Dead Letter Bureau - Delta Green

Mark Stone as Ben Kirk from Stories & Lies. Give their recent run of God's Teeth a listen now!Max from 9MM Retirement Radio as Gavin Ross. Welcome to the Season 1 Finale.Down in a Texas pasture, a man is trying to spell his own name using a makeshift Ouija board painted on a piece of plywood. The catch? He's wearing about a thousand pounds of cowhide and hooves, and all he can do is chew the cud and wait. That's just the start of this Delta Green Actual Play nightmare.Up in a rented storage unit, a spook in a rumpled suit is making a broken man sing a very special song. It ain't the kind they play on the radio. It's a song that opens up the sky like a zipper and lets the things in—the things that made a dark, dirty deal with the men in Washington a long time ago.While the sky bleeds purple and 50-caliber bullets start tearing through the trees, a couple of survivors are trying to bury their mistakes under a few feet of topsoil and a whole lot of bureaucratic red tape. It all ends in the tomb of a dead mall, staring down the barrel of a Benelli shotgun, and a vow of vengeance spoken over a satellite phone. If you like your Lovecraftian TTRPGs with a side of small-town dread, you're in the right place.CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

The Handler returns, wearing surgical booties and carrying a silencer, turning a motel room into an interrogation cell. The hierarchy is re-established not with paperwork, but with the cold logic of a predator corralling its prey.In this psychological Delta Green Actual Play, the bond between agents dissolves into paranoia. One is whisked away to a storage unit to teach a madman a song that breaks reality, while another stands under a hot shower and watches her own flesh disassemble a lead slug atom by atom. The Fixer secures her place in the food chain, and we learn that in the world of the unnatural, survival is just a matter of who you're willing to sell out first.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Gavin Ross, played by Max of 9mm Retirement Radio.In the battle to become the best Delta Green podcast for deep conspiracy and visceral horror. We open in the sterile halls of power, where the "Architects" trade human lives for the keys to the kingdom and apologies are made in burn bags. Back in the sweltering present, the survivors of the bunker face a new kind of predator: a woman in a pantsuit with a smile like a foxglove and a glovebox full of incriminating photos.In this high-stakes Delta Green Actual Play, a tire is blown, a gun is drawn, and a fragile alliance is forged over the shared currency of secrets hidden in toilet tanks. We learn that you can’t expose a sickness that has infected the surgeon, and sometimes, the only way out of town is to let the stranger drive. Tune in for the ultimate Lovecraftian TTRPG experience.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

We step away from the blood and into the light of a new day, where the monsters wear pantsuits and carry skeleton keys. A letter taped to the underside of a porcelain throne becomes a testament to a legacy of madness. In the chemical dark of a development room, the truth is exposed frame by frame: the geometry of the impossible caught on Kodak.While a lost soul screams silently behind the flat, black eyes of a grazing beast, trapped in a prison of leather and instinct, a trap is baited with cheese, crackers, and Southern hospitality. The clean-up crew has arrived, and they are prepared to bury the secrets that the swamp refused to swallow.CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

