The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast #6

Episode Date: August 21, 2011

Our sixth scary episode of The Nosleep Podcast spotlights spooky stories sure to send shivers scurrying down your spine. Featuring stories from the No Sleep forum at Reddit.com, these stories will make the dark hours of the night creep slowly past. Also, we are proud to introduce a new co-producer to the podcast: Chris Holland (Redditor slamgauge). Chris provides invaluable production, music, and narration for the podcast and has played a big part in its continued growth.This episode features these stories:Kenneth written by Huxley Adams (Redditor huxleyadams) and read by Christopher Maust (Redditor stoferin).First Time at the Movies written by Kaye Hazleton (Redditor manyofhorror) and read by Wendy Corrigan (Redditor EchoWind).Why I Refuse to Work Late written by William Dalphin (Redditor wdalphin) and read by Reece Selby (Redditor GoldenBuns).Daddy, Are You Awake? written by Scott Weaver (Redditor tortuga_de_la_muerte) and read by Chris Holland (Redditor slamgauge).The Friendly Man written by Pit Pastel (Redditor Mis-shapes) and read by Wade Thorson (Redditor WadeK). Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

For the dark hours when you dare not close your eyes. No sleep. It's the No Sleep podcast. No sleep. Featuring stories from Reddit.com's No Sleep forum. No sleep. Join us as the sleepless hours. Our first tale is entitled Kenneth, written by Huxley Adams and read by Christopher Mossed.

Back in the mid-90s, I used to work at a film processing store. People would bring in their film to be developed, and we'd do it for a nominal fee. My boss was a creepy scumbag who would make copies of people's photos for himself, if they showed enough skin. We really should have reported his behavior, but we were afraid of the whole place getting shut down with a lawsuit, and we'd have to go find new jobs. Needless to say, the jobs paid the bills, so I got my mouth shut. We got lots of tourists who would bring in their vacation photos to be developed, never to be seen again. But we had regulars too, mostly moms who would bring in reel after reel of their kids' sports games, birthday parties, and graduation ceremonies.

And then, there was Kenneth. Kenneth was a man in his 40s. I met him on my first shift and saw him every Thursday night after that. He'd bring in the same thing every time. One reel of film in a small black canister, with two rolls of quarters to pay for the development. He never said much to me, and I only learned his name after about a year after I started working there, despite seeing him every week. The processing machine we had did all the development work, so the only time I'd ever see people's photos was when I was removing them from the print tray and placing them in the envelope we'd return them to the customers in. I wasn't much of a creeper myself, so I'd never go out of my way to check out people's pictures.

But Kenneth's photos were different. Well, I said photos, when I should have said photo. hope, because there was only ever one photo on each reel he would bring in. The rest of the negatives were always blank. Those single photos were always similar, two people standing in the window of a house. At first I thought maybe kind of some kind of voyeur, because it would often appear as though the pictures were taken from the street, and it was never obvious that the people knew they were being photographed. The composition of the photos were almost always the same as well. One person peering through the window towards the camera, with the second person's

standing behind them, partially obscured to the left. There was nothing suspicious about any of the photos, though, and everyone was always fully clothed. Kenneth would bring in these photos to be developed for years. I never asked him about them, because technically we weren't supposed to be examining people's photos too closely. I mean, if we saw the photos were of a crime, we had to report them, but nothing illegal was ever happening in Kenneth's pictures.

It was always just two people standing in a window. About three years after first meeting Kenneth, he brought in a reel of film as usual and I developed it, but I noticed that the picture on the real only had one person at this time. I decided to try and spark up some conversation with Kenneth, so I mentioned it. Trying something new? What do you mean? He said. His eyes widened and he ripped open the envelope that the envelope was in. His face went white. I guess your other friend couldn't make it, I said, trying to ease him a bit. He looked worried

and his hands were shaking. It only comes when I want him to, he snapped. I was a bit taken aback by his answer. I'd never seen Kenneth upset before. He'd always had such a pleasant demeanor. And he didn't just look upset, he looked scared. I asked him if he was okay, but he said nothing and walked out of the store. That was the last time I ever saw Kenneth.

