Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I Found a Podcast That Describes Crimes Before They Happen

Episode Date: September 29, 2025

A dying detective, convinced a true crime podcast is dictating his violent fate, confronts its creator—only to discover the stories aren’t crime at all, but horror, and he’s the final victim. Check out our brand new horror-themed coffee at NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠. Get 20% off same-day roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! There are over 80 bonus episodes waiting for you right now. Unlock them here with Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠ Author: Jake Bible Check out the author's latest release: Blood Cruise! https://jakebible.com/novels/blood-cruise/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.   #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The chair creaks as I shift my weight, trying for a better position, a less painful position. It ain't working, so I slump back and slowly snag my cigarettes from my suit coats inside pocket. Smoking has been prohibited on the job for over a decade. The brass caved to insurance pressure, and one by one, each precinct went smoke-free, each cruiser went smoke-free, each unmarked car, each transport van. You couldn't smoke at crime scenes. You couldn't smoke during boring-ass meetings. You couldn't even smoke at your fucking desk.

But I could argue I'm not on a job right now. This is a little more personal. I shake out a smoke and lighted with my zippo. The blood on my hands stains the white paper of the cigarette and smears across the shiny chrome of my lighter. The faint glow from the streetlight just outside the apartment turns the blood black. and as I inhale, taking that sweet smoke into my lungs, I turn my lighter over and over in my hand,

staring at the blackness of what should be read. Perceptions a funny thing. The cigarette tastes like heaven and hell wrapped in paper with a filter jammed up its ass. I used to break the filters off, but my doctor says smoking will kill me, so I've gotten more health conscious. I keep the filters on now.

My lungs hitch after I exhale, and I fight off a coughing fit. I lose and have to double over. My lungs, not so happy with me. It could be the cigarette, but more likely it's the bullet in my chest. But, hey, I'm not a doctor, so what do I know? Bullet or no bullet, I finish my cigarette down to the filter, tossing the butt across the room. Maybe it'll start a fire, and I'll die from real smoke inhalation. Wouldn't that be ironic? But no. The small cherry left on the butt breaks off and smolders to nothing in half a second. No more tobacco to burn. If there's no fuel, there's no fire. I chuckle at the thought. No fuel, no fire. Story of my life. Except it's the opposite. All the fuel, all the fire. Pain rips through me and I gasp. It takes all my strength not to slide out of the chair and curl up on the floor.

Can't do that yet, though. Time enough for dying later. Much later if things pan out. No, tonight I still have a reason to hang on. One last job before I even think of letting the lights go out. Yeah, I'm being morose, I know. Maybe I won't die. Maybe what I heard was utter and complete bullshit.

Maybe. And this is the ultra-huge, giant mofo of a maybe. I'm wrong, and all of this shit is in my head. Maybe. I shake out another smoke and light it. Might as well. In for a bullet. In for a...

Whatever. I don't fucking know. The smoke burns like a son of a bitch and soothes like a motherfucker at the same time. I'll take it. With the cherry burning bright, I stare past it and out the window. It's raining.

Of course it is. It's always raining. This fucking city. It rains in the fall to knock the leaves off the trees. It rains in winter to melt the snow and ice from the sidewalks and roads. It rains in spring to grow flowers and shit like that. And it rains in the summer to cool things down. If I make it, I should go into the almanac business.

I got a knack for this shit. Droplets race each other down the window panes, and I place bets. The third drop on the left will take this one. But up top, close to the frame, the fourth from the right, is looking sassy and ready to fight. I hear the lock turn in the door and I stub out my smoke. Pulling my 38 from the holster on my belt, I angle myself, so I'll be the first one he sees. The door opens, and he walks in. He tosses his keys onto the short bookshelf by the door and sets his backpack down on the ground.

When he reaches for the light switch, I cocked my pistol. Let's keep it dark, okay? I say. Fucking shit! He shouts and whirls around. Who the fuck are you? Me? You don't know who I am? I ask.

The 38 aimed at the man's belly. Come on now, you gotta know who I am. I have no fucking clue, man. And I don't want any trouble. All I have is a crappy laptop in my backpack. And that flat screen TV over there. Take them both. They're all yours.