We descend into the cold earth to read the ledger of our own betrayal. In a room smelling of ozone and old blood, the paper trail proves that the monsters we fight were invited in by the hands that feed us.There are fates worse than death; there is the silence of the jar, and there is the thunderous, dull rhythm of a heart that is not your own. While one soul is exiled into a fortress of leather and chewing cud, staring blankly at the stars, the survivors below uncover the architecture of a fifteen-year lie.CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Read by Max of 9MM Retirement Radio. The Cats of UltharBy H. P. LovecraftIt is said that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, no man may kill a cat; and this I can verily believe as I gaze upon him who sitteth purring before the fire. For the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men cannot see. He is the soul of antique Aegyptus, and bearer of tales from forgotten cities in Meroë and Ophir. He is the kin of the jungle’s lords, and heir to the secrets of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks her language; but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers that which she hath forgotten.In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbours. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is all cats first came.One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams, and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a head-dress with two horns and a curious disc betwixt the horns.There was in this singular caravan a little boy with no father or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to cherish. The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very young, one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called Menes smiled more often than he wept as he sate playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.On the third morning of the wanderers’ stay in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten; and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand; though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things; of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked discs. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative.That night the wanderers left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each hearth the familiar cat had vanished; cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow, and white. Old Kranon, the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk had taken the cats away in revenge for the killing of Menes’ kitten; and cursed the caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the lean notary, declared that the old cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect; for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain to the sinister couple; even when little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, vowed that he had at twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that accursed yard under the trees, pacing very slowly and solemnly in a circle around the cottage, two abreast, as if in performance of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers did not know how much to believe from so small a boy; and though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard.So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger; and when the people awaked at dawn—behold! every cat was back at his accustomed hearth! Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow, and white, none was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair, and marvelled not a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing: that the refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious. And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze by the fire or in the sun.It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean Nith remarked that no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgomaster decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though in so doing he was careful to take with him Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of stone as witnesses. And when they had broken down the frail door they found only this: two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy corners.There was subsequently much talk among the burgesses of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as reward. They talked of the old cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small Menes and his black kitten, of the prayer of Menes and of the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night the caravan left, and of what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard.And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travellers in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat.

Gavin Ross, played by Max of 9mm Retirement Radio.Some debts aren't paid in cash, and some secrets aren't buried deep enough. The sun rises on a cabin in the swamp, but the morning light only illuminates the cracks in the team's trust. A shared breakfast turns into a confrontation, and a ritual intended for liberation summons something far worse than judgment. When the sky tears open and the payment comes due, we learn that the cost of knowledge is always flesh, and the only thing heavier than a weapon is the weight of a friend you couldn't save.CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