The photo store closed down a couple of years later, and I found work elsewhere. Well, it was the last time until three days ago. I was working at home in the evening Thursday night. I live alone and do freelance web design to pay the bills. At about 7.30 at night, I heard a car horn to honk from the street outside my apartment. I didn't pay attention to it until I heard it honk again, and again, and again. I went to my window to see what was going on, only to catch a glimpse of someone in a car, snapping a photo of me from the driver's seat before speeding off.

Obviously, I was bothered by this, but I didn't call the cops or anything because I didn't really. have anything to report. The next morning, I found a small film canister on my doorstep, along with two rolls of quarters. I got the film developed today and wasn't surprised to see that only one photo had been taken on the reel.

It was a picture of me from three days earlier, standing at my window, looking out towards the camera. What disturbs me most is that, in the picture, standing behind me and to the left, our next tale is entitled. First Time at the Movies. Written by Kay Hazleton

and read by Wendy Corrigan. When I was in the sixth grade, my friend Nicole and I were finally allowed by our parents to go see a movie by ourselves without our parents in the theater with us. Her mom dropped us off at about 7 p.m., and we went inside and happily watched some movie. I don't even remember what it was.

I was just thrilled at feeling grown up. The movie ended at about nine, and I called my mom to come pick us up. She said she would be there in about ten minutes. In the meantime, as it was a warm summer night, we decided to walk outside and wander around for a while. We eventually ended up heading to the far end of the theater, near the exit to the highway, so that my mom wouldn't have to drive in too far. As we leaned against the bike racks, chatting, I noticed a dark green, old-looking Camry idling to the left of us, all the windows wide open, with the front passenger seat window facing us.

It was directly next to a lamp post. I couldn't see the driver. I could make out that it was a mail, but the car's lights were off. He was just a shadowed figure. I continued talking and laughing with Nicole, but I kept glancing back at the Camry, wondering what the driver was doing. I was suddenly intrigued by something glimmering in the front seat. It seemed to be coming from the driver's upper body, maybe his neck. Was it jewelry? I squinted at it. He almost seemed to be flashing it at me.

I wondered if he was trying to get my attention. I nudged Nicole's arm, and she too began to glance at the man of the car. Against all better judgment, I took a tiny step toward the car and squinted again at the front seat. I decided the shiny thing was a necklace, but the way the driver was gripping at it, unsettled me. I took another tiny step forward, and the driver jerked suddenly towards me, his neck seemingly

slower than the rest of his body. I wanted to back up, run back into the theater, but I couldn't. Hey. That one word made me freeze up. His voice was plain and flat, even oddly polite, but it was terrifying. My mind was seized with dread. His voice had no uncertainty. He didn't seem startled or annoyed by my presence.

He continued to twist and gnarle his hands at his necklace. Why was he doing that? Was he taking it off? Should I run? Those frantic thoughts passed through my mind in maybe five seconds before I heard a terrible squeal. He was gunning his engine. For no particular reason, I called out, Wait!

He didn't slow down. in the slightest, but he looked back at me. His face slowly tilted into a very slight, eerie smile. I looked at the lamppost, and my heart seemed to crash into my stomach. I realized he had not been wearing a necklace at all. He had been wrapping steel wire around his neck, and the rest of it had been tied to the lamp post. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn't. I watched his smile until I couldn't see his face anymore. But even then, I couldn't look away. I watched his retreating, dark silhouette in horror, as he drove away.

It seemed like he drove for miles, but in reality, it must have been only a few dozen feet. Nicole and I waited in silent horror, watching his figure in the front seat, watching the steel line get tenser and tenser. Then I watched the dark outline of his head, get yanked roughly from his body. It was only then that Nicole and I began to scream and scream. Our next tale is entitled, Why I Refuse to Work Late, written by William Delphin and read by Reese Selby.

I used to work for a marketing firm located in the back bay section of Boston. It was a small company, but large enough that we operated on an entire floor of the building we rented, and that I was not familiar with everyone else who worked there. I started in 2007 as part of their web-based media team. For those of you who don't know anything about the marketing business, it's very client-driven. A team of producers sell our services to companies, often a little overzealously, and that designers and developers typically have to work like slaves to meet the producer's promises. This can mean late nights taking a cab home because the commuter rail has shut down.