I glance at the flat screen TV. It's flat, sure. But it's one of those old ones that's thick as brick. Kind of sad. You'd think the guy would have better tech. I ain't here to rob you, pal. I wave my gun toward his ratty couch. Have a seat.

We need to talk. He sits his ass down. About what? Just sit the fuck down, will you? I cough and feel the spray of blood fly past my lips. Some settles on my chin, adding to the mess that's already there. Dude, you don't sound so hot. Do you think?

I hadn't fucking noticed. I cough again. More bloody spray. I don't think you should be smoking. Can you put that out? It's a no-smoking building. Every fucking building is a no-smoking building. I shout, which gets me coughing again.

It takes skill and experience to double over and cough a bloody lung out while also keeping a loaded and cocked 38 pistol pointed at a man. The guy doesn't try to flee. Even in the dark, he can see the black eye of the pistol's barrel, staring him down. Who are you? He asks, once my coughing is under control. You know who I am.

I don't. Honestly. I've never seen you before in my life. Really? I lean forward, so the streetlight eliminates most of my face. You don't know me? You're sure. He takes the time to study my face. Then he shakes his head. No. Never seen you before. And how the fuck are you telling everyone my business? Huh? How the fuck do you know what's going to happen before I do? Answer me that. He doesn't respond. I said, fucking answer me that.

He jumps and pushes himself deeper into the couch. What? What are you talking about? You have a podcast, right? He hesitates the nods. And you tell true crime stories, right? He nods again. Did you know that the stories you're telling end up happening? Did you know that?

All of them. I don't, I don't, I don't. Can't get your words out now, huh? It's easy when you have a fucking microphone. in your face, but not so easy when it's your life on the goddamn line, huh? One-handed, I shake out another smoke, plop it between my lips, put the pack back, grab out my lighter, flip it open, light it off my bloody slacks, then fire up the cigarette and breathe as deep as my wounded lung will let me. The guy still hasn't answered my question, so I ask it again.

Did you know that the stories you were telling were going to happen? Because that'd be some trick if you did, pal. What do you mean? They can't happen. They aren't real. I made them all up. You made them all up. You honestly expect me to believe that.

They aren't real. They're fiction. Calm the fuck down, pal. I take a drag. Well, I gotta say, that's one gigantic load of horseshit. You know why? Because I'm real.

I'm flesh and fucking bone real, pal. And every one of your damn stories has been about me. Me. I drag off my smoke again, cough hard, drag some more, then ease back into the chair. How are you doing it, huh? I ask. I'm fucked up and in bad shape, but the pistol never wavers. The barrel's black eye is locked onto his center mass. He moves, and he's going to get one right in the heart. Sir, I don't know who you are or what you were talking about. That's the God's honest truth. I write and produce a podcast.

that is all fiction. Fiction, huh? Yes, fiction. None of it is true. Yet you call it true crime. That's the fad. It's way easier to make up stories and pass them off as true

than it is to spend hours doing research. And no one cares. Then when checks or looks them up, I haven't gotten one email or DM about them. People just like to hear messed up stories about shitty things that happen to shitty people. And they keep listening because the shitty things aren't happening

to them. That's the fucking problem, pal. The shitty things you talk about, they are happening, and they're happening to me. He stares at me for a second, then laughs. Okay, okay, this is a joke, right? Someone put you up to this? I adjust my aim and fire the pistol. The bullet whizzes past his left ear and punches a hole in the drywall. Was that a joke to you? Did you find that funny? He whispers, I didn't find that funny, has to let his heart again. Now, you're probably expecting someone to call the cops after that gunshot.

But no one will. I know this neighborhood. It's a heads down, mind your own fucking business kind of neighborhood. He nods, knowing I'm right. This podcast of yours, tell me how it works. How it works? That was the fucking question. Are you fucking dumb?

Def? Each week you tell a new story. Each week, your story comes true. And my life goes to fucking shit. Three months, pal. Three fucking months of dealing with this fucking nightmare. Mr. Sir, uh, I already told you, I write the episode, I record the episode, then I edit it and publish it. That's it. There's no deal or trick or anything. That's how it works. I write it, Record it, edit, publish it. Then I do it again the next week. Right. Sure.

