A town where nightmares go to live forever...
Dead Oaks is a horror anthology podcast with new episodes every other Sunday. Alternating between scripted and short story episodes, Dead Oaks features short horror fiction by writers from across the globe.
Follow us on Twitter: @deadoakspodcast and find more at www.soundcloud.com/deadoakspodcast
Search This Blog
Dead Oaks: Three Tales
Today’s episode of Dead Oaks: A Horror Anthology Podcast, “Three Tales” was narrated by Edward Whalen. “Gnaw” was written by Chris Lovato. “Sounds” was written by Ibrahim Oga. And “Leonard” was written by Tonissa Saul.
Music in today’s episode was “Creepy” performed and recorded by Nicholas Critney along with “Faded Grandeur,” “Harbinger of Doom,” and “Turning the Screw,” courtesy of purple-planet.com.
Please check back in two weeks for the next episode in Otto’s Story, “Message, Part 2.” Dead Oaks is brought to you by BronzeCast Productions. For more information about the authors and stories you heard today, and for more information, find us on Twitter @deadoakspodcast. To read each individual story and find out more about the authors, keep scrolling!
by Chris Lovato
across a blackboard to make a list.
“Now, who can
tell me what these are?” Miss Rachel Griffiths turned to her class, pointing to
what she'd written. Many hands raised, and she pointed to one.
tow-headed boy beamed when she confirmed he was correct, and she gestured to
the list again.
everyone's favorite color?” As more hands went up, a noise made everyone jump;
Rachel turned just in time to see the bird that hit the window. “Don't worry,
everyone! That bird was a little lost, but he'll be okay!” She took a breath to
focus, but a scream rang in the hallway and she ran to the door.
open; people ran past screaming, and her blood froze when she saw a police dog
chasing them with a red foam on its mouth. Before she could move, the dog
barreled into her. Barricade gone, it started ravaging the class with years of
honed training, and Rachel rolled over, caught sight of the carnage, and
vomited. She covered her head as gunshots rang out, and the animal fell dead at
the bullet of a policeman with a mangled leg.
move! Let's go!” The remaining children ran out of the room with the cop, and
Rachel had to fight the urge to vomit again as she did the same.
made it to the school's front doors, but a look around told the teacher that
the dog hadn't been the only thing to have attacked; people flailed around as
squirrels chewed at their necks, birds besieged others with their beaks and
talons. Police sirens, screams, and gunshots pierced the air, and the officer
pulled her back as a car hurtled toward her, off course as a cat attacked the
searched for shelter, she caught sight of the Dead Oaks veterinary hospital
with its windows broken out. Animals poured out in droves, and the bigger dogs
headed straight for the survivors of the classroom massacre.
thing Rachel saw was a Saint Bernard, teeth bared and spittle flying as it let
out a guttural snarl.
My name is Chris, and I love long walks in the mountains, baking, and conjuring demons in my spare time. I'd always rather be at Disneyland, or, at the very least, New Orleans. I'm addicted to boba tea, Mountain Dew Baja Blast, and animated TV.
by Ibrahim Oga
All her bargaining is in
vain. She regrets ever thinking running to dead oaks to hide was a good idea.
Her sobering gets louder. Her son could intuit her helpless eye balls in the
pool of her tears.
"Please, don't kill
my son" she yells, repeatedly, knowing nothing is stopping them from doing
what they came to do.
The son has the least of
hopes for the miracle he's praying for. His hands are shaking even as he's
numb. His lips could not move an inch apart; his tongue lay dead inside.
"Don't worry about
your orphan, we will find him, his fate is also sealed." says their leader
with a certainty that frightens every piece of faith in her.
“No!" she cries; her body losing all
its calmness. She struggles to get up as if to fight or make her escape. She
struggles to overpower the men holding her. All of her strength is futile.
The boy in the wardrobe hears the sound of
friction of a metal piercing through a flesh. The picture is too scary for him
to imagine. The hissing of blood gushing out of a slit jugular vein says of
where the knife cuts. An escaping wind from a rather unusual opening, forcing
clots of blood out of its way; underneath an open mouth with a voice struggling
for words but only chokes, chokes in its own blood, says of whose throat is
slit. This could not to be mistaken. Her body hitting the floor and the
haphazard kicking of her leg against the wardrobe doors makes him beg for the
noise to stop. Then comes the silence and with it, the realization of what's
lost. These are the sounds he never wants to remember and these are the sounds
he will never forget.