It also means coming in on weekends and working late then too. It was November of 2008 and we had a big promotional site being developed for a rather important client. I'm not at liberty to give out the details surrounding the project. but it's not relevant to this story anyway. What is relevant is that the client was pushy, as most are, and the site was complex, so I ended up having to come in on a Saturday and work late into the evening to have something ready to present by Monday.

If you've ever worked in an office on the weekend, you know just how different and isolated it can feel. There were other people at first, ambitious or merely driven, doing their thing, but never our part, The office was organized into patches of cubicles. We developers tend to be a little off-kilter, goofy, prone to coming in wearing t-shirts and faded jeans. The higher-ups put us in the back corner so that tours with potential clients could avoid having to explain us and our appearance to them. The corner just happened to be facing the alleyway between our building and the next one.

The back row of cubicles eventually got replaced with an aesthetically pleasing row of glassed-in offices for the director of the web-based media team and some selected subordinates. But at the time of this tale, there was only her dark office and a row of grungy cubicles where said subordinates vied the legroom with piping and windows looking out at the brick facade of the adjoining structure. The lighting in our section was often dim. My co-workers liked to loosen any fluorescence that flickered rather than request a change of light bulb. My own cubicle was on the far side of the area from the beautiful Brick Vista, smack dab in the corner, with a set of shelves. I only warranted half the space of a regular cubicle because I was the newest member of the team.

Seated at my computer, irradiated warming my toes and my back to the rest of the office. I worked on the site. It was a little after midday when the producer called me to check on the status of the project. The nice producers came in and stuck around to show their support when you had to come in on weekends. Sometimes they'd go pick up lunch or dinner to reduce your downtime. The not-so-nice ones called and encouraged you while they went shopping or played golf. Things were going well and I told her as much. While she began droning on about a list of features, I should remember to have to have.

have implemented, I heard a noise behind me. It sounded like chains rattling, which I thought was an unusual sound for someone to be making, which is why I got up after finishing the conversation and hanging up and went into the kitchen area to investigate. The kitchen separated our section from the graphic designer group and was at the end of a large open hall that had several meeting rooms attached before ending on the other side at the lobby with the front desk and elevator. There was an old freight elevator right by the kitchen side of the hall, but we usually avoided using it because of its tendency to break down. There was nobody in the kitchen, but as I turned to look down the hall toward the front desk, I saw the door to the freight elevator coming to a

close. At the same moment it closed completely. I spotted a co-worker heading for the lobby elevator, They turned at the sound of the freight elevator door shutting, saw me and waved. Don't forget to turn on the security alarm before you leave, he said. Am I the last one here? I asked. He nodded and headed for the elevator. When I got back to my desk, the phone was off the hook. I chalked it up at the time to me being forgetful, but I wondered now if it was something else. The line was making the, uh, uh, noise you hear, when you've left it off the first. hook for too long, so I hung it up and went back to work. It got dark out, and I still wasn't done,

so I called my wife to tell her I would be working late and to go ahead and eat without me. As I hung up the phone, I heard a creaking sound, like door hinges. I was feeling a little creeped out by being all alone, so I got up and went back to the kitchen area to see if someone had come in. If they had, and I had left before them, I wouldn't want to activate the alarm. Between the cubicles and the kitchen is a very tight hallway, which is where the breastrooms are found. As I passed it, I saw the men's room door coming to a close, like I had just missed someone going in. I waited in that spot for about five minutes, trying to look nonchalant about standing around, like I was trying to do something instead of just watching to see the person

come back out. Finally, feeling increasingly anxious, I walked down the dark hall, and and slowly opened the men's room door with the planned excuse of, what the hell I had to go in this as a bathroom. The bathroom wasn't just empty, it was pitch black. The lights had been out since I came in that morning, and nobody had turned them on. Walking into pitch black unexpectedly like that can really put you in a state, let me tell you.

Suddenly being blind when you were able to see just a moment ago, it was like the air got sucked out of me. And I realized I was holding my breath because everything was dead silent and my ears had sensitized in the hope of catching even the slightest sound. I stood there a second and then turned on my heel and got out of the restroom back into the hallway where I clutched the wall like I was afraid it was going to fall away and leave me back in that infinite blackness. I wasn't even thinking about whether anyone else was watching me at that point.