That's all there is to it. Except you skipped a step. You write it, record it, edit it, publish it. But I have to live it. I still don't know what you mean. Live it how? I chuckle and take a long drag. When I let the smoke out, there's a coldness in the middle of my chest.

I'll tell you my part. And when I'm done, you're going to tell me your part. I already... I fire past his right here this time. He jumps and starts to hyperventilate. Breathe, pal, breathe. I say and take another drag. You never know when your next breath will be your last.

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Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Three months earlier. Jasper. My partner says, as he sets his coffee mug, on his desk, then takes two steps so we can sit on the corner of mine and frown down at me as I type up a report from yesterday's arrest. We need to talk, okay, talk, I say, knowing exactly where this conversation is going.

The smoking... Stop right there. I don't smoke in the building. I don't smoke in the car. I don't smoke while we're out on assignment. I smoke before my shift and after my shift. I smoke on my time, Chris. You stink, man, he says.

and goes back to his desk. He settles in, sips his coffee, and eyes me over the rim. Then he sets the mug back on his desk and frowns. What? I snap. You want me to quit smoking so you can breathe fresh air? I ask the LT for a change of partners, he says. I think it's time we mixed it up a bit.

Oh, is that what you think? We should mix it up? I laugh and shake my head. Then I lean across my desk, past my computer monitor and whisper. You think I'm the only one who stinks around here, Chris. What the fuck does that mean? It means we both know about your little piece of ass in Chinatown, or the one over in Little Odessa.

Or how about the one in Irish Alley? I laugh again. I may stink like cheap cigarettes, Chris, but at least I don't stink like cheap pussy. You want to talk, stink? Let's forget your nasty smoking habit for a minute, huh? Jasper? How about those little envelopes?

you've been tucking into your suit coat for the past two years. Those have the worst stink on them. He rolls his eyes. So I get a little piece of ass on the side. You think I'm the first cop to cheat on his wife? I could hawk a lugie and hit half a dozen straying dicks in this room. Nothing new there. He jabs a finger at me.

But you? Nah. What you do is crossing the line. And I'm done. I look around to see if we're being a little. watched or listened to. I don't see anyone watching our friendly conversation, but I'm not taking any chances. Get the fuck up, I stand up and grab my suit coat off the back of my chair. Come on, asshole, we're going for a ride. I just clocked in, and I have paperwork to do. I don't give a

fuck. You come for a ride with me, or I call your wife right now and give her three very interesting addresses. You fucking wouldn't. I think the nod. No. No. I fucking wouldn't. You might try to work it out. You got some good bullshit in that head. Bet you could spin it in your favor. God damn right, I can. So I'll call your wife's lawyer instead.

His frown deepens, and I almost laugh at his confused, grumpy face. Stop talking out of your ass. My wife doesn't have a lawyer. Uh-oh. Does the great detective Chris Ryan not know about his wife's little inquiries? How she's suspected your affairs for years and might be low. looking at an exit strategy? An exit strategy that will get her half your fucking pension?

Good work, detective. Way to stay alert in your own home. Fuck you! You're lying. Wish I was, partner. But I noticed an envelope sticking out of her purse the last time I was over at your place for the game. Couldn't help myself.

Had to have a peek. I'm a detective after all. It's what I do. I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos. Then I show them the one I took. You can try to rationalize this. but it spells it out pretty clearly. I take the phone back and read the letter.

Dear Mrs. Ryan, thank you for retaining our firm. After some preliminary investigation, we believe we can get you the results you want if you were to divorce your husband, Mr. Chris Ryan. In order to move forward, we will need an additional retainer of blah, blah, blah. I won't go into how much they're gouging your wife in order to fuck you over.

But let's just say that I may not be the only one taken out. If she has access to that kind of dough. Her uncle died last year and left her in inheritance. Did he? Oh nice. I'm willing to bet you won't be getting half of that. He stands up and puts his coat on. Fine.

Let's go for a ride. Gotta stop for smokes. I say and pull up to the corner bodega. Won't be a second. Chris starts to protest, then lets it go and sighs. Good choice. Inside, the clerk has some crap length. from a Bluetooth speaker on the counter.

