NOCTURNAL TRANSMISSIONS : dark tales, both old and new, performed by voice artist Kristin Holland
Jun 17, 2026 · 23 min · 6 segments
Where there’ s a will, there’s a way… NOCTURNAL TRANSMISSIONS is proud to present: Livia E. De Souza’s ‘The Executor’ --- NOCTURNAL TRANSMISSIONS is a fortnightly podcast featuring inspired…
They may have been only one stool apart, but there was a potency to the intervening space.
The room was dimly lit, and the thrum of the sparse crowd trickled to fill those stretches of silence which had grown to overtake the pair since their brief introduction.
Henry took a sip of his cheap whiskey and drummed his fingers on the rectangular box which sat on the worn bar.
So the old bastard finally died, did he? Henry asked, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the feeble ambient noise.
The man in the glasses nodded, straightening the crooked spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
He looked as though he wanted to clean the lenses, but thought better of taking them off.
My instructions were merely to find you and deliver what was mentioned in the will.
He was hardly one to savour the unknown, but it seemed somehow improper to rush toward this gift with the open hands of a child.
Do you know what it is? The man in the glasses asked, shifting his barstool ever so slightly forward.
He flipped open the clasp with the back of his thumbnail and opened the box with one hand.
Henry slid the box closer to the man in the glasses, though it was hardly an interesting reveal to the latter.
It was antique bronze and had been polished recently to coax a weak shine from the sparsely set diamonds, which seemed as though they must have disappeared into the metal over the decades.
It was hard to imagine anyone taking the time or effort to insert such tragically diminutive stones.
They may have been only one stool apart, but there was a potency to the intervening space.
The room was dimly lit, and the thrum of the sparse crowd trickled to fill those stretches of silence which had grown to overtake the pair since their brief introduction.
Henry took a sip of his cheap whiskey and drummed his fingers on the rectangular box which sat on the worn bar.
So the old bastard finally died, did he? Henry asked, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the feeble ambient noise.
The man in the glasses nodded, straightening the crooked spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
He looked as though he wanted to clean the lenses, but thought better of taking them off.
My instructions were merely to find you and deliver what was mentioned in the will.
He was hardly one to savour the unknown, but it seemed somehow improper to rush toward this gift with the open hands of a child.
Do you know what it is? The man in the glasses asked, shifting his barstool ever so slightly forward.
He flipped open the clasp with the back of his thumbnail and opened the box with one hand.
Henry slid the box closer to the man in the glasses, though it was hardly an interesting reveal to the latter.
It was antique bronze and had been polished recently to coax a weak shine from the sparsely set diamonds, which seemed as though they must have disappeared into the metal over the decades.
It was hard to imagine anyone taking the time or effort to insert such tragically diminutive stones.
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