PodCastle 871: Homes for the Holidays
* Authors : Heather Shaw and Tim Pratt * Narrator : Alasdair Stuart * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Devin Martin * Discuss on Forums PodCastle 871: Homes for the Holidays is a PodCastle original. Rated PG-13 This episode is dedicated in loving memory of Orion Adey (October 4, 1989 — September 28, 2023) Homes for the Holidays by Heather Shaw & Tim Pratt I stood on the slumlord’s doorstep and took a deep breath — one of the last I would take in this body, which had served me well despite being treated badly. It’s not the body I was born with — I don’t think I started with a body at all. I don’t know what I am, or where I come from, just that I need a human body to host my own consciousness. My current body wasn’t totally worn out yet, but sometimes I switched for strategic reasons, like now. Even if I want to settle in, I’m forced to take a new host every twenty years or so. Maybe that sounds like a lot compared to a human lifespan, but since I’m immortal (so far), twenty years is a fraction of a fraction, and it feels like I’ve barely settled into a new skin before I have to go looking for a new one. Even when I pick a young, healthy body, something about hosting me puts unusual strain on the brain, and they usually pop an aneurysm, even if I take good care of them. I hadn’t taken such good care of this latest body. But I was trying to do better. You can only hover on someone’s doorstep in a suburb for so long before you attract trouble, so I knocked on the door. Someone shouted something garbled and hostile from inside, and then an old man awash with gray stubble and wearing a misbuttoned cardigan opened the door and glared at me. He didn’t even ask if he could help me. “Marvis Sims?” I asked. “Who wants to know?” His voice was raspy and his breath was heavy. I briefly felt guilty for making him come to the door. Then I reminded myself who he was, and why I was here, and straightened my spine. I could have jumped right into him . . . but I needed to be sure this was Sims, and not his elderly father or something. “I’m —” I began, and then a woman in her thirties approached, her expression more curious than hostile. She was wearing a headband with reindeer antlers on them, the antlers festooned with little blinking lights. It wasn’t Christmas yet, but it was coming. Ho, ho, ho. “I need to find Marvis Sims,” I told her. “You found him,” she said, nodding towards the man. “What can we help you with?” The old man turned to scowl at her, and opened his mouth to say something that wouldn’t have been in keeping with the holiday spirit, so I jumped into him, and let my old body crumple dead on the steps. I know. That’s not in keeping with the holiday spirit, either. But here’s why I did it: Listen, I’ve been around a long time, and I used to be fairly callous about my whole deal. Yes, when I take a body, the original inhabitant seems to vanish, or get overwritten, or whatever. And it’s no picnic for their loved ones, either, since those people are meaningless to me. I usually cut all ties with them via faked head injuries, amnesia, religious conversions, midlife crises, or just straight-up ghosting (though I do keep the bank accounts). I realize that living as I do seems reprehensible. But what am I supposed to do? Gazelles don’t much like lions, but lions have to eat.