What is this shit? I ask. Is some talk show? What the fuck is this guy talking about? Podcast. The clerk says in his thick accent. America's crime today. It's called.

Tells all the nasty stories about criminals and the bad cops. Bad cops? What bad cops? I reply and point past him. Two packs are hustling reds. Filtered or unfiltered? Filtered. Gotta stay healthy.

He grabs two packs and throws them on the counter. 1075. Can I get the hard packs? All out. I see a row right there. Unfiltered. Fuck. The podcast narrator is talking about two partners arguing and fighting over some slight or double cross. Or maybe one of them is cheating with the other's wife. Story of my life. I snag the two soft packs. I toss a 10 under the counter. 1075, the clerk says. This is not enough. Consider the difference, your donation to the widows and orphans fund. Does that mean you're going to die, officer?

Can I give it directly to your widow? Mine left me years ago, so good luck on that. I say and point at him. And next time you get cute will be the last time you get cute. You hear me, pal? Yes, officer. My apologies. Cram your apologies up your ass.

A gunshot echoes through the store, and I grab for my sidearm. It's the podcast! The clerk shouts, holding his hand out. They use sound effects! With my hand still on the butt of my pistol. I pause and listen. While the detective swore under oath and endured hours upon hours of interrogation, no evidence was found that he killed his partner.

No blood residue, no powder burns, no matching firing pin in his service revolver. But even without evidence, the precinct knew. They all knew. And no one took their eye off the detective. They all knew that eventually. He'd screw up. And then they'd have them. Sounds like a fucking moron, I say.

You got to keep your shit buttoned up, as my dad used to say. Was he a cop too? Fuck off. And don't ask about my dead father, you fucking loser. My apologies. What I tell you to do with your apologies? Could I end them? Yeah, so get to it.

I reach out and take back the ten I threw on the counter. Thanks for the smokes. Hey! He yells as I turn and walk out. Widows and orphans, asshole! I yell back. Once back in the car, I threw the packs of cigarettes on the dash

and get us rolling again. If we're gonna talk, then let's fucking talk. Chris says after we drive a couple of blocks. You drag me the fuck out here, so fucking talk. Not here, I say. I know a place. We all know places. What place?

A warehouse out by Hutzville. There's a three-block GPS dead zone. Why the fuck do we need a GPS dead zone? So L.T. and the brass stay off our ass while we have our chat. Oh, so it's a chat now. I thought this was serious as a fucking heart attack. Fuck you, Jasper. Turn the car around and head back to the...

When you've been a detective for as long as I have, you learn a few tricks. Like how to knock someone cold with a single punch, while also driving down a city street on your way to an abandoned warehouse. Chris's head snaps to the side and slams into the passenger's window. When it bounces back my way, I hit him again just to be sure. His chin falls to his chest. and he's out like a light. Blood trickles from a gash in his cheek where my class ring cut him.

I'll have to do something about that, just in case my ring left an impression. I drive, but not in a straight path. I meander around the city before I zigzag my way to the warehouse. Chris ain't a slim man, and it nearly breaks my back, getting him out of the car and through the side door. Once inside, I drag his ass over to a chair I have already set up and waiting.

I toss him in the seat and cuff his arms behind his back and his legs to the chair. He starts to come around, so my fist kisses his face good night once more. Then I go move the car, parking at about six blocks away. GPS can track it now, but it's half a block from an old address and informant of mine used to use. I keep the old address in the database just for instances like this. I light a smoke as I walk back to the warehouse. the time I get inside, my smoke is done and Chris is awake. He doesn't kick or scream or fight. He only stares. Keep your dirty looks to yourself, asshole, I say, and light another cigarette.