There are lies we tell with our tongues, and there are lies we tell with our bodies—dragging ourselves through the mud to feign a salvation we do not deserve. Inside the sanctuary, the laws of biology have been repealed. A feverish hunger demands a sacrament of brass and fire, a hot casing swallowed to silence the singing in the veins. We peel back the skin of the mission to find the rot of betrayal waiting in a fifteen-year-old photograph. The healer descends into the earth to sleep, leaving the patients to wonder if the cure is simply a slower, heavier form of death.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Read by Jordan Written by Nick Sayers Memory is a complex thing. Do you remember something, or do you remember someone telling you about the thing? And does it matter? I don’t think anyone told me about these memories. Some things carry a weight that is hard to shrug off.Like any true American horror story, it starts off in healthcare. My mother had colitis. Colon cancer.My dad would drop my sister and me off at our great-grandma's and disappear for hours or days. We’d play Uno, watch black-and-white TV reruns, and play with Legos. I still remember the texture of her carpet on my feet. When I close my eyes, I can smell the cheap pizzas she would cook for us. No one told me those memories; they are mine.My great-grandmother took us to church every Sunday, which was a nice break from her one-bedroom apartment. She’d feed us breath mints in the pews to keep us quiet while the service happened. Years later, I’d help carry her coffin between those same pews. She was the first loss in my life. My mother almost took that ribbon instead.Sometimes my dad would take us up to Seattle while my mom was in the hospital. The visits before her surgery were the peaceful ones. She’d try to put on a smile, give me a bedside hug, and do her best to talk to me. To a young child, it was all confusing. My parents explained they had to cut out a bunch of her stomach parts and fuse other parts together.After the surgery, it was the first horrific scene. I was allowed to visit. My mother, who kissed my head, yelled at me when I did something stupid, and held on to me every day, had monstrous tubes going into her nose. They were long and snake-like. I couldn’t believe it was her with such serpentine plastics haunting her nasal canals. She tried to speak, and it sounded like a demonic perversion of my mother. As a child, I wondered if she’d be like this forever. I am sure it felt like forever to her. Seeing her sitting up in this alien, sterile, and gloomy place haunted my dreams for years. The most haunting moment was a day my dad ushered me out of the room so I didn’t have to bear witness to her pain. Too much for a child. And too late for me, because I was a witness.My mom was groaning strangely. It was like an animal. What transformation had she undergone? My dad stood up and tried to speak to her, but the groaning persisted. Her head flung back, the tubes a mockery of human biology, still hung from her place, going to an unknowable location. She made a guttural screech and a strange croak. A witch turned toad? My imagination had so many explanations, but the reality was, well, worse. She started to throw up. Those incomprehensible tubes in her body were a bypass from her throat. As my mother started to turn into a shrieking animal, a strange, colored, viscous mix started to fill the tubes, as her vomit forced her liquid diet out of the feeding tube. I was dumbfounded, chin ajar, frozen. My dad said something like “Okay.” Then ushered me out of the room. As we walked down the hall, I could hear this creature that used to be my mom wretching over and over again. Surely, she was going to die, I thought. I am assuming she wished she had just died in that moment.When you realize your parents are just human like other people, your childhood irrevocably changes. That person you rely on to regulate you, hold you, protect you, is not a god. They are not immune. They are susceptible to all sorts of horror that comes from cell anomalies and genetic hauntings. Selfishly, I never wanted to see her like that. I wanted her to live forever. For if she can die, so could I. Selfish childhood thoughts in hindsight, but a profound paradigm shift at the time.Days. Weeks. I’m not sure. We were back. My mother was pumped full of drugs. She lay on her side, maybe to avoid vomiting through her feeding tubes. This was the first time I saw what the butchers had done to her. A massive cut in her stomach smiled at me from cracks in her hospital gown. It was a mocking smile. The doctors truly butchered her body. The split in her was held together by thick staples. A sheen of plastic tape ran down it, reflecting the unnatural light with every shift in her broken body. I imagined they spilled her out for the surgery, everything in her slopping onto a metal table, where they continued their mockery of her flesh, carving out bits of her they wanted, dropping pieces of her on sterile trays. When it was all over, they had to put her back together like a puzzle. Their gloves and masks were covered in blood as indistinguishable chatter between them buzzed around the room. The butchers weren’t good at puzzles, so they put things back wrong, which is why she was changed; she wasn’t my mother in that bed. They made her anew, not a rebirth, but a strange amalgamation of what she once was. I hated them.I wanted my dad to hate them, too. He spoke to the butchers in hushed tones, like some conspiracy. Worry was always etched on his face. He’d sit cross-legged looking out at the gloomy Seattle sky for eons, while I sat next to him. He knew it was too much for me to be there sometimes. He’d buy me candy and soda from the vending machines.One day, he bought me Rolos, one of my childhood favorites. I’d rip off the paper, then delicately pull the golden foil off each cylinder of chocolate and caramel, enjoying more than just the candy. I noticed there was a hole in the top of one of the Rolos. I showed it to my dad. He took it from me with a serious face.“It might be poisoned.”I believed him. He then threw it in his mouth, and I was scared for him. “Here, give me another one," he said.He showed me a hole in that one, too. Why was he eating them? “I’ll make sure there is no poison in them.” After a third, he rubbed my head and told me they were probably safe to eat, so I ate them. They had to be safe. It wasn’t the years of medical debt my parents struggled to pay, the selling of a business, or settling for a lower-paying job that I’m sure tore my dad apart inside. No, it was the poisoned Rolos that stayed with me.Years later, I realized he just wanted some of my Rolos.

Special guests: Gwen and Wyatt. Human throats cannot sing some songs, melodies that require the snapping of bone and the reshaping of the soul to articulate truly. We find ourselves at the intersection of medicine and monstrosity, where a dying man seeks a cure in the geometry of the unnatural. To survive the swamp is to accept its infection. A pact has been offered in the static. A hollow jar waiting to be filled, a tapestry demanding one final, terrible thread. The lines between the healer, the patient, and the disease have dissolved. What remains is only the hunger for a heavy metal communion and the terrifying realization that the only way out of the labyrinth of the flesh is to shed it entirely. Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

