Howls From the Dark Ages
Project Overview
We are no longer listening to auditions. All selections have been made, and chosen narrators can expect to be contacted within the next couple of days (--edited 5 February 2022).
Set for release on 12 May 2022, HOWL Society Press presents Howls From the Dark Ages, a horror anthology with 18 thrilling tales of medieval macabre and a foreword by Christopher Buehlman, author of Between Two Fires.
We are searching for audiobook narrators for the following stories that on average range from 3000-6000 words. While this is a community passion project and we already have several volunteers for a few stories, we are reaching out to the public for audiobook narrators who can help us cover all 18 stories. Because of our limited funding for this project, the best rate we can offer is $25 per finished story. Each completed file must meet the Audible ACX requirements for publication, as this audiobook will be distributed on all major platforms.
Stories:
Foreword by Christopher Buehlman
"The Fourth Scene" by Brian Evenson
"In Thrall to This Good Earth" by Hailey Piper
"The Mouth of Hell" by Cody Goodfellow
"A Dowry For Your Hand" by Michelle Tang
"The King of Youth vs. The Knight of Death" by Patrick Barb
"In Every Drop" by Lindsey Ragsdale
"The Final Book of Sainte Foy's Miracles" by M.E. Bronstein
"Palette" by J.L. Kiefer
"The Lady of Leer Castle" by Christopher O'Halloran
"Angelus" by Philippa Evans
"The Lai of the Danse Macabre" by Jessica Peter
"Schizarre" by Bridget D. Brave
"A Dark Quadrivium" by David Worn
"Brother Cornelius" by Peter Ong Cook
"The Forgotten Valley" by C.B. Jones
"Deus Vult" by Ethan Yoder
"White Owl" by Stevie Edwards
"The Crowing" by Caleb Stephens
Edited by P.L. McMillan and Solomon Forse
When you are logged in, you can comment, add submissions, create projects, upvote, search open roles, and way more. Login here.
In this scene, a teenager (gender never specified) in medieval France develops an unhealthy relationship with Sainte Foy, whose spirit they chase through the woods before encountering a ruffian.
As a reminder, this is an anthology of dark fiction, so we want to hear your ability to guide the listener's emotions--whether the appropriate emotion is dread, shock, horror, terror, or disgust.
I gave chase. Just ahead, leaves and pine needles broke beneath her footfalls as her laughter simmered through the shadows and dense summer air. But I was growing old and unaccustomed to children’s games and their ridiculous chases. My breath grew labored, louder than her laughter, and soon I lost the sound of her; she was concealed by my own body’s complaints, my joints crying out, my loquacious heartbeat. I came to a halt, bent and breathed. I listened, heard nothing but the usual sounds of the night: crickets, owls, wind. Perhaps she had been one of those apparitions that sometimes manifest between sleep and waking.
I returned to the meadow, defeated anew.
And there I found new company. Company I had most definitely not dreamed into being. A large man in a cloak was untying my mule, who stamped and snorted, alarmed by the unfamiliar presence.
I limped toward him, one knee reluctant to bear my weight. I cried out, hoped he might take pity.
“Please,” I said.
A slice of silver spilled out of his cloak and directed itself at me.
I ought to have turned and run then. I continued toward him instead. I tripped and collapsed at his feet, where I clutched at his cloak and begged.
“Please,” I said again, “leave me this sole means of conveyance—I have no coin, no means of returning to my home otherwise—”
“You talk too much,” said the man. The cold edge of his dagger pressed against the tender span of flesh above my collarbone—which felt taught as a drum’s skin, ready to break. And to make noise.
I cried out for help, again and again, and the knife slipped. The cloaked man gripped it more tightly and plunged it into my throat.
This scene features two young monks who discover a hidden room when tasked with cleaning the lower levels of a medieval monastery.
Unlike Sample 1, this scene includes a slight layer of humor juxtaposed with the unsettling atmosphere, and we'd like to hear narrators who can nail both aspects.
They pulled the edge of the bookcase. Brass trumpets clamored to the granite floor in a cloud of dust. They were so deep beneath the surface that nobody would hear the noise.
Ronald crept forward into the chamber lantern first, its stone corners hidden by shadow. The room was already dimly lit by an unusual red lantern. An angular silhouette sat at a desk before him.
Kevin began chanting his plainsong.
“Quiet,” Ronald whispered.
“You know I sing when I’m nervous,” Kevin replied.
