With a Voice that Is Often Still Confused but Is Becoming Ever Louder and Clearer

I’ll be honest: this audiobook isn’t for everyone. If you like your horror neat—clear monsters, clear rules, clear resolutions—you’ll bounce off *With a Voice That Is Often Still Confused* like a ball off a brick wall. But if you crave fiction that *feels* like a wrong turn in your own mind, this might be your new obsession. Sturtevant’s narration is a masterclass in restraint; he resists the urge to *perform* the weirdness, instead letting Hamantaschen’s prose do the heavy lifting. His flat, almost detached tone in stories like *The House That Wasn’t There Yesterday* makes the absurd premises land harder—like a news anchor reporting on the apocalypse. The standout here is the title story, a meta-fictional spiral about a writer (or is it a reader?) unraveling in real time. Hamantaschen’s knack for recursive dread shines, but a few pieces (*The Man Who Collected Silences*, for instance) drag where brevity would’ve hit harder. The production is clean, though I’d dock half a star for occasional uneven volume in quieter passages—nothing ruinous, but noticeable if you’re listening on a walk. Still, when it works (and it *often* does), this collection sticks to your ribs. It’s the kind of audiobook that’ll have you pausing mid-chore to replay a line, wondering: *Did that actually say what I think it said?*