In this episode of Dead Letter Bureau, the hosts introduce Delta Green and guide new players through gameplay mechanics. The narrative unfolds as players explore a dark and mysterious world filled with moral dilemmas and unexpected twists. The story follows two characters, Barone and Emmett, as they navigate a series of investigations, uncovering secrets and facing challenges. The atmosphere is thick with tension, and the players must work together to solve the mysteries that lie ahead. As they navigate through the horrors of the past, they grapple with their sanity and the moral implications of their actions. Cast and CrewNick Sayers... Handler, and EditorZach... Agent EmmetRyan... Agent BaroneListen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Silas played by Caius of 9MM Retirement Radio. The night is thick with the promise of violence and the fellowship is broken in the dark. One man speaks a forbidden tongue to the uncaring stars and is answered by a terrible birth. Another is broken and carried bleeding to a house of false sanctuary where a doctor with a crooked spine offers a salvation made of mercury and pain. The blood is spilled and the metal is swallowed and the road narrows to a single point of suffering. Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Read and performed by Max from 9mm Retirement Radio, go give them a listen now!Nyarlathotep By H. P. LovecraftNyarlathotep . . . the crawling chaos . . . I am the last . . . I will tell the audient void. . . .I do not recall distinctly when it began, but it was months ago. The general tension was horrible. To a season of political and social upheaval was added a strange and brooding apprehension of hideous physical danger; a danger widespread and all-embracing, such a danger as may be imagined only in the most terrible phantasms of the night. I recall that the people went about with pale and worried faces, and whispered warnings and prophecies which no one dared consciously repeat or acknowledge to himself that he had heard. A sense of monstrous guilt was upon the land, and out of the abysses between the stars swept chill currents that made men shiver in dark and lonely places. There was a daemoniac alteration in the sequence of the seasons—the autumn heat lingered fearsomely, and everyone felt that the world and perhaps the universe had passed from the control of known gods or forces to that of gods or forces which were unknown.And it was then that Nyarlathotep came out of Egypt. Who he was, none could tell, but he was of the old native blood and looked like a Pharaoh. The fellahin knelt when they saw him, yet could not say why. He said he had risen up out of the blackness of twenty-seven centuries, and that he had heard messages from places not on this planet. Into the lands of civilisation came Nyarlathotep, swarthy, slender, and sinister, always buying strange instruments of glass and metal and combining them into instruments yet stranger. He spoke much of the sciences—of electricity and psychology—and gave exhibitions of power which sent his spectators away speechless, yet which swelled his fame to exceeding magnitude. Men advised one another to see Nyarlathotep, and shuddered. And where Nyarlathotep went, rest vanished; for the small hours were rent with the screams of nightmare. Never before had the screams of nightmare been such a public problem; now the wise men almost wished they could forbid sleep in the small hours, that the shrieks of cities might less horribly disturb the pale, pitying moon as it glimmered on green waters gliding under bridges, and old steeples crumbling against a sickly sky.I remember when Nyarlathotep came to my city—the great, the old, the terrible city of unnumbered crimes. My friend had told me of him, and of the impelling fascination and allurement of his revelations, and I burned with eagerness to explore his uttermost mysteries. My friend said they were horrible and impressive beyond my most fevered imaginings; that what was thrown on a screen in the darkened room prophesied things none but Nyarlathotep dared prophesy, and that in the sputter of his sparks there was taken from men that which had never been taken before yet which shewed only in the eyes. And I heard it hinted abroad that those who knew Nyarlathotep looked on sights which others saw not.It was in the hot autumn that I went through the night with the restless crowds to see Nyarlathotep; through the stifling night and up the endless stairs into the choking room. And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. And I saw the world battling against blackness; against the waves of destruction from ultimate space; whirling, churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Then the sparks played amazingly around the heads of the spectators, and hair stood up on end whilst shadows more grotesque than I can tell came out and squatted on the heads. And when I, who was colder and more scientific than the rest, mumbled a trembling protest about “imposture” and “static electricity”, Nyarlathotep drave us all out, down the dizzy stairs into the damp, hot, deserted midnight streets. I screamed aloud that I was not afraid; that I never could be afraid; and others screamed with me for solace. We sware to one another that the city was exactly the same, and still alive; and when the electric lights began to fade we cursed the company over and over again, and laughed at the queer faces we made.I believe we felt something coming down from the greenish moon, for when we began to depend on its light we drifted into curious involuntary formations and seemed to know our destinations though we dared not think of them. Once we looked at the pavement and found the blocks loose and displaced by grass, with scarce a line of rusted metal to shew where the tramways had run. And again we saw a tram-car, lone, windowless, dilapidated, and almost on its side. When we gazed around the horizon, we could not find the third tower by the river, and noticed that the silhouette of the second tower was ragged at the top. Then we split up into narrow columns, each of which seemed drawn in a different direction. One disappeared in a narrow alley to the left, leaving only the echo of a shocking moan. Another filed down a weed-choked subway entrance, howling with a laughter that was mad. My own column was sucked toward the open country, and presently felt a chill which was not of the hot autumn; for as we stalked out on the dark moor, we beheld around us the hellish moon-glitter of evil snows. Trackless, inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, where lay a gulf all the blacker for its glittering walls. The column seemed very thin indeed as it plodded dreamily into the gulf. I lingered behind, for the black rift in the green-litten snow was frightful, and I thought I had heard the reverberations of a disquieting wail as my companions vanished; but my power to linger was slight. As if beckoned by those who had gone before, I half floated between the titanic snowdrifts, quivering and afraid, into the sightless vortex of the unimaginable.Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things; half-seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness. And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening beating of drums, and thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic, tenebrous ultimate gods—the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul is Nyarlathotep.