I couldn't tell you why I was scared at the time. I just was. I did not like being alone in that office. I knew that right outside was a brightly lit city, but somehow it all seemed really far away. The T station was a block away. I could run to it and be home in a couple of hours, but then I'd have to explain to the producer that I wasn't done with the site because I got scared, and she was sure to tell everyone else, and I'd be laughed out of the office. I flipped the light switch to the restroom there in the hall, and when I was sure to tell everyone else, and I'd be laughed out of the office. I flipped the light switch to the rest room there and the hall and went back in. The men's room was about the size of two of our cubicles and even grungier than the alley back behind the office.

There were two stalls, a pair of urinals, and a trio of sinks with a wall-length mirror. I hated the urinals because one was right by the door and I felt like people passing by could see in while I went. The other was made for a midget. Even though I was alone, I went and sat down in the stool. I also just felt the need to sit and relax a moment. I was just beginning to relax when I heard the door creak again,

followed by footsteps on the tiles. I was relieved by that sound because it meant I wasn't alone. Someone else had come in, and all that sudden fear was just me being irrational. I cleared my throat, a tradition I do sort of to say this stool is occupied. The moment I made the sound, the footsteps stopped. I suddenly felt a little anxious again. I cleared my throat a little less obviously to make it seem like an introduction, and more like I had just had a bit of congestion.

The footsteps suddenly began to get closer. When it sounded like they were right outside my stall, they came to a stop. I got real tense and leaned down to look at the person's shoes. There weren't any. At that moment, I got goosebumps on my arms and my heart rose up into my throat. My stomach was doing cartwheels, but I went about the routine of finishing up, flushing, and opening the stall door. The room was empty.

I went over to the sink and began washing my hands, constantly looking over my shoulder and around the room in the mirror. I went to the hand dryer and started it up and was rubbing my hands together, and I heard another sound right behind me. I could see in the reflective chrome of the dryer nozzle. The other stool door was shut where before it had been wide open. At that point, I didn't care whether my hands were wet or not. I wiped them on my pants and turned for the door out of that room.

The whole space felt smaller, more confined. As I walked past the stools, I heard the click at the lock and the stool door started swinging open as if to greet me. I didn't look in. I didn't want to see even if there was somebody in there. I just ran the last few feet, yanked the door open as hard as I could, and bolted down the dark hall back to the safety of my computer. When I got back to the desk, my phone was off the hook again.

I could hear someone speaking, even before I picked it up. I put it to my ear and listened. At the tone, it would be 7.43. I held the phone there, listening for the mentioned tone. I turned and watched the hallway I had just come from, though from my desk I couldn't see down it. There were no other sounds, except the hiss of the radiator and the computer firm. The recorded voice played again, but this time it was different.

It sounded like one of those old cassette tape players, when you only held the play button halfway down. It was deeper and slower, and I did not feel any comfort in it anymore. At the tone, it would be 7.43. I hung up. At that point, I decided that I did not want to be there, and I didn't care if I got laughed at later for it. I grabbed my satchel and saved my work.

Just as I told Windows to shut down, the phone rang. Instinctively, I picked it up, figuring it was the producer calling. I'd just tell her I'd come in tomorrow and finish it. That's what I'd do. At the turn, it would be 745, said the voice. I hung up and pulled the cord out. The phone at the desk next to mine rang. I ignored it and grabbed my shirt to get the fuck out of there.

I decided as I walked that my best course of action was to go into the kitchen, walk the long hallway to the front desk and wait for the elevator. Then I remembered that I had to set the alarm. The alarm pad was past the elevator around the corner and backed by the executive officers. Not a big problem, I thought. As I walked past the dark hall toward the kitchen, I looked down it just to make myself feel better. The door to the men's room was wide open. worse, it was pitch black inside again, but I realized as I stopped and looked that I had never turned it off.

