The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast Extra Sleepless 02

Episode Date: August 30, 2015

During the break between seasons 5 and 6 we'll be featuring two episodes featuring stories from the Season Pass 4 feed. Enjoy these stories and the keep you sleepless between seasons.Trigger Warnings"My Mother's Roses" written by Michael Marks and read by Mike DelGaudio & Jessica McEvoy & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts at 00:03:00) "The Lovers" written by Michael Marks and read by David Cummings & Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 00:34:15)  Click here for the Season Pass order page. Podcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings.©2015 - Creative Reason Media - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Warning. This is a horror fiction podcast. Beware. It's intended for mature adults, not the faint of heart. Aware. Join us at your own risk. Close your eyes. Tales of horror to frighten and disturb.

Join us as the sleepless hours take past. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. You're a sleepless. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. During the break between seasons 5 and 6, we'll be releasing episodes featuring stories from the Season Pass 4 feed.

Enjoy these stories and let them keep you sleepless until season 6 begins next Sunday, September 6. I want to take this opportunity to briefly let you know about a new feature for our Season Pass program. If you would like to experience all of the full-length episodes from our Season Pass 3, 4, and 5 seasons, you can now purchase all three in our Terror Trio bundle for a special low price of only 4999. That's a savings of 17% off purchasing all three seasons individually. You can visit our Season Pass page at seasonpast.

the no sleeppodcast.com to find out all the details. So if you or someone you know wants to jump into the world of the no sleep podcast, you can get the complete content from our first three season passes well over 150 hours in total for only 4999. That's the Terror Trio bundle at season pass. the noslatepodcast.com. And now, on with the stories. For this episode, we are featuring two stories from author Michael Marks. Michael is a consistently outstanding writer whose work is both raw and visceral,

while also being deeply emotional and impactful. It's always a pleasure to bring his writing to life. In our first tale, we meet him. man who shares what it was like growing up with an emotionally volatile mother. A woman whose abuse, both physical and psychological, left lasting scars on her son. As he grew older, it was only a matter of time before both he and his mother reached the breaking point. Bringing the tale to life are narrator's Mike Delgado, Jessica McAvoy, and Alexis Bristow. As we learn what this man means when he speaks about, my mother's roses. My mother loved roses. She loved her whole garden, but she gave

special attention to the roses. I can remember her out in the garden during the day, trimming them and fawning over them as if they were her child. She certainly paid more attention to them than she ever did me. At the age of six or so, I asked if I could have a daddy. I had been tired of it being just me and her. I wanted a daddy like the kids in my kindergarten class. I will never forget her response, cold-eyed and smiling like a porcelain doll. She simply patted me on my head and said, Don't worry for such things. Just mind your mother and you'll be fine. it was just me and her. Oftentimes I've heard that single mothers are very doting over their only child.

This was not the case with me and her. The situation was us was that she did just enough to keep me alive, clothed, and fed. I in turn stayed out of her way as much as possible. I never bothered to question about my father again, despite my curiosity as to where he was, who he was. When I did something to upset her, the punishment was severe and swift. Beatings were regular and vicious in my house.

My mother would use every tool at her disposal to cause me pain if I stepped out of line, so as a young child I did my best to avoid it. I can remember a time when I was ten. I went to pour a glass of milk for myself. The carton slipped from my fingers and I dropped it on the kitchen floor. It splashed up and all over the tiles of the floor. dots of white milk running down the cabinet doors, a remainder of it soaked into the lower part of my pants. It had gotten everywhere.

My mother walked in before I even had time to react, let alone clean the mess. Her normally vacant eyes filled with anger in a flash. She grabbed me by the back of my neck with a vice-like strength and forced me to my knees. Look what you've done! She screamed into my ear, her shrill tone cutting in. into my brain and making my heart beat with a horrible speed. I'm sorry, mother. I tried to reply, my voice weak and trembling.

It was an accident. You were an accident! Harsh words from a harsh woman, and me, a boy, barely old enough to understand what they meant. I cried as I felt her pushed my head closer and closer to the floor. I attempted to fight against her at first, but quickly gave up as I felt her knee come into my ribs and forced the air. out of my lungs.