Read by Bill Rafferty (billrafferty5811) Ex Oblivione By H. P. Lovecraft When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victim’s body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours, and undying roses.And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples. And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein.After a while, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return.So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.Some of the dream-sages wrote gorgeously of the wonders beyond the irrepassable gate, but others told of horror and disappointment. I knew not which to believe, yet longed more and more to cross forever into the unknown land; for doubt and secrecy are the lure of lures, and no new horror can be more terrible than the daily torture of the commonplace. So when I learned of the drug which would unlock the gate and drive me through, I resolved to take it when next I awaked.Last night I swallowed the drug and floated dreamily into the golden valley and the shadowy groves; and when I came this time to the antique wall, I saw that the small gate of bronze was ajar. From beyond came a glow that weirdly lit the giant twisted trees and the tops of the buried temples, and I drifted on songfully, expectant of the glories of the land from whence I should never return.But as the gate swung wider and the sorcery of drug and dream pushed me through, I knew that all sights and glories were at an end; for in that new realm was neither land nor sea, but only the white void of unpeopled and illimitable space. So, happier than I had ever dared hoped to be, I dissolved again into that native infinity of crystal oblivion from which the daemon Life had called me for one brief and desolate hour.

They went looking for answers in the dark, but the darkness was already inside them. A seemingly mundane dinner quickly turns peculiar when one agent develops a disturbing appetite. Following this unsettling omen, the team attempts a low-profile night mission into the local swamp, seeking signs of the strange gatherings they previously uncovered. The truth is out there, but this time, it came with teeth.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Dr. Thorne, played by Liv from Sorry, Honey, I Have To Take This. The agents find a fragile sanctuary at a decaying roadside motel, but the swamp's influence has followed them. While one agent tends to a festering, unnatural wound, another's mind begins to fray, consumed by a new, frantic obsession with the artifacts recovered from the bog. Paranoia takes root as they analyze their grim trophies—a severed finger, an ancient text, and a mummified brain in a sealed, alien cylinder. As they await a mysterious runner and plan their return to the black water, a tense confrontation at a lonely mailbox proves the true enemy may already be inside the room.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Stolen Dreams by Loluan/Lukas of 9MM Retirement Radio. The leaves made a crunchy sound as they cracked under my boot. The sound cut deep into the surrounding night and felt as unnatural as what we pursued. With baited breath, we moved forward, trying to calm our nerves. It was only the two of us, me and Agent Serena, and we both felt as if we weren’t up for the task.Our shaky hands held the submachine guns as we moved ever closer to our target, our sounds masked by the running river close by and in the cover of the night, which only the moon dared to break up when the clouds stopped harassing it.It has already be en two weeks since we entered this village hidden from the world behind old trees and located right where the river looped. If we hadn’t been there on an assignment, I would have called it beautiful, but something was not right here.We noticed the moment we set foot into it: Everything felt wrongly colored. The trees moving in the wind didn’t produce any sounds besides their creaks, which sounded like cries against the ever-changing world around them. The grass felt dry, and for every step, I held my breath, fearing it would cut my skin once it came in contact.The first few days went by fast. We mainly stayed on the outskirts of town to stake out everything. We saw who lived their lives and where they remained during the day and night, and found out their rhythm. See who didn’t belong and felt as wrong as the whole thing.Lastly, we moved closer, deeper into this town.The orders we got were clear. Carpenter told us about a defective scientist who got cold feet. There was also something about a facility amid these huts and shelters that calls itself a village. They seemingly told just enough to get Carpenter's attention, but not enough for us to know what was happening.Some branch of the government seemed to be conducting experiments, and here was all we were told. Find out what it was, get the scientist out of there alive, so they can tell us what the fuck is going on, and stop all of this.They made it sound simple.The second night was when I felt it for the first time. Serena took the night and continued to watch while I lay down, tossing and turning. The little barn we had hidden ourselves in didn’t grant the luxury of a comfortable bed, so we collected the old hay together and improvised some beds.The hay always pricked me with every move, but dug into my back once I started to lie still. But for a bit, it all made sense. While I layed there trying to sleep, everything felt as if two images of this world had been perfectly superimposed on each other.The wrong colors vanished, and all sound felt as if it started to hit the exact frequency my brain had always longed for. It felt as if I had achieved everything I had always wanted.Serena woke me up roughly and commented something about having the best sleep of my life, but I didn’t even listen