I puff and blow the smoke in his face. He coughs, but doesn't turn his head. Oh man, he got a real hard on for me right now, don't you? All you want to do is jump out of that chair and choke me to death, right? Or stomp you, or shoot you, or whatever it takes for that heart of yours to stop beating, he laughs. Not that you have a fucking heart. Oh, I got a heart, Chris. I definitely have a heart. I don't tell him why. I may not be exactly the good guy here, but I ain't cruel. Now, how about we have that talk? What's to talk about? You ain't letting me walk away from here, so just put the gun to my head and pull the trigger, why don't you? Get it the fuck over with. And due time, partner, in due time. I pull hard on the smoke. First, I really need to know how much you got on me. What? I ain't got shit on you. I know

you're taking kickbacks, but that's it. I didn't have any evidence, and I never went looking for any. Oh? But you're going to switch partners all of a sudden? Bullshit. You got dirt, and I want to know what it is. I don't, Jasper. Just my personal observations. That what you told the LT? You only have personal observations? No actual evidence? I haven't said shit to the LT. I asked for a new partner because I'm tired of your stench, Jasper, the smokes and the envelopes. But all the LT knows is that I hate the smoke. He suspects. Well, duh, yeah, he suspects. The whole fucking precinct suspects, but that's not because of me. I ain't said shit, Jasper. I just don't want that stink to rub off on me as all. Wish I could believe that, Chris, I say and pull a different

pistol from my pocket. I take aim. I really wish I could. The 22 puts three round holes in Chris's forehead. I study the placement and smile. Couldn't have done it better if I'd been at the range. I wiped the piece and let it fall for my grasp. A clatter of steel on concrete echoes around the warehouse. Still smiling, I uncuff Chris and shove his body to the floor. Then I take the chair and cuffs with me. I'll drop them both off in a dumpster along the way. When I get back to the car, I grab the radio and call,

Officers in pursuit of subject, requesting backup in Woodsville ASAP. I let the radio handset fall onto my seat, then casually walk back to the warehouse. When I arrive, I kick in the door. Then I pull my official sidearm and fire a couple of shots around the warehouse, like I'm trying to take down a perk. And what's this? Oh, no.

My partner has been shot. Oh, woes me. The officers who arrive first are so stunned that they buy my chase story. When the LT arrives, not so much. I spend the next eight hours in an interrogation room. But they don't break me. They don't even bend me. I've had this story ready and tight for weeks now.

When I'm finally sent home, on leave with pay until the investigation is done, I crack open champagne and make the call. I didn't connect the dots that time, I say. I cough up a glob of bloody mucus and spit it onto the podcaster's floor. Why would I? It wasn't until the second time I heard the podcast that things began to click. Listen, sir, I really don't know what you are talking about. Shut it, fucker. I don't need your lies.

My cigarette is out, and I want another. But my left arm is a little numb, and my chest hurts. So I just hold the pistol on the asshole. I try to take a deep breath, fail, and manage a medium breath at least. Now, the second podcast I heard got my attention right away, two months earlier. While the investigation continued, the detective realized that he'd made a big mistake. It happens, I say as I smile at the clerk. I point.

Hastings Reds, two hard packs. We are all out, the clerk says. And I almost laugh at the way he stands there behind the counter. His arms crossed, all defiant. Your rack is full. I nod at the rows and rows of cigarette packs behind him. They're sitting right there. Those are for paying customers only.

What are you talking about? I pay. Even though he'd planned everything to a tea when it came to the warehouse, He failed to factor in witnesses when he threw the chair in the dumpster. I freeze. A chair in a dumpster? That hits a little too close to home. Is that same podcast you listen to all the time?

What did you call it? He doesn't reply. Come on, pal. Don't be a bitch. What's the name? He hesitates, then says, America's crime today. Weird name.

It always talks about this same case. What same case? Last time I heard this was when you had it on last. month when I came in. Sounds like the same case. He frowns. Why did you say that? It's been a month. Lots of cases since then. Whatever. Just give me my smokes. Paying customers only. You take lead as payment? I asked and pull my coat aside so he can see my sidearm. He rolls his eyes and reaches back for my cigarettes. He throws them at me and crosses his arms again. Did you just assault a police officer? No, and the camera footage will show as much.

