a pleasant voice—some of those B-movie actresses got high-pitched and hysterical; the screech of the monster was preferable to listening to them carry on. He hoped Cindy would keep her cool when the second act came, as he expected it would, and probably soon. So without further hesitation, he went downstairs to his—Frank’s—trophy room. Cindy followed halfway down the stairs and stood there watching him.

Wow. He’d shot a lot of animals. The basement looked like a taxidermist’s shop.
Then he saw what he was looking for: an iron gun cabinet bigger than a refrigerator. It was locked. “Cindy—the key!”

She looked at him with some alarm. “You never told me where you keep the key.”

“Oh Christ, Frank,” Frank grumbled at himself. “It figures, you old chauvinist.”

Then he asked Cindy, “Did he—did I—ever let you shoot the guns?”

“Sure. Once or twice, for a lark. You didn’t want me to shoot ‘em too much because you said they would hurt my shoulder.”

“‘For a lark,’ huh? It’ll be worse than a sore shoulder if the brains get you.”

Angry tears welled up in her eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry. I mean I don’t want that to happen. It may go against the scream-queen stereotype, but you have just as much ability to fight these things as I do, as long as you can point a gun and pull the trigger. So let’s look for the key together.”

“I don’t think you kept it down here.”

“Okay.”
They ran up the stairs and began searching through drawers and cupboards. He rummaged through the living room while Cindy searched the kitchen. As he finished going through an end table by the couch, he glanced dubiously at the big picture window. The curtains were drawn.

“Hey, Cindy!” he yelled loud enough for her to hear him in the other room. “You keep looking for that key while I start boarding up these windows. Is there a woodshed out back, some place I’d keep boards?!”

He was answered with a scream. He knocked the lamp off the end table as he jumped over it and barreled into the kitchen. Cindy was standing by the sink staring out the window.

“It’s…It’s too late,” she said, and her lower lip began to tremble.

“No—don’t scream again. I know it sells tickets but I don’t want my blood curdled; my nerves are on edge as it is.”

He followed her gaze out the window. A brain was chasing a man down the street. The brain scampered along on four spider-like legs and had a whip-like tail where a human brain had a spinal cord. Two crab-like eyestalks jutted from the frontal lobes where the eyestalks were on a human brain. It moved in a herky-jerky fashion, like stop-motion animation.

Cindy pulled herself from the horrifying scene transpiring on the street outside and ran to the bedroom.

Frank ran after her. “Cindy, you gotta keep it together, you—”

He bumped into her as she came back out holding a .22 Ruger.

“You keep this in the nightstand,” she said, handing it to him. “In case Commies invade while you’re sleeping.”

“Good thinking,” he said. “Thank God, Frank, for the Red Scare. Now I’m gonna go see if I can’t save that poor bastard. Stay inside and lock the door behind me.”

“What if one gets in here, Frank?”

“Grab a cleaver and make like it’s a head of lettuce.”

He ran out into the street. Too late for the man, who lay facedown in the road with the brain perched on the back of his head. Frank aimed the gun at the brain and fired. It exploded like a can of jam, the legs and tail splaying out and then curling up like a dying spider.

“Good effects,” he muttered, and then had to leap back onto the sidewalk as a convertible with tail fins careened around the corner. There were two brains at the wheel—the one in the head of the poor sap driving it, and the one perched on his back. The car banked around another corner out of sight and an ensuing crash signaled the ride had come to an end.

Everywhere the neighborhood was erupting into chaos. People ran screaming from their homes. The sounds of sirens, horns blaring, glass shattering, then another scream, close by—from Frank’s house! He spun around and ran back to the front door. Jiggled the knob—it was locked.

The living room window was shattered. He knocked away some hanging shards and clambered in over the couch. He dashed into the kitchen and found Cindy standing there holding a butcher knife. A brain lay on the counter, chopped nearly in two.

“You really should use a cutting board,” he said, and grabbed her into an embrace. She dropped the knife to the floor and buried her face on his chest.

Suddenly a brain burst in through the kitchen window. A blast from the Ruger took care of it. Then another brain came scuttling down the hallway. Frank fired the gun, but the brain leapt from the floor up to the ceiling, clasping like a spider. Another shot dropped it twitching to the rug.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Frank said. “Where are the car keys?”