as she told me about her findings during her watch. I was still there, or rather, I wanted to stay there. I was clawing at this reality that felt so wrong.The next days only made it worse. They went by in a haze as I always longed for sleep again. The moment of absolute serenity always felt further away, as if it was slipping through my fingers every time I got ahold of it.Serena must feel it too; she never overslept, but waking her felt harder every day.We knew we had to do something.When the fifth day rolled around,, we were sure who lived here and who was outside personnel.We just recognized the looks, the dissociated look that goes through everyone they met, the short hours of activity and the long hours of silence that fell over the town.We saw their parched bodies because they slept more and more and ignored every other thing their body needed, they had been doing it for months probably.We understood.The outside personnel were easy to spot for the fact that they never stayed for longer than 24 hours at a time and always came in after staying away for at least that long.Always moving in with some that looked like scientists and at least two or three spooks, probably something federal, no badges, uniforms or openly carrying weapons but we just knew they were here to watch for any outside interference. They waited for us.We noticed changes during the second week. We felt a pulse as if something was dragging us down, our brains through the mud playing with our senses, and we grew tired with every pulse.If Serena hadn’t brought some amphetamines, we probably would have been fast asleep. I swore to myself to never take that shit again after our last operation which almost got me addicted to that shit.So there we were, craving completion but refusing to fall asleep while the pulse echoed through the town. They were doing something more, and the experiment moved into a testing phase.While we didn’t fall asleep, it still felt good, as if the pulse had sent a part of us to sleep, the world was whole once again, but we knew we needed to finish this operation or otherwise we would not be leaving here, ever again.I do hate myself for not staying.We waited for them to leave town again and prepared everything. It took us some time to notice that we were both crying while assembling the cold metal. It felt as if we were holding a sledgehammer, preparing to smash the only trophy we had ever gotten.Serena opened first. She told me that every time she falls asleep here, she continues this long dance with her husband, who was gunned down two years ago. Every time she closed her eyes, a big piece of her life's puzzle fell into place.I told her that for me it felt as if this hostile world calmed down, I took in more than I ever knew existed and we both talked. This could be the last time.Protected by the night we arrived, the crunchy leaves already long behind us, we saw the slightly illuminated entrance to a house just on the outskirts of the little town. One of the spooks stood in front smoking.As if we already knew where to step, our feet continued to move forward.I don’t remember how he even died. I remember the splats on the wall behind him, a deep red mixed with gray matter streaking down the wall and I could swear the face inside of the splat was smiling at me.The next two also fell fast. As we moved down the metal steps into a basement that must have been built new, they stood there with their backs turned towards us.A single moment later, two more faces smiled upon me, staring out of deep red stains on the concrete walls. We felt good, and the closer we moved, the stronger we felt connected to how the world really was. We could feel the concrete breath beside us, the souls of those we had left behind rejoicing in their freedom now that they had left the small confinement they had been stuffed into when coming to this world.All the euphoria crashed once we entered the final room.We found the source of what we thought would be salvation. We thought we found what could make the world breathe again and be filled with all the right colours.I stood there watching as Serena started hitting the scientist, who screams something about protection and a deal. She said she had to do it.But none of it made sense to me. Now, as I stood so close to what I felt would right the wrongs in my world, it did the opposite.I started crying, and not even the scientist's happy soul could calm me down as I turned her head into a happy spray of red and gray.How could I be happy when the child in front of me was hooked up to a machine, inducing a coma to let them sleep until.. I don’t know till when.Serena found some notes. They wanted this as a weapon, the innocence of a child, the lush colours, and the right sounds. Everything I had been craving was the innocent view of this world that this dreaming child had.Projecting his hopes for a wonderful world outside onto us as it lay here, dreaming of a life it never had.We knew what had to be done, but I couldn’t do it. As much as I knew, I just could not bring myself to do it.Serena ushered me out, something about telling the superiors.I knew she would finish this.I knew I wouldn’t see her after this.The last two shots that rang out were among the loudest I've ever felt.It has been months since then. I feel like a part of me was left under this city, hidden in a concrete and steel basement. My dreams got stolen, just like the child's time.I just hope we did the right thing in stopping their experiments so they can no longer inflict this on someone.What is a small part of me in exchange for so many others who never need to experience this?Tonight, I will sleep well. I bought every sleeping pill I could. Carpenter’s been calling. He will find my report once they check up on me.But today I hope I can dream one last time.