Look at it. She was hissing now like one of the snakes in her garden. A child should never picture his mother as the devil, but I most certainly did. Filthy mess, you disgusting little pig. My face pressed against the cold tile of the floor. My mouth and nose pushed into the puddle of milk. She shamed me like a dog who had shit on the floor. Sadly, by that point, it was something I was used.

to. I felt her hand released my neck as she stood up. You stay like that while I get a mop, you little monster. She left the room. I remembered thinking that I should have run in that moment, gotten out of there. But I didn't. I had nowhere to go. No one but her. She walked back into the room casually, mop in one hand and bucket in the other. I stayed motionless on the floor, face still pushed into the spilled milk, spitting through the sides of my mouth as I took short, staggered, crying breaths. Clean it up.

Her voice flat now, the shrill tone gone. I heard the bucket land next to me and the mop handle bounce off the back of my head as she let it go. She turned and left the room, and I did as she asked. Even before I bothered to clean myself, I mopped the floor vigorously, always fearing she might come check my work and worry about the possible displeasure she might feel towards it. She never came back in, though. I just watched her through the window, talking to her fucking flowers as she trimmed them, treating them with more respect than she had ever treated me. I never felt like she

loved me, not as much as that fucking garden. I resented that garden so much. I had fantasies about setting it on fire, just burning every last flower and shrub to ash, just so I could see the horrified look on her face. I never did it, though, never had the guts. I just bared the pain, the humiliation. Like that's the way it was supposed to be. Like that was the way it would always be. Things changed when I turned 16. High school had been rough mostly. I wasn't exactly the most socially equipped to handle the larger classes and different kinds of people that high school brings. In my junior year, though, I met her. Her name was Kat, kind of a goth girl, the fringe type that tries to stand out by blending in.

She took an interest in me as I was quiet and I liked to draw in class. She said it made me mysterious. I don't know what drew her to me, but I knew what drew me to her. I had the same raging hormones of any teenage boy and Despite my social, awkward nature and horror of a mother, there was nothing that would stop me from spending more time with Kat. My mother took notice pretty quickly. Despite the fact that she couldn't give a shit about me most of the time, when I started forming any kind of relationship aside from the nightmare that was me and her, she became extremely possessive. I would stay out late with Kat sometimes, necking in the park or just talking in her car.

I was really into her and hurt to me. Still, I would never let her come to my house, always offering the explanation that my mother was really strict. Every time I tell her that, though, I could see that defiant teenage look in her eyes, the look that made me want to be just as defiant. One night, after coming home late, my mother was waiting for me in the living room.

Her clothes were still dirty from spending most of her afternoon in the garden, her hand still wearing her thick gardening gloves, her shears still in her hand. Where have you been? She said, calmly, too calmly for my liking. Just out, I said, attempting to bypass her and head up to my room, trying to wear that teenage defiance like a badge. With that slut? Her shrill hiss caught me and I stopped in my tracks. She knew I had been with a girl.

the hell could she have known? I didn't talk to her, let her know anything about the cat. There it was, though, plain as day. She knew. I turned to face her, dumbfounded. She was smiling. I only ever saw her smile when she was working on her roses. That smile woke something up in me. Maybe it was just the aforementioned teenage defiance. Either way, I lashed out at my mother, lashed out in a way I never had before, and years of anger came to the surface. Don't you fucking call her that, I screamed. Don't you ever say a fucking word about her, you malevolent old bitch! The look in her eyes, the hurt and rage mingled on her face,

dropping her smile into a twisted grimace. Her teeth bared as she rose from her seat, shear still in hand and began to move towards me. arms outstretched as if I was renting myself to fight a bully and in many ways I was What are you going to do to me that you haven't done already a thousand times before? Beat me? Lock me in the fucking closet for four days? Blister my skin with boiling water? What?

What could you possibly fucking do to me that I'm not already used to? The smile came over her face. I hated that smile. It was evil. With the speed of a snake catching a mouse, my mother's hand shot forth and grabbed me by the hair and wrenched my head back. The shears moved towards my throat, their points stopping right at my jugular. I attempted to struggle but felt the hand in my hair tighten, and the shears press against my flesh, begging to break the skin. I could just kill you, you little monster. Again, the reptilian feel of her voice hit my ears, making my skin crawl and my heartbeat fast.

Dare you speak to your mother like that. The one that bore you, fed you, and clothed you. The shears pushed harder against my skin, making a small hole. I felt a trickle run down my neck. I wanted to tell her to stop, to beg her not to hurt me. It had never worked before. I stayed my word and prayed that this would not be my last moment on earth, listening to her flick her devil tongue in my ear.

This was not the first time I said this prayer in my head. I felt the shears ease back, then slide down my body. It came to rest over the crotch on top of my jeans. I watched you. I saw everything, letting that little whore put her mouth all over you. You disgust me. The point of the shears pressed against me hard enough to make me feel pain in my genitals.