The linchpin in my horror came when the door suddenly began to slowly shut as if it had been waiting for me as an audience before doing so. I turned away and went into the kitchen, trying not to think about the fact that the men's room was just on the other side of the wall from the hallway I was about to go down. I looked down the hall at the front desk and the elevator out of there it had never seemed so far away before. I took a step, and from behind came another sound that sent shivers down my spine,

the crash bar and the fire escape being pushed. I turned 180. The fire escape was located right next to the director's office and was just about two rows of cubicles away from the kitchen area. As I watched, the door to the fire stairs down the back of the building swung, slowly open into the darkness. I turned back toward the hall and ran. The sound of a ding indicated the arrival of the freight elevator

And as I passed it, its door slowly began to open Just like the stool door in the bathroom I heard the sound of rattling chains from inside That I did not look I was running Running for that front desk Running for the elevator down to the lobby When I got there, I slammed into the wall between the elevator doors

And punched at the down button desperately I turned back to look where I came from Every time I do, I think of Lott's wife in the story of Sodom and Gimorah. You never fucking look back, ever. The back area of the office was bathed in darkness. I could not see it at all. There was some light coming into the kitchen from the developer area, but even as I stood there watching, it seemed to fade and become dark.

I looked at the elevator floor indicator and prayed that the approaching car was brightly illuminated. two, three, four. The ding of its arrival was beautiful. The doors opened to a well-lit salvation. I scrambled into the elevator and frantically hammered at the ground floor button. As the doors slowly started closing, I watched the encroaching darkness

seemed to swallow the office. When the car reached the ground floor, I was squashed down into the corner, terrified that it would at any moment fill the compartment and eat me. I bolted through the lobby and out into the street where I promptly threw up,

grossing out a passing cyclist who yelled words of encouragement as he continued down the street. I did not return to the office the next day. I told the producer I had gotten violently sick and she talked the client into extending the deadline. I got chastitized for forgetting to set the alarm, but no harm was done.

Three months later, they reorganized the back area of the office, built the subordinates office, tore down a wall between our section and the kitchen, and set the cubicles up in a more standard format, moving me from my little corner by the dark hallway. I never went down that hallway again. In the remaining year that I was there, if I had to go, I walked down to the front desk and took the elevator down the floor where there was a public access restroom. Much bigger, much cleaner, much brighter, and far less haunted. Our next tale is entitled, Daddy, Are You Awake? Written by Scott Weaver and read by Chris Holland. We are a small family of four, the two of us and the two kids, four and three years old. My daughter's the

older one, and for the last year, she's had nightmares off and on. Some mornings I'll wake up with her wedged firmly between the wife and I, which is fine. We've all been there. I have no problem with it. What I do have a problem with is when she walks in 20 minutes after we've turned the lights off and the house is dark just to stand next to the bed

on my side and stare at me. I get the sensation that I'm not alone and wake up with a dark little silhouette right next to my face. Although at times it sends me into a slight panic or at least leaves me with a slight chills, not very manly or dead like all I'm. met. Uh, I'll break the silence. Yes, sweetie? She usually asked me if I'm awake and tells me she's

had bad dreams. I let her climb into bed with us and that's usually the end of it. Well, last night the same thing happened. I got that uneasy feeling and I'm not alone. My eyelids opened and there she was again, dark little silhouette, mere inches from my face. What is it, sweetie? I asked. No response. Just silence. Then it clicked. Both of my kids are staying with the in-laws for the night. I no longer wonder why my daughter wants to sleep in our bed.

I was able to reach up and flip on the light, but of course there was no one there. However, I looked down the hallway and into my daughter's room, and the silhouette is standing in the doorway, hasn't moved for an hour. I think he's waiting for my daughter to come home. Our final tale is entitled The Friendly Man, written by Pitt Pastel, and read by Wade Thorson. I think I make a terrible friend. People tell me I'm inconsiderate, lazy, always late to pay them back when I borrow money, all around bad characteristics to have in a friend, I guess.

Whatever. Doesn't matter to me anymore. They don't know a fucking thing about bad friends. Not like the friend who lives with me now. I am lying awake in my apartment where the air conditioning doesn't even work, and I swear to God, I'm covered in sweat. It's just oozing out of my pores.

It's 2.08 a.m., although it might as well be 2 p.m., because I haven't left my bed in so long. and with the shades drawn, I can't even tell when it's night or day anymore. I wish Siaban was here. I really loved that guy. I think he liked me, too. But the last time he came by, I think it was like two or three weeks ago, or maybe yesterday. I don't even remember when.