By Caleb Stokes Read by Fae Kells The following is the first chapter of Performance, a novel set in the world of Red Markets: A Game of Economic Horror. Purchase the entire novel! When the tired joke of the zombie apocalypse clawed its way out of the subconscious and into terrifying reality, society's cultural obsession killed as many as it saved. After the chaos finally subsided, the apocalypse ended up unevenly distributed... just like everything else. The world is now more divided than ever: haves and have-nots, living and dead, The Recession and The Loss. It's a world ruled by the Red Market, where supernatural terrors born of nightmare join forces with the inexorable pressures of undying capitalism.  Nickel, Bloom, Dono, and Bait, four strangers barely surviving in the shadow of the system, find their grim futures cut short as an undead terror shakes the foundations of their dystopian reality. As the Crash leaves them even more marginalized and dispossessed, they must join together as a crew of Takers, mercenary entrepreneurs risking their bodies and souls to trade between the monstrous wasteland and a civilization that abandoned them. Even as their shared trauma insists they find a new family in their co-workers, the market demands they profit from each other's suffering. Can the crew survive the snapping teeth of the hordes, the strangling hands of the market, and the madness inspired by their never-ending struggle against both?  Performance is a novel set in the world of the Red Markets RPG by Hebanon Games. For more information, visit redmarketsrpg.com

Drawn by the memory of an unholy hymn and an impossible craft seen at sunrise, the agents push deeper into the swamp's suffocating gloom. Their pursuit leads them to a site of recent ritual, where a trail of degenerate, human-like tracks disappears into the black water. When the agents brave the murky depths, the swamp does not give up its secrets.CastNick Sayers... Writer, Handler, and EditorKristina... Agent RyanRyan... Agent BaroneJordan... Agent DelPodcast art by Studio JanieMusic and Sound Effects from Envato.Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/576NbWAEm1uOBDxlW1F4Os?si=c7228e49ddb94035Listen on Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/dead-letter-bureau-delta-green/id1826992923Find us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@deadletterbureau Find transcripts: https://dead-letter-bureau.captivate.fm/Talk to us on Discord: https://discord.gg/2RFYaWHm33Here are some other shows we love! Search them up.9mm Retirement RadioRPG ReanimatorsBlack FlareHand on the DoorSorry, Honey, I Have to Take ThisStories and LiesThis Line Isn't SecurePublished by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this podcast are ©Nick Sayers, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

Written by Rhys Aled Owen Read by Ryan Murphy Check more of Ryhs work on his SolumProtocol Substack.