A tear rolled down my cheek. Just cut off the filth between your legs. Maybe that would make you mind your mother. Who knows how you've been defiled by that common street trash slut? She led me to the kitchen table by my hair, keeping the shears pressed against me. I didn't resist. I wanted to with all my heart, but fear and years of degrading abuse had taken their toll on my ability to do anything against her.

She made me feel powerless, draining that defiance for me as quickly as it had risen up. Put your hand on the table. Her shrill growl commanded me, and I obeyed. I placed my left hand flat on the table and felt brief relief as the point of the shears left my crotch. Only brief, though. I should have seen my punishment coming a mile away, and I'm sure you already have. The shears, now closed, came down swiftly, pinning my hands. hand to the table. At first, I barely felt the pain, just pressure and the odd feeling of something

foreign in place of my flesh. It was the shock of the whole thing. I'd received thousands of beatings over the course of my life, thousands of humiliations, but nothing like this. When my brain and body both finally realized what had happened, I screamed. When the pain finally did arrive, it was excruciating, far worse than anything I could have imagined. It was even worse as my mother began wiggling the shears free from the wood of the table as well as my hand. She removed one of her gloves and shoved it into my mouth to stifle me and then continued. I heard the metal slide free from my hand with a wet thunk sound and tasted the earth and sweat in my mouth from my mother's glove. I fell to the floor, gripping at my mangled hand with my good one.

My screaming had stopped by the time I spit the thick padded gardening glove from my mouth and became a sobbing. I stared at my mother as she took her shears over to the kitchen and began washing the blood from them. Indifferent to my pain. Please, mother. I begged, a last resort. I have to go to the hospital. I choked the words out through cries. She turned her head towards me, quite content seeing me on the floor before her.

The look in her eyes, calm, calculated, and unapologetic. Clean yourself up. We have antiseptic and bandages in the bathroom upstairs. Her tone was flat, no fear, no anger, no fucking nothing. It was like being addressed by no one at all. You can go to a hospital when you apologize. for the way you treated me. Defiance was lost.

Overwhelmed by pain and fear. My hand was in ruins and I just wanted to get it fixed. I'm sorry, mother, I said, weeping as blood dripped off the table in front of me. I'm sorry for what I said to you. I don't believe you. I need to believe you're truly sorry. I detest fake apologies. You can try again.

Those words, try again tomorrow. I had heard them before. When I was eight, I once picked a rose from my mother's garden while she was inside watching her soap operas. I remember bringing it to her, a simple gesture of love from a son to a mother. I was so young then and wanted nothing more than my mother to love me. She screamed at me, slapped me over and over again. I didn't understand any more then than I do now. She wrapped her bony fingers around my ear and wrenched hard as she drugged me to the broom closet.

Screaming and wailing, she threw me inside and locked the door from the outside with a padlock. This was not the first time she had done this. Most commonly it would occur when I cried. When I stopped, she would let me out. This time, though,

was different. She left me in there a whole day before I saw the light again. When she finally opened the door, she stood there, the sun behind her bathed in blacklight and looking like a fairy tale witch. She asked me to apologize and me being only eight years old did not understand. I tried to say I was sorry. I heard those words. I don't believe you. You can try again tomorrow. This went on daily for almost a week. Every day, the same thing. Her asking me to apologize, guys, me trying and her saying she didn't believe me.

She brought me water on the third day and some old bread from the top of the fridge, but still didn't let me out. Six whole days in that fucking closet, confused and crying. I'm sure she called the school to tell them I had the flu and would be out for a while, covering her bases. I was half dead by the time she let me out. I can't remember if she accepted my apology finally, just realized that if her child died, she'd need to explain it. In either case, I'd always been terrified of hearing those words again.

Here they were, though. This time as I lay on the floor bleeding profusely. I watched her walk over to the phone that hung from the wall. She took it off the receiver and stuck it in her purse, then walked over to me. Clean yourself up and go to your room. She said, nudging me with her foot as if I was a drunk in her house. her way on the sidewalk. I managed to get to my feet and drag myself up the stairs into the bathroom.

I poured antiseptic all over the wound on my hand, feeling the intense burn and nearly biting my tongue as pain shot all the way through my arm. I wrapped the wound in bandages and made my way to the room. I knew I needed to get out of there, but I was weak. I'd lost so much blood and I was in terrible pain. I lay down in my bed and blacked out. The next morning I woke to my mother standing above me. A rose from her rose bushes in her hand and a friendly smile on her face. Are you ready to apologize? I felt sick and hot.