He pounded on the door two or three times, shouted my name, along with a few unsavory words, and left. I was in bed at the time with fucking tears running down my face. I wanted to open the door and just kiss him and apologize for all the pain I ever caused him. Tell him it wasn't my fault. Mr. Friendly watches me constantly, making sure I am unable to get out of my apartment. Like I could escape anyway since I've been confined to my bed. What does he want from me? I don't even know.

When did it all begin, though? March 16th, 2008. I remember the date exactly. I was leaving from my fiancée Siavon's place early in the morning. He had to get ready for work, although, quite frankly, I was ready to fuck, but he wasn't going to have any of that. So I drove home with a cup of coffee and tunes from the radio. At least it was a pleasant drive home.

When I got home, I checked the mailbox in the lobby and headed up the stairs to my apartment. junk mail, junk mail, letter from the bank, etc. And right when I was about to unlock the door to my apartment, I see my neighbor Candace sitting outside her door. This was the first time I had seen her in weeks. I know a single woman in her 70s probably doesn't get a whole lot of visitors, but I almost thought she might have died. So you can imagine my relief when I saw her sitting in the hallway.

At the same time, there was something not really, right about the way she looked. She looked disheveled, and she stared blankly at the wall in front of her. It was creeping me the fuck out. So I said, hey, Candace, while trying to unlock my door as quickly as possible. He let me out, she said hoarsely, as if these were the first words. She'd spoken in ages. She was looking at me now with, what's that look?

Soldiers get in their eyes, a thousand-yard stare. Her red curly hair was a complete mess. She looked dazed and dirty, and though she usually smelled of cigarettes, now she smelled of something far, far worse. Something I can't quite describe. Something that still makes me feel slightly ill whenever I remember it. Something inside of her had died, and her eyes were letting me know what she couldn't vocalize. and there were scars above and below her lips, as if she had them pierced or something. Who let you out of where, Candice? I replied uncomfortably.

Did your son finally come to visit you like he said he would? No, she whispered, the friendly man. She looked crazed now, and it was starting to get a bit too unnerving. She looked towards her apartment door while toying with the gold bracelet she wore on her wrist. I nodded my head slowly and replied, Have a good one, as if I knew what she was going on about. What was I supposed to do anyways? If only I knew what was to come,

I would have sat out in the hallway with poor Candice and never entered my apartment ever again. That night, I lay in bed thinking about Candice. She looked terrorized, and I was having a hard time attributing it to just being senile. Something frightened her real bad, but what could it possibly be? As I pondered this, my mind began to drift,

and soon I reached a state of half-sleep. Thoughts started to make less sense, and sleep began to seep into my mind. And then I had strange dreams. I was in a dark sewer, and I was running. Running from what? I don't know. But I was running from someone or something. Water splashed about as I treaded through the murky dark tunnel.

It was too dark to see, but I knew I had to keep going, even if I couldn't see for shit. Eventually, I reached a small doorway and entered into a tiny room, furnished with a bed, a bookshelf, a mirror, and a writing desk with a small candle sitting on top. It looked oddly familiar until I realized it was my own room, though it looked absolutely horrid. Everything was grimy and dark liquid ran down the walls covering the floor. I frantically searched around for a weapon of some sort, opening drawers and feeling around under the bed.

As I pulled my hand out from under the bed, I realized it was covered in the dark liquid that was running down the walls, and it made me gag. And then I heard the loud breathing. From behind me, a man was standing in the doorway. Quiet, save for his breathing. A weezy kind of breathing. He was naked and bald, covered in the same dark liquid that ran down the walls of the room we were in.

The most horrifying thing about him, though, was that his lips were shut, and a padlock was pierced through his lips, rendering him unable to fully open his mouth. Keep the fuck away from me, I yelled. He edged closer. I yelled more trying to move, but the dark liquid was rising, and now it was too high for me to move. I was trapped in the thick goo, and the dark stranger was coming closer and closer. He started to breathe louder and louder, and he began to speak something unintelligible and muffled. He brought his face inches from mine, and I realized his eye sockets were black and empty. Then the candle went out.