I nod, but don't look around. I know where the cameras are. You have a pleasant day, I say I'll leave. When I'm in my car, I plug my phone in and bring up the stupid podcast. There's only one episode, even though it's marked as episode 360. The episode has today's date, so I put it on and listen. Jesus Christ, I mutter as I drive. It's way too close to how things have gone this past month.

right down to my badge and gun being handed back to me yesterday. What the fuck? Then I catch up to where the podcast was when I was in the bodega. Even though he'd planned everything to a tea when it came to the warehouse, he failed to factor in witnesses

when he threw the chair in the dumpster. There were no witnesses. I grumble, then laugh at myself. What am I saying? This shit ain't real. Hey, Mrs. Wanda Hollis was sitting at her bedroom window when she saw the detective open the dumpster in the alley. and throw in a chair and what looked like handcuffs attached to it.

She would have mentioned bloodstains, too, but by the time her body was found, she wasn't in a talking mood. A neighbor found her splayed out in her living room. Her lower jaw ripped off her face, and the back of her head possibly stomped in. That's one way to take care of a snitch, I snicker. Then the image of the dumpster I tossed the chair into slams into my brain. Did I ever look around when I threw it in there?

I know I did. Of course I did. But I suppose the better question is, did I look up? Bad question I can't answer. So I take a drive over to Woodsville and pay a visit to that alley. The rain soaks my coat as I stand next to the dumpster and stare up at the apartment building that looks down on the alley. Third floor.

A drape moves, then is pulled closed. I count the windows and head for the front of the building. The front door lock is broken, which is perfect. All sorts of bad things happen. in buildings with broken front door locks. I'm on the third floor and counting doors, while a little out of breath after climbing three flights of stairs. I think I've found the apartment,

and when the door opens a crack, I ask. Mrs. Wanda Hollis? The name just tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. The podcast must have put it in my head. But before I can take it back, the woman stares at me and says, Yes? Can I help? Her eyes go wide with recognition.

My leg kicks out with her. My leg kicks out with practiced experience. The door flies open, and Wanda stumbles back. She falls on her ass, turns to scramble on her hands and knees, but I'm way too fast. It's definitely not my first time kicking a door in. I grab her by the back of the hair and slam her face into the floor. She grunts and collapses. Then I look out into the hallway to make sure no one is interested in the noise.

The coast is clear, so I close and lock the door, then focus all my attention on Mrs. Wanda Hollis. You know who I am? She moans, and I grab her by her hair and lift her head up. Right? You recognize me, don't you? No, no, sir. She mutters through broken teeth and split lips. Never seen you before.

Sorry, Wanda, but I don't believe you. I slam her face into the floor again, and once more for good measure. She's loose and almost out of it, yet she manages to roll over under her back and glare up at me as blood oozes and bubbles from her nose. Fuck. You? She says and spits a wad of blood into my face. I stumble back, wiping the blood away as fast as I can.

You bitch! You probably have AIDS or hepe or some shit. Fuck! I raced to the sink and wash the blood off my face. Patting my skin dry with a couple of paper towels, I walk back to her. Open, I say. She shakes her head slowly. She's barely with me.

Fine, don't open. I shoved the toe of my shoe into her mouth. Then I twist my foot sideways, press the soul into her lower teeth, and stomp hard. Her lower jaw cracks and almost comes right off. She's about to scream, but I stop again, and this time the jaw does snap off, hanging on her neck by only a few strands of flesh. Her throat fills with blood, and her gagging stops any chance of that scream ever being voiced. Then I cry out and jump back.

Her hand managed to get my leg, and she's clawed the shit out of my ankle. I lose it. Just lose it. By the time I get control of myself, she's face down in the back of her head is an absolute mess. Well, fuck! I look around. Then I try to erase any trace of me being here and slip out the front door quietly. No one sees me. I make sure this time. In minutes, I'm speeding away from Woodsville. Muscle memory drives me over to the small subdivision that I know so well. What are you doing here? Alicia Ryan asks when she opens the door. Jesus, what is that? Is that blood?

Christ, Jasper, get in here. She yanks me inside, then stops me in the hallway. Strip! Babe, I'm not quite in the mood. Give me a few minutes, and a couple belts of scotch, and I'll... Get that bloody suit off, dumb shit! I don't want you tracking whatever evidence that is from whatever crime you've committed all over my house.