My hand was on fire and my body ached everywhere. I had recently learned about infection in biology class and the information clicked with me instantly. I needed a doctor and soon. I'm sorry. I meekly pronounced. A frown drooped down my mother's face, and she placed the rose on my nightstand. I don't believe you. Try again tomorrow.

She said, as she turned from me and walked from the room. I listened to the padlock click on the outside of my door, and I cried. This lasted for two more days, my fever getting steadily worse. I watched as red streaks crawled up my arm and intense pain racked my body. I could do nothing but lay in my bed, soaking my sheets with sweat, and begging God to kill me. My mother came into my room both mornings, bearing a glass of water and a single rose clipped from her rose bushes. Each time she was smiling, and each time I heard those words again. Are you ready to apologize?

I would answer always the same desperate and pleading for help, begging for forgiveness. I think I even was genuinely sorry. I don't believe you. Try again tomorrow. The same reply as she left the water and the rose on my nightstand. Those roses, those fucking roses sitting there, like her proud children, beautiful and perfect. I stared at them through teary eyes, my body quaking from chills. I fixated on them through fever dreams all through the second day, seeing them fall from the sky and burned my skin as they brushed past me.

My blood felt on fire in my veins and I prayed, prayed for death. I prayed for the end to all of this horrible madness. On the night of the second day, I heard a commotion downstairs. At first I thought I was trapped in some nightmare listening to my mother's scream, but then I heard who she was screaming at. It was cat's voice. I raised myself up and tried to call out to her. in my weakened state I could barely manage a whisper

I listened and picked out the sentences sick you little harlot you probably made him that way with your diseased little body let me see him now you old bitch cat screamed back never one to back down from an authority figure slut screams of frustration as the door slammed and I dropped my head back to my pillow my mother had driven her away, like she did everything else that could have been good for me.

I tried my best to stand, but nearly fell out of bed. The strain on my body brought only in nausea as I vomited up bile and water. I heard my mother stomping back up the stairs, mumbling to herself. She stopped in front of my door and I expected to hear the lock click and see her come rushing in, deranged fists and slaps down upon my weakened frame. Instead, I heard only her raspy breathing beyond the thin wood of the door. Then she spoke.

It was the most she had ever sounded like a snake. She's gone, you little bastard. Grading evil tones found their way to my ears. She's gone. And if she comes back, I'll kill that little slut. A pause, then stomping away, and the sound of her door slamming as the scratch of her Perry Como record started up.

I lay there, listening to the music, the calm tones, the pure antithesis of the panic, fear and hatred that filled me. I was going to die, and I knew it. I drifted away again into another horror that I can no longer remember. I woke to what I thought was an angel, a bright face in the darkness. I thought it was over. I had finally died, and this was heaven, a reward for all the pain I'd suffered. Instead, I heard Cat's voice.

Jesus Christ! It was shock in her voice as she placed her arms around my withering body and lifted me into the sitting position. What the fuck did that old psycho mama fears do to you? I strained myself to raise my bandage hand, now soaked through with blood. My whole arm was streaked with red veins, and even in the moonlight, Kat realized what had happened to me. I tried to speak but found myself unable. Fuck, fuck, fuck. We need to get you out of here, like now. I got in through your window, but there's no way you're making that climb.

She hoisted me up with my arm around her shoulder. I did my best to support my own weight, but found it to be a seriously trying task. I felt powerless, helpless. Sadly, not a new sensation for me. She started dragging me towards the door, and I realized it was pointless. I managed to summon up enough strength to say one word.

Padlock. Cat looked at me, fear gripping her eyes as they widened. What? She locked you in here and left you to die? Loud. Cat was very loud. And I didn't at the time, but now I realize it was on purpose. That crazy fucking bitch!

She set me down gently on the floor, and that's when I heard my mother stomping. feet as she quickly moved from her room down the hall to just outside my door. I heard her keys hit the padlock and threw a haze I saw Kat stand at the ready. As soon as the door swung open, Cat lunged beyond it and out of my sight. I could hear it, screaming, scraping, and clawing battle. Defiant youth versus experienced brutality. My mother shouting at the top of her lungs, I'll kill your slut, trying to steal my child from me.