I could feel the warm breath coming from his nostrils on my face in the darkness. My heart stopped. And then I woke up. It must have been just after midnight, because it was still pitch dark. I was drenched in sweat, still jarred by the dream I just. had. I couldn't see anything in the darkness, but there was definitely a person in the room, said a voice from above me. A stranger placed a finger on my mouth. I attempted to bolt from the bed when I realized I was tied down to it with heavy rope. Bad dream. The fear was so overwhelming.

My heart felt like it was attempting to shoot out of my chest. The stranger passed his hands over my face, almost caressing it. I couldn't see his face. I couldn't see his face. face, though he looked tall and thin and his breathing was heavy. He appeared to not be wearing any clothes, and I immediately thought it was a drug addict attempting to rob me or do worse, depending on what his intentions were. I have, I tried to speak, but my voice was too hoarse, and it came out sounding odd. I have no drugs that you want, but I have money on my desk, I said with great difficulty. Take it, it's yours.

Just need some new company, the stranger said in low, rascopy voice. It was strangely childlike, however nonsensical that may seem. Sometimes you just get tired of the people you know. Please, I just... I couldn't finish what I was about to say before I felt a needle enter my arm. The stranger had to be.

had injected me with something and before I knew it, I was fast asleep again. When I woke this time, I felt groggy and sluggish. I looked around, though my vision was slightly blurred. After a while, it became refocused and I realized I was in the living room. I could tell it was daytime because light made its way around the curtains that were drawn over the windows. Otherwise, it was still dark in the apartment. I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize how horrible.

horribly messed up things had gotten over the night. I was still sitting in my bed, meaning someone had moved my bed into the living room, and all the furniture from the living room had been moved in front of the front door, blocking anyone from entering or leaving. How could a lone person possibly do all of this? And more importantly, why? My bed was situated in the middle of the empty living room.

The ropes no longer confined me to the bed. And then I noticed how painful my feet. lips felt. I ran my fingers over them and noticed something unnerving. There were holes above the upper lip and below the lower lip, as if they had been pierced, just like Candace, just like in my dream. Now frantic, I tried to get up, though I was too quick and I fell down to the floor. I lifted my shirt sleeves looking for where I was injected. Sure enough, there was a mark on my right arm. What I wished had just been a nightmare

was actually real. As I lay on the floor, my mind trying to make sense of what was happening. I saw an arm with a gold bracelet sticking out from behind the bedroom door. I slowly got up from the floor and edge closer to the bedroom door

as slowly as I could. I opened the door and found Candace's body on the ground. Poor Candice. If I had only done something when I saw her in the hall, earlier. I fell to my knees, feeling incredibly weak and nauseous. My bedroom looked odd without my

bed in it, which is why it took me a moment to notice that in the far corner of the room was a crouched, naked figure, eyeing me, frowning. Tears had been running down his face. He was bald with dark eyes and in his hand was a knife. Some people don't know how to treat their friends, he said in his low, raspy voice. It was almost as if he was pouting. Everyone deserves to have new friends, though. At this, he smiled, sweet, sweet candy. She didn't taste sweet, though.

Too bad. I noticed dried blood around his. mouth. Oh, well, here's to new friendships. I've got a feeling. This one's going to last, he said, grinning. He pulled a heavy metal bar from behind him and stood up. He walked briskly to me, and a swing and then crack. I was howling in pain, white, hot, searing pain, surge for my leg where he hit me with the bar, and then crack. The kneecap on my other leg exploded after another swing. I still cringe when I think about it. The pain was simply overwhelming and tears were running down my face.

Looking satisfied with his work, he grabbed a padlock from the desk near him. Some friends are too loud, don't you think? My vision blurred, and he smiled down at me. And then the world turned dark and I passed out. That was weeks ago. Or months. Who knows? I'm allowed the luxury to write on scraps of paper when I can, such as now.

He unlocks the padlock that keeps my mouth shut sometimes and feeds me. Sometimes he sits next to me and pets me like a master in his cat. He used to make me want to die every time he did it, but now it's become part of living. He's hidden my phone somewhere, and sometimes there are visitors who knock on the door, but with the blockade of furniture in front of it, there's no possibility of guests. He even pays the rent and bills somehow, preventing eviction. I don't know who he is. I don't know why he does this, but I belong to Mr. Friendly now.

Our sleepless tales have come to an end. Close your eyes. Drift off. No Sleep Podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons license, 2011. Some rights reserved.