Oh, yeah, sure, I say in strip. Dear God, your boxers are so, too. What does the inside of your car look like? It ain't pretty. She holds out her hand. What? I ask. Keys, I'll pull it into the garage so we can get cleaned up.

I nod at my pants on the floor. She bends and fetches them. I can't help but smile at the view when she bends over. With my keys in her hand, she sees the look on my face and slaps my bare chest. Oh, now you're in the mood? She barks. I shrug. Christ, Jasper, you are something else.

She points down the hall. Go get showered. I'll clean the car. She gathers up my suit. You can wear one of Chris's old suits. You two are close to the same size. I haven't thrown them out yet. She doesn't wait for a response. Once I'm showered and dressed, I meet her out in the garage.

I'm going to need you to say I was with you all day if anyone asks, I say. All day? And what do I say we were doing all day? You don't say anything. Let them make a guess. It's not unheard of. A cop dies, and his partner and widow suddenly become. Unclose, one thing leads to another.

Except we got close a few months ago, not after Chris died. We fludged the dates a little, so what? So what? You were supposed to take care of Chris, and that was it. Now you show up, trenched in fucking blood, and expect me to clean up the mess. That's so what? I didn't ask you to clean the car. She throws a bloody rag at me and storms back into the house.

I follow her. I find her. I convince her that everything is going to be just fine. Then I take her to the bedroom and remind her of why we got together all those months ago. I don't mention the podcast. That would sound crazy. I may be a killer, but I ain't crazy. I need to know how you are doing this, I say and try to put some force behind the words, but my strength is waning. Fucking shot long. Doesn't stop me from pushing past the numbness of my arm and lighting up another smoke. Sir, detective, I can't tell you because I'm not doing it.

anything. The podcaster says. I just wanted to cash in on the true crime podcast craze, so I made up some stories. That's it. If any of what I say matches what is happening to you, well, that's just coincidence. He leans forward, and I shake the pistol. He leans back. I mean, do you hear what you're saying? A podcast that tells the future? Not the future, my future. That's even crazier. I'm not fucking crazy. So far you've admitted to killing your partner in a possible witness. That isn't exactly sane. I chuckle and smoke. No, I suppose not. Pain wrecks my body. I try to hide it, but I can tell by the way the guy slightly shifts on his couch that he sees it. I clear my throat, and it's like razor blades. Spitting more bloody mucus onto the floor, I say. I stopped listening for a while. No need. The heat had been

lifted off of me. No one even suspected that Mrs. Hollis's unfortunate home invasion was my doing. And things were going great with Alicia. I spit some more. Until they weren't. Last night. This fucking guy! The clerk says when I come into the bodega. I was hoping you'd never come back. After months of not seeing you, I thought my hope had come through. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd come by and see my favorite clerk. Fuck you and get out! He points at the door. No more free cigarettes.

Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Huh? You think you can just order me around? Fucking hell. You must be some sort of stupid to even have that thought cross your mind. Not me. You. You are the stupid one.

He shouts. Gabda! Gabda? What the fuck's a gabda? Me. A massive hunk of muscle says as he walks out from the back room. Well, fuck me. You're a big one, ain't you?

I pull my sidearm and hold it down at my life. leg. You know what they say? The bigger they are, the harder they... The hit to the back of my head takes me by surprise. As I fall to the floor, my pistol slips my grip and slides across the stained tile. I try to roll over, but a large shoe in my back stops me. Who you think is stupid now, asshole? The clerk shouts, bending over the counter so he can spit on me. The glob splats on my left cheek. I've been waiting for you. Been waiting a long time. The foot plants itself in my gut, and I double up, curling in on myself.

Gabda's buddy, the guy who sucker punched me in the back of the head, kicks me again just before Gabda crouches and grabs my chin. We don't like cops around here, especially crooked motherfuckers like you. I ease my backup pistol for my ankle holster. The assholes don't even notice. The next time we see you around, the shot is definitely in a small space, but I ignore the ringing in my ears as I scramble away before Gabda can collapse on me.