“On the table by the front door,” she said. He grabbed her by the hand and made for the front door, snatching up the keys as they went out.

A brain met them on the porch like an unwelcome solicitor selling death. Frank gave it a swift kick that sent it screeching across the lawn. Frank barely had time to wonder how a naked brain could produce a screech as he hustled Cindy into the passenger seat of the car, shooting another brain that launched out of the oleander bushes. Then he jumped in and started up the car—a boat-sized, sky-blue Buick with fenders that looked like floatation devices. At first he stalled it out.

“Damn, it’s been a while since I’ve driven a stick shift.”

He put in the clutch and turned it over again. He threw it in reverse, grinding gears, and the tires squealed as he barreled out of the driveway, running over a brain that was slow.

They drove through a suburb in the grips of a hellish nightmare. Vehicles were overturned in yards. Mobs fled screaming from the swarming brains, the slackers dragged down like old gazelles by stalking cheetahs.

Frank had to weave and swerve to avoid pedestrians and other wildly erratic drivers, as well as crashed cars. They got about three blocks before they came to a five-car pile-up that completely blocked the road. This happened to be adjacent to a neighborhood park, so Frank spun the wheel, barely slowing down as he jumped the curb and drove into the park.

Suddenly Cindy let out an ear-splitting scream. A brain had lodged onto the top of the Buick and was using the stinger-like appendage at the end of its tail to cut through the cloth top. It slashed like a dagger right above Cindy’s head. Frank, one hand on the wheel, aimed the Ruger at the roof of the car and fired. A shriek and the tail was yanked out, leaving only a slash and a bullet hole—an exclamation mark above their heads. Frank looked ahead again just in time to see a man running right into the Buick’s path. Frank slammed on the brakes and swerved, missing the man but not a park bench then a trash can then an ice-cream vendor’s cart and finally a tree. The front end of the Buick crumpled like an accordion and started spewing smoke.

“Are you okay?” he asked Cindy. She nodded.

He clambered out of the car, came around to her side and helped her out. Another brain leapt up onto the car, tail twitching, zeroing in on them. Frank pointed the gun and pulled the trigger—click. It was empty.

“Get ready to run,” Frank said. Cindy backed slowly away from the car. The brain stood poised like a scorpion about to strike.

“This isn’t the way the star goes down,” Frank mumbled to himself. He threw the gun. It hit the brain square on its cerebellum, momentarily stunning it. “Run!” he yelled, and he and Cindy sprinted away from the car.

The brain shook off the hit and scrambled after them, sometimes taking great grasshopper leaps that quickly closed the distance.

Frank saw a park grounds-keeping truck, abandoned with the driver’s door open. From the bed of the truck projected the handles of various tools.

“Over there!” he yelled. He and Cindy reached the truck just as the brain reached them. Frank grabbed a wooden handle and yanked it out. A floppy leaf-rake. “Damn!” Fanning the brain away with the ineffective weapon in one hand, he reached back for another handle. This time he fared better. He dropped the rake and took the shovel in both hands, swinging it like Barry Bonds on a steroid rush. The brain exploded like an overturned bowl of wet dog food.

“Cindy, grab a shovel and let’s clean up some brains!”

As Cindy rummaged through the tools, he backed up to the cab of the truck and glanced in. There was no key in the ignition. Cindy pulled out a hoe. A swarm of brains had now gathered around them—a dozen at least. Cindy backed up next to him. They were surrounded.

“There are too damn many of them,” he muttered as the brains flocked around them like geese honing in on a kid with a loaf of bread.

He muttered his frustration at the oncoming crawling brains. “How can you exist?”

The brains kept clicking inexorably closer, hissing like cockroaches.

Despairing, he cried aloud. “Do you really exist?!”

Suddenly they all stopped in their tracks. Each brain reacted in the same manner: its spine-tail went rigid behind it, balancing it on its spindly legs, and its eyestalks waved hypnotically.

“You paralyzed them!” Cindy gasped. “What did you do?”

“I think—I think they’re thinking!” Brandishing the shovel, he stepped toward the nearest one and smashed it into braincake. “Took too long to answer the question you bastard!”

He began smashing the brains like a man possessed. Cindy joined in, and soon they had made cheese of the brains that had been immobilized in their immediate vicinity.

