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The Whisperer in Darkness is a independent film directed and produced by Sean Branney, Andrew Leman, and David Robertson and distributed by the  Based on‎: ‎The Whisperer in Darkness‎; by ‎H.P.
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I know I bang on about disliking audio drama a lot in this column, but it really has been stagey and moribund for years. This podcast is an example of how well it can be done. Barnaby Kay and Jana Carpenter, who play Heawood and Fisher, are completely natural, and every use of recorded material is believable. There is texture in the sound, which is properly recorded, whether a voice on an old-fashioned minicassette, the fizz and hiss of short wave or the crunch of leaves underfoot. Three episodes have been released so far, and things are getting deeper and more convoluted.

Everything seems to be leading back to elements of the first series too, so I would listen to that before you get into The Whisperer. Another treat for you: the new Slow Burn podcast.


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This strand made its name with two series that examined past political, um, situations. And it is, sort of. Slow Burn , which originates from Slate magazine, takes a different approach.

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Series three starts with Tupac in trouble, various legal cases hanging over him. He goes to hang out at a recording studio…. This series is presented by Joel Anderson the first two were hosted by Leon Neyfakh , and he has clearly done his research, interviewing those who were actually there when Tupac was on the medical trolley having been shot.

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That is not dead that can eternal lie And with strange aeons even death may die Millenia ago, the Old Ones ruled our planet. Since that time, they have but slumbered. But when a massive sea tremor brings the ancient stone city of R'lyeh to the surface once more, the Old Ones awaken at last. The Whisperer in Darkness brings together the original Cthulhu Mythos stories of the legendary horror writer H. Arm yourself with a copy of Abdul Alhazred's fabled Necronomican and prepare to face terrors beyond the wildest imaginings of all, save H.

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Other books in this series. The King in Yellow Robert W. Add to basket. The Monk Matthew Lewis.

Collected Ghost Stories M. The Whisperer in Darkness H. Gothic Short Stories David Blair. The Italian Ann Radcliffe. The Horror in the Museum H. While different tribal legends differed, there was a marked consensus of belief in certain vital particulars; it being unanimously agreed that the creatures were not native to this earth. The Pennacook myths, which were the most consistent and picturesque, taught that the Winged Ones came from the Great Bear in the sky, and had mines in our earthly hills whence they took a kind of stone they could not get on any other world.

They did not live here, said the myths, but merely maintained outposts and flew back with vast cargoes of stone to their own stars in the north. They harmed only those earth-people who got too near them or spied upon them. Animals shunned them through instinctive hatred, not because of being hunted. They could not eat the things and animals of earth, but brought their own food from the stars. It was bad to get near them, and sometimes young hunters who went into their hills never came back. They knew the speech of all kinds of men—Pennacooks, Hurons, men of the Five Nations—but did not seem to have or need any speech of their own.

They talked with their heads, which changed colour in different ways to mean different things. All the legendry, of course, white and Indian alike, died down during the nineteenth century, except for occasional atavistical flareups.


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The ways of the Vermonters became settled; and once their habitual paths and dwellings were established according to a certain fixed plan, they remembered less and less what fears and avoidances had determined that plan, and even that there had been any fears or avoidances. Most people simply knew that certain hilly regions were considered as highly unhealthy, unprofitable, and generally unlucky to live in, and that the farther one kept from them the better off one usually was.

In time the ruts of custom and economic interest became so deeply cut in approved places that there was no longer any reason for going outside them, and the haunted hills were left deserted by accident rather than by design. Save during infrequent local scares, only wonder-loving grandmothers and retrospective nonagenarians ever whispered of beings dwelling in those hills; and even such whisperers admitted that there was not much to fear from those things now that they were used to the presence of houses and settlements, and now that human beings let their chosen territory severely alone.

All this I had known from my reading, and from certain folk-tales picked up in New Hampshire; hence when the flood-time rumours began to appear, I could easily guess what imaginative background had evolved them. I took great pains to explain this to my friends, and was correspondingly amused when several contentious souls continued to insist on a possible element of truth in the reports.

"The Whisperer in Darkness" - H.P. Lovecraft

Such persons tried to point out that the early legends had a significant persistence and uniformity, and that the virtually unexplored nature of the Vermont hills made it unwise to be dogmatic about what might or might not dwell among them; nor could they be silenced by my assurance that all the myths were of a well-known pattern common to most of mankind and determined by early phases of imaginative experience which always produced the same type of delusion.

It was of no use to demonstrate to such opponents that the Vermont myths differed but little in essence from those universal legends of natural personification which filled the ancient world with fauns and dryads and satyrs, suggested the kallikanzari of modern Greece, and gave to wild Wales and Ireland their dark hints of strange, small, and terrible hidden races of troglodytes and burrowers. When I brought up this evidence, my opponents turned it against me by claiming that it must imply some actual historicity for the ancient tales; that it must argue the real existence of some queer elder earth-race, driven to hiding after the advent and dominance of mankind, which might very conceivably have survived in reduced numbers to relatively recent times—or even to the present.

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The more I laughed at such theories, the more these stubborn friends asseverated them; adding that even without the heritage of legend the recent reports were too clear, consistent, detailed, and sanely prosaic in manner of telling, to be completely ignored. Two or three fanatical extremists went so far as to hint at possible meanings in the ancient Indian tales which gave the hidden beings a non-terrestrial origin; citing the extravagant books of Charles Fort with their claims that voyagers from other worlds and outer space have often visited earth.

As was only natural under the circumstances, this piquant debating finally got into print in the form of letters to the Arkham Advertiser ; some of which were copied in the press of those Vermont regions whence the flood-stories came. By the spring of I was almost a well-known figure in Vermont, notwithstanding the fact that I had never set foot in the state.

Then came the challenging letters from Henry Akeley which impressed me so profoundly, and which took me for the first and last time to that fascinating realm of crowded green precipices and muttering forest streams.

The week in radio and podcasts: The Whisperer in Darkness; Slow Burn: Biggie and Tupac – review

Most of what I now know of Henry Wentworth Akeley was gathered by correspondence with his neighbours, and with his only son in California, after my experience in his lonely farmhouse. He was, I discovered, the last representative on his home soil of a long, locally distinguished line of jurists, administrators, and gentlemen-agriculturists.

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In him, however, the family mentally had veered away from practical affairs to pure scholarship; so that he had been a notable student of mathematics, astronomy, biology, anthropology, and folklore at the University of Vermont. I had never previously heard of him, and he did not give many autobiographical details in his communications; but from the first I saw he was a man of character, education, and intelligence, albeit a recluse with very little worldly sophistication.

Despite the incredible nature of what he claimed, I could not help at once taking Akeley more seriously than I had taken any of the other challengers of my views. For one thing, he was really close to the actual phenomena—visible and tangible—that he speculated so grotesquely about; and for another thing, he was amazingly willing to leave his conclusions in a tentative state like a true man of science. He had no personal preferences to advance, and was always guided by what he took to be solid evidence.

Of course I began by considering him mistaken, but gave him credit for being intelligently mistaken; and at no time did I emulate some of his friends in attributing his ideas, and his fear of the lonely green hills, to insanity.