His buddy is in shock, so he gets a shot to the belly without me having to stand up. The clerk is more alert, and he ducks behind his counter. I'm calling that! He starts to shout. I empty my pistol through the front of the counter, knowing it's not even close to bulletproof. The clerk screams, then goes silent. I stand up, rub my bruised gut, and get to work. I lock the front door, then turn and survey the scene.

It's a bloody mess. Gabbed his buddy is crawling across the floor, So I put a shoe on his back, reload my pistol, and fire twice into his skull. He's not crawling no more. I retrieved my sidearm from the floor, holster it, then look up at the cameras all around the store. The video files have to be purged. I find the computer in the office and the password on a sticky note in a drawer, and wipe the whole system clean. Then I wiped the computer down and everything I touched.

It's going to look weird if I try to stage the scene, so I empty the register and just walk out. out, the offending pistol back in its ankle holster. It'll look like a robbery gone wrong. That's simple. When I get in my car, I have a thought. Maybe, just maybe. I can get ahead of this mess. I find the weird podcast on my phone and play the only episode listed. The detective, certainly he'll get caught. Goes to the one place he knows he can trust to help him out in the jam he found himself in. I know exactly what the podcaster is talking about, so there's no need to listen to more. I'll be home free soon. In minutes, I'm pulling up to Alicia's house.

Alicia, let me in. I say after knocking a few times. No answer. Heading around the side of the house, I unlock the gate and step into the backyard. I see the light on in her kitchen, so I make my way up onto her deck and try the sliding glass door. It eases open without a sound. Alicia? I call.

You hear? When I step into the kitchen, Alicia is here all right. What the fuck is this? I ask. seeing the pistol in her hand. We're done, Jasper, she says. I can't deal with your bullshit anymore. I thought Chris's cheating was bad, but you?

You're a fucking monster. I wouldn't go that far. Look at you. How much of that blood is yours? And how much is it from some poor sucker you killed? Maybe half and half. I laugh. She doesn't.

Put the gun away, Alicia. We're in too deep together for you to even think you can get away with. I'm not sure I even hear the gunshot. But I do feel the pain in my chat. I gasp as I stumble back, trying to get out of the kitchen as fast as possible without turning away from the crazy bitch with the gun. She fires again, and I hear this one, but she misses. I think the first shot was just pure dumb luck. Stumbling and scrambling, I make it out the sliding glass door down off the deck and back around to my car. Alicia is hurrying out the front door, but she doesn't fire. She just watches me drive off. I make it halfway across town before I have to pull over and rest. I

Then a thought hits me, and I put the podcast back on. It describes what just happened almost perfectly. It ends with the detective driving away from his partner's widow. Then I have a great idea. It wasn't hard to track you down, I say. My voice hitching as my wounded lung starts to completely fail. And here you are. Why?

What do you think is going to happen? The podcaster asks me, You're going to record my happy ending. I'm what? You are going to record the next episode, and it's going to have me surviving. I don't think so. Oh, I do. I wave the pistol at him.

You look young and fit, but you aren't young and fit enough to dodge a bullet at this range. I don't need to. The podcaster sighs and stands up. Set the fuck down. Now! No, I'm not going to do that. He walks over to his backpack and pulls out a laptop. You see, Detective?

I already recorded the latest episode. It's locked down and in the can, as they used to say. They? They. Who? My vision is blurring, but I still manage to keep the pistol aimed at him. Although, it's so heavy. So damn heavy.

Doesn't matter. He opens the laptop and smiles over at me. My vision is really messed up now. I swear his eyes have gone red, and he has... What the fuck? Are those horns on his head? The problem, detective, is that not only have I made the stories up, and the hopes they might take hold in your world, but I also made up the genre.

He taps a key, and his voice comes flowing out of the laptop speakers. The detective sat in the chair, the last of his life leaking from his body, and stared at the demon before him. The detective thought the podcast was all about him, and in a way, he was right. But he didn't realize, though, was the podcast was never about true crime. The podcaster, the thing, the demon, laughs and moves right up into my face as he closes the laptop. No, detective, this has always been a horror podcast, and horror podcasts need two things. A victim and a twist. And you are not the twist.

His eyes burn red, and his mouth opens wide, so wide that I can see hell down his throat. Then all I see are his teeth.