Ibrahim Oga is a Nigerian writer and founder of the Sisyphean-minds; a creative writing movement for better and positive thinking. He has published works on channillo.com He is a bodybuilder, loves writing and is a movie lover.
by Tonissa Saul
Lenny walked through the house behind her. The hushing sound of her
skirt as it swished back and forth exacerbated the loud stamp of her heels when
they struck the wood floor. The small sneakers Lenny wore barely disturbed the
They stopped at a room in the back of the house. She moved to the side
and Lenny stood at the door. Down the hall, back the way they came, Lenny could
see the two men waiting for them. Their white uniforms gleamed in the sunlight.
The wheelchair sitting between them glared at Lenny.
“I don’t want to go in there Miss Harvey.”
“We’ve talked about this before Leonard. This is your job. I need you
to go in there and do your job.”
Lenny placed his hand on the doorknob. It didn’t turn. He placed both
hands on the door knob. It still wouldn’t budge.
“Stop fooling around Leonard.” Miss Harvey gave him a stern look. She
raised her eyebrow for emphasis. “You’re a teenager now, I need you to be
mature and accept your duties.”
Lenny sighed and let go of the door knob. He stared at the brass knob.
The skin on his face rumpled with concentration. The door shook momentarily and
then shot open. Miss Harvey stepped away from the opening.
A gray entity rose from the floor as if compiled by dust. Piece, by
piece, it assembled into a hollow-faced creature with long, flowing, ebony
hair. Its body took only enough shape to let Lenny see it was there. The hair
and cloud of body moved in an invisible breeze. It reached its arms out to
Stepping forward into the room, Lenny extended his arms until his palms
pressed against the palms of the apparition. Even without a face to make the
expression, Lenny saw its confusion. It did not pass through the boy. They were
bound together by touch.
He moved one foot behind him to brace himself and then began the push.
Lenny’s eyes shifted until only the whites showed. The ghost let out an
ephemeral howl. A white light began where their palms touched and then engulfed
the room. Lenny threw his head back and breathed in until lightheadedness took
When the light disappeared all was quiet and still within the house.
The clocks neither ticked, nor tocked. Crickets did not chirp. Dust bunnies did
The men in white collected Lenny into the wheelchair, his unconscious
body heavy with dead weight.
They rolled him back to the van and closed him
into the dark cavern. Miss Harvey sat in the passenger seat and checked her
book for the next appointment.
Tonissa is a writer from Phoenix, AZ. She works two jobs, is working on getting a degree, and writes every moment she can steal.
By Sean Hodell The baby
snake slithers willingly into your belly, scorching your esophagus on the way down.
There is an immediate onset of nausea as it wades through your stomach acid.
You press your lips together to prevent yourself from retching. Sunlight
peeks through the blinds in your bedroom. The smell of bacon wafts through the
door, which only adds to the nausea. You’re hungry, starving actually, but not
for that. You have an appetite for something, but you find yourself drawing a
blank on what it actually is that the snakelet wants. You found
its mother coiled around a branch protruding from a fallen tree in the lake the
previous evening. You had your bow with you, so you shot it. Right in the
belly. Sure, you could have shot it the head, but you were in a torturous mood. Naturally,
the snake was pissed at first. It tried striking you several times, but the
arrow went all the way through, leaving it with a debilitating pain. When you
ripped the arrow out, the underside of the rep…
Happy Halloween(ish), podcast fans! With Dead Oaks: A Horror Anthology Podcast wrapping up its first season a couple of weeks ago, the plan is to fill the gap between season one and two (now to January) with some awesome, spooky content. First up is a definitive ranking of every film in one of the most well known horror movie franchises in existence, A Nightmare on Elm Street.
For the past few weeks, I've been watching (and live-tweeting) all of the nine Elm Street movies, trying to separate the best of the best from the cringe-worthy--but not in a good way--entries in the series. Keep scrolling for Dead Oaks's ranking, starting with the worst...
9 & 8. The Dream Child (1989) and Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare (1991)
It makes sense that two newest films in the original Elm Street cannon (New Nightmare doesn't really count, and we'll get to that later...) are the two worst. By the time The Dream Child and Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare rolled around, …
DEAD OAKS IS OPEN FOR SEASON THREE SUBMISSIONS! Season three of Dead Oaks will begin in September 2017.
Dead Oaks: A Horror Anthology Podcast from BronzeCast Productions is now accepting submissions for our bi-weekly (every two weeks) episodes! Basically, how it works is this: chosen stories will be turned into podcast episodes read either by the author or by a Dead Oaks cast member, depending on the author's preference. However, there are some guidelines. Read them below: Story Submission Guidelines: Dead Oaks stories must be: original, unpublished works of short fiction between 1,500 and 3,000 words submitted in double space, 12 point, sans serif font via Microsoft Word document (or other compatible document) related, in some way of your choosing, to the fictional town of Dead Oaks (more information below) sent via email to email@example.com No cover letter required What is Dead Oaks? In short, Dead Oaks is a small, relatable town of ambiguous location where really, really bad t…