Narrators of all genders, identities, and backgrounds welcome.

This anthology features 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.

Please audition with the following excerpt:

Finally alone, I stand over the locked glass case containing Randy’s typewriter, another Underwood model 11 on a cart nearby. I’d painstakingly filed off the serial number from the left interior wall of the imposter machine and spent weeks carving the new number, CL-0112666-US and chemically aging the surface back to a perfect patina. No one would notice the difference, at least not anytime soon. I’d be long gone before the next scheduled cleaning of Randy’s infamous machine.

In the minimal security lighting of the museum hallways, the typewriter is unusually ominous. The multiple angles of the display lighting do not pierce the shadows beneath the round keys or the skeleton cage typebars and arms. I know nothing is there, but I feel eyes looking up at me with hunger, much like Randy looking into the machine in all the photos.

I punch in the code on the keypad on the side of the display’s pedestal and lift the glass cover. It was quiet before, but the instance the cover is off, the silence is heavier, invasive. Maybe the HVAC system switched off at that precise moment, removing that final touch of white noise constantly haunting empty rooms. Either way, it is eerie. I hold my breath, afraid to intrude on the silence as I listen deep for any hint of what I feel is watching.

“Time to get this done then live the good life on the beaches of Mexico,” my voice cuts through the room as I reach for the sides of Randy’s machine. Only me to hear. Not even a recording. I’d planned a malfunction of the cameras for this half of the building, which I would conveniently notice before the end of my shift and note in the security logs.