Then Frank ran over to where a brain was buzzing around a corpse like a carrion buzzard.

“Hey, do you exist?” he yelled at it. It landed on the corpse’s chest and settled into what Frank assumed was contemplative repose, its eyestalks waving rhythmically. Frank gave it a good ten seconds to think before delivering the crushing blow.

“This way!” he yelled to Cindy and they jogged to a lone police squad car.

“Officer!” he yelled. “Get somebody important on the horn—I’ve figured out how to end this deadly menace!” Wow, he thought, he was even starting to speak like a B-movie actor.

But as he neared the officer, he noticed the cop was wearing a spine-tail necklace. The cop stumbled around, revealing a brain lodged onto the back of his head.

“Hey Brainiac!” Frank yelled. “Do you exist?”

The thing uncoiled its tail and dropped to the ground. Frank immediately performed brain surgery with a shovel.
The cop had dropped to his knees and was holding his neck, which was covered with angry red welts. The CB radio dangled on the grass next to the idling squad car.

“Car 54,” a voice crackled from the dash. “Car 54, where are you?”

You gotta be kidding, Frank thought. What are the odds?

He snatched up the CB and pushed the button. “Hello, dispatcher, ‘officer down’ here. We’re at a park. Listen, I need to talk to the chief—I know how to defeat these things.”

“I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice crackled back through the static. “The chief is unavailable. We have officers down all over the city—we can’t send in medics until the area is secure—it’s anarchy out there!”

“Tell me what I don’t know; I’m out here! But I think I’ve found a way to stop it!”

Suddenly the CB was wrenched from his hand. It was the cop, wheezing hard but back on his feet.

“Dispatch, this is Officer O’Reilly. Patch me to the chief; I’ve got something…I don’t care—do it or it’ll be your job, got it?”

A pause of half-a-minute, then…

“Chief? Officer Ted O’Reilly here. I’ve got a guy here who has a way to stop these things…Yeah. He saved my life.”

He handed the CB back to Frank. “Here. Tell him.”

“Tell your men to ask, ‘Do you exist?’…No, not you, the brains! Repeat the question to the brains; ask them if they exist—it freezes them up long enough to take them out… ‘Take them out where?’ No, I mean kill them!”

Orders were relayed to all officers still in contact with the station. Frank helped O’Reilly into the passenger seat of the squad car, Cindy climbed into the back seat, and Frank drove to the station with O’Reilly navigating.

There they heard reports coming back in from the field that Frank’s strategy was working. Frank soon found himself on the phone with the President—it usually went straight to the top in these flicks.

“Hello, Mr. President…Yes, I am a big-game hunter—how’d you know?…Your men did a background check on me? They’ll be happy to note I have no ties to the Communist Party—at least I don’t think so. What? No, no, it’s a joke…Yes, I’m sorry, it was in bad taste…Well, yes, you could say that—I just figured out the most effective way to hunt these buggers…How does it work? This is only a theory, but you ask ‘em if they exist and, well, they’re highly developed brains, so they have to think about it. That’s how they answer the question—by thinking. It’s the old maxim, ‘I think; therefore, I am.’ They prove their existence by thinking, long enough for us to whack ‘em out of existence…Yes, thank you Sir. I am honored.”

During the conversation, Cindy stared at him with wide-eyed admiration. He handed the phone back to an officer and turned to her with a grin.

“Thank God I was the lead,” he said. “As long as George Romero didn’t direct this, I think I’m safe.”

All-points bulletins flashed around the globe: Ask the brains if they exist. Question their existence out loud. “Do you exist?” was flashed from loudspeakers and radios and TV sets across the nation. The bemused brains were picked off one by one, until only a couple were left—trapped alive for posterity, perhaps to end their days pondering the meaning of existence in an exhibit.

After the initial shock and horror had subsided, American consumerism flooded pop culture with product tie-ins that paid homage to the invasion.

A new kid’s cereal, “Brain Puffs,” boasted “11 essential vitamins and minerals for growing young brains.”

The pop song “I Love You for Your Crawling Brain” hit the Billboard Top 100.

The game show “Do I Exist?” enjoyed a season in prime time, but was cancelled when general audiences found the questions too esoteric.

On the academic front, doctors of philosophy published treatises on the implications of the brains and their self-defeating self-awareness.