“You sing when you’re nervous, sing when you’re relaxed, sing during quietude, sing during loudness. Prithee, silence.” He wondered how a person performing Gregorian chants, which were practically hummed in monotonous flat tones, could sing off-key. The sound of flatulence was preferable.
Raising his lantern, Ronald shuddered. The light shone on a robed man who sat hunched so low he looked headless. “Pardon me for disturbing you, my brother,” said Ronald. He held his breath, turning his head to see Kevin shrug and mouth the words “where is the wine?”
He tapped the man’s shoulder, bones beneath threadbare robes. The tang of rot lingered, like a rat left in its trap so long it was no more than a matted husk. The hairs on Ronald’s arms stood on end. He took a shallow breath. “Are you well?”
The body shifted forward like collapsing scaffolding, sending the stagnant air swirling in crimson-tinted particles. The body exhaled, “Oooaauuugh.”
Ronald gasped, turned, yanking Kevin from the room by his gray hood and shoving the bookshelf door closed, more musical instruments clattering to the floor.
Kevin panted as they reached the ground level. “Gads,” he said, tugging on Ronald’s sleeve. “Ronald. We forgot to ask him if he knew where the wine was.”
This scene features an interaction between a mother and her daughter as they try to survive among the remnants of a Mayan village recently wiped out by a dangerous creature.
We'd like to hear narrators who can not only render compelling voices for both characters but capture the mother's attempt to remain positive and nurturing toward her daughter despite the pain of having to hide the truth about her husband's death.
Izel clutched my fingers in her sweaty little fist. The only sounds in our hut were her panting in the heat and our mattress of rushes softly rustling any time one of us would turn over. “Mama,” she whispered. Her breath was like hot sand against my face. “Is there water?”
“Not yet, tum,” I whispered. My love. I stroked her hair with one hand and tucked a moist curl behind her ear. It was stifling inside, despite the darkness that surrounded us.
I didn’t want to think about how warm the next day would be, as the sun-god K’inich Ajaw climbed higher and higher into the sky. We just had to wait. Wait like we had the past several days, rats in a trap. Wait for the hunter to set them free.
“Just a little longer. Why don’t you play with your toys?” I didn’t even suggest trying to slumber. The heat hung inside our hut like thick animal hides pressing down from all sides. Sleep was impossible. Izel pouted, but rolled over and picked up her menagerie of little clay animals.
“Mama, when is Papa back?”
“He is still gone, looking for help,” I lied.
“When is he coming home?”
“Any day now, tum.”
He was already home. I’d buried him, or the bones and ragged scraps of carcass that were left of his body, in the garden while Izel was asleep, days earlier. The sun dried my tears to salt tracks as I scrabbled in the dirt with my bare hands, grieving with gritted teeth to keep my hysterical screams from spilling out. I could never tell Izel what happened to her father.
This scene features a veteran crusader knight struggling to make progress on his journey due to the severe weather and landscape.
We'd like to hear narrators who can capture the dark, rugged atmosphere and the character's frustration with his situation.
The beast trudged through the wet earth, straining with each step to pull its hooves out of the fetid muck. From France to the Seljuk-occupied holy land and back again, the horse had dutifully carried its master. But now, so close to home, it could not bring itself to listen to a single command more. Sheets of freezing rain reflected the last remnants of sickly green twilight. The beast's rider attempted to will it onward, but his sharp kicks to its ribs were met only with the slapping sound of boot on hide. The rider dismounted and pulled at the reins, grinding the bridle into the chapped flesh of the horse's mouth. In return, the horse planted its hooves further into the dreck.
The surcoat that covered the knight's mail absorbed the rain like a sponge, each drop of water a tiny hammer blow driving him further into the liquid soil. At the start of his journey the coat had been a vibrant blue, marked by delicately sewn fleurs-de-lis of yellow. It was an elegant signifier of both dogma and privilege, but as months turned to years, the coat became tattered by the blowing desert sand and discolored by the blood of the dead. Now, as his journey neared its end, somewhere near the border of his home land, covered in mud and sopping wet, the coat didn’t signify a damned thing.
The knight gritted his teeth and pulled the reins with both hands as hard as he could.
"Move, you bastard!"
His shoulders throbbed, the muscles clenching and bunching into agonizing sheets of granite below his neck. Then, like a bolt fired from a crossbow, a stabbing pain tore through his right hand and up his arm. The jolt of it forced him to release the leather strap and he fell backwards, splashing with a thud into the ice cold mud.
Comments
Public Submissions