But in the immediate aftermath a hero came home and pushed two single beds together.

While Cindy was in the kitchen fixing up a hero sandwich, Frank slipped down into the trophy room. She found him down there staring at the glass eyeballs of a brown bear. He still felt a little queasy at the thought of killing furry critters. When he was shooting those man-eating brains full of holes, he didn’t know he had it in him. But it wasn’t him. It was Frank Hunter. Did Eddie Reed still exist? Had Frank Hunter always been inside him?

She set down the tray with its sandwich and glass of lemonade.

Frank asked, “You know what the last thought was that went through that bear’s head before he was shot?”

“Can bears think?” she asked.

“Sure. This one thought, ‘I sure picked a bad spot to shit in the woods.’”

“Frank—the language!” she scolded, slapping him playfully on the shoulder.

That was strange, Frank thought to himself. There’d been an audible beep when he said Shit that drowned the word out.

“You’re not going to wash my mouth out with soap, are you Mrs. Reed?” he teased, snatching at her sides to see if she was ticklish.

“Who’s Mrs. Reed?” she asked. She was not laughing.

Oops, he thought. Grabbing her around the waist, he confidently said, “Oh, you know, that TV show where the kid always gets his mouth washed out with soap.” He rubbed his nose against hers affectionately.

“I’ve never had a TV, Frank,” she said. She pulled away from him, gazed into his eyes and asked, “Frank, has any of your memory come back?”

He tried to give her a reassuring look. “Darling, more and more of it’s coming back all the time.” Then he looked at the bear again. “It’s gonna take some adjustment though…I used to be a member of PETA.”

“Isn’t that a kind of bread?”

He laughed. “Yes, and speaking of bread…” He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. “Mmm, thish ish good. Didn’t know what I was missing with all that fake tofu shi—um, sorry, stuff.”

“Frank, don’t talk with your mouth full. I’m going to get some cleaning done. Holler if you need me.”

He followed her up the stairs, admiring the sway of her hips in her tight knee-length skirt. She walked into the bedroom and let out a gasp.

“What is it?” he asked, following behind her. “Did we miss a brain?”

“Frank, why’d you move the beds around?”

From behind her he wrapped his arms around her waist. “Easier access.”

She rotated in his arms to face him.

He kissed her and added, “And tomorrow I’m ordering a new bed with a California king-sized mattress—Hays Code be damned!”

“Hays Code?”

“Oh, that’s something you had to worry about if you were in a movie prior to around 1963. But I’m a twenty-first-century kinda guy.”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “You’ve been talking so strange since the amnesia. But I like it—it’s the most you’ve talked to me since back when we were first courting.”

“Well, I just needed to get some brains!”

“You’re a goofball,” she chuckled.

“And this goofball is ready for a happy ending. The world is saved; the menace is ended. Cindy, it’s time to start contributing to the Baby Boomer generation.”

She blushed and batted her eyelashes coyly. “Baby—you mean—?”

“Yes, I mean it’s time for me to see if your boobs are really shaped like that.”

She looked at him quizzically. “You’ve seen my breasts before.”

“I have? Oh, can you believe that’s one of the—two of—the things I’ve forgotten.”

She cocked an eyebrow, her lips curling into a wry smile. “Then we’d better jog your memory.”

And with remarkable speed she lifted her sweater, unstrapped her bra, and—Frank suddenly felt like he was in a ‘50s B movie not so much. This is getting rated X, he thought, but perhaps that was too contemporary. The moment possessed a sort of raunchy innocence—like an old stag movie: They were, after all, a married couple, about to do what comes naturally—separate beds or not.

How are we getting away with this? Frank wondered. This is turning into the sort of scene that would get a theater raided by the FBI.

Then something caught Frank’s eye—a shadowy, scrolling reflection on the wall. He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to see that the credits were rolling at his back.

We’re on the other side of the credits. Movie’s over, but I’m still here. Looks like now I get to live the part the movies left out. I’m all right with that.

And we’ll have to leave him there, because this is

The End

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Nicholas Ozment teaches English at Winona State University. His science fiction stories and poems have appeared in Weird Tales; Blood, Blade and Thruster; PseudoPod: The Horror Podcast; Sussurus: The Literature of Madness, Mythic Delirium, and many others.

Tags: Fiction Archive, Nicholas Ozment