Who the fuck do you think you are? I expected to hear the same from Cat, but behind my mother's screams, I only heard raspy breaths. I struggled to my feet, summoning every ounce of strength that I had and using the door to steady myself. As I peered my head into the hallway, I saw my mother's back, and Cat pressed up against the wall. My mother's hands were around her throat, and she was squeezing as hard as she could. She had gained the leverage and somehow bent. cat at the knees. I looked into cat's eyes. They pleaded for help. I pulled every ounce of strength that was left in my body up to lunge forward and grab my mother by the shoulders. I heard her

howl as I tore her from cat's throat using my momentum and body weight to propel us both towards the stairs. I watched in slow motion as I swung her free from my arms and I fell limply to the carpeted hallway floor. I'm not sure if I knew what I was doing. Later, I would tell myself that the delirium, the fever, and the infection were to blame from my impulse. Inside, I've always felt, though, that I threw my mother toward those stairs, hoping she would fall, praying for it. I wanted to be free from the hell she had put me through. She was wearing slippers. Her traction on the edge of the wooden staircase was nearly non-existent as she attempted to steady herself. As she fell, she turned back towards me,

the look in her eyes one of genuine fear. I remember being put off by this look, disgusted even. My mother had never shown me one genuine emotion in her life, and she chose that moment to look like a human being for the first time. Her feet gave way beneath her, and she grasped out for the railing, her bony fingers falling just short. She disappeared down the long staircase. I could hear the sound of her tumbling down.

I heard sounds like snapping twigs as her thin frame was battered by gravity and the edges of the hard wood working in tandem. It culminated and allowed thud as her body slammed against a wall at the bottom of the staircase. Cat rushed up behind me. The whole thing had only taken a matter of seconds, and I don't think she even realized what had happened as she once again attempted to pull me to my feet. I rasped out breaths and attempted to form words. The final use of what little energy I had rendered me incapable of standing. Get help. Her eyes grew wide as if the thought of leaving me had not even occurred to her until that moment. She gripped my shoulder and then raised my head to give a quick peck on the mouth

before she turned away with the promise of a quick return. She paused only for a moment as she looked over the edge of the staircase, just long enough to look back at me with wild, panicked eyes. She said nothing, then disappeared down the stairs and out the door. When she was gone, I crawled across the carpet. The sounds I had heard and the looking cat's eyes told me quite a bit about what I would see at the bottom of the staircase. I had to see it for myself, though. I needed to see it before this house was filled with paramedics and police.

My hands dug into the carpet and drugged me towards the edge of the stairs, just far enough so I could peer over. At the bottom of the stairs was my mother. Her frame twisted in an odd way, with one of her legs bent backwards and her head twisted just a bit too far in my direction. I could see the bones poking through the flesh, but my focus was on her eyes. They were still painted with that look of horror. The true, genuine fear of knowing she was fucked, well and truly fucked. And I had been the instrument of her undoing. My eyelids grew heavy and my head collapsed to the floor, but I kept my gaze on her as I drifted away.

I'm sorry, I said, as consciousness finally slipped away from me. Kat got the help I needed as she promised. I spent weeks in the hospital being treated for my spreading infection. The doctor said that I was lucky it didn't kill me. They told me things could have been much worse. I of course knew they were right. My mother's death was ruled an accident. Kat explained the situation as best she could to the police.

I did as well when I finally woke up and felt like talking. There was little questioning involved, though, considering my condition and the proof available to show what my mother had done to me. I think the only reason they ruled it an accident is because a self-defense case takes more paperwork. Kat and I stayed together into our 20s. We actually parted on good terms. Just two people that may have been bonded by the insanity we experienced, and eventually we outgrew

each other. We talk on occasion, but mostly we keep our distance. I'm married now. I have two children, and not a day goes by that I don't cherish them. I've worked hard to give them the childhood I never had and married a woman who I knew would be a wonderful mother. I was right. I have a rose bush in my backyard.

I tend to it. I ensure that the roses are always lovely, despite the fact that sometimes the sight of them makes me sick. Every year, I cut one fresh from the bush and take it to my mother's grave on the anniversary of the day I set myself free from her. I stand there, rose in hand, staring down at her, the way she used to stare down at me. It feels petty, and it feels right at the same time. I look at her name on the headstone with disdain and spite. Are you ready to apologize? I ask her.

Every time I wait afterwards, I wait for some sign of an apology, and oftentimes in my head I can hear her snake-like voice softened and begging for forgiveness. I place the rose against her headstone and walk away from her with the same words every time. I don't believe you. You can try again next year. For our final tale, we meet a husband and wife who are deeply in love. Their life seems to be ideal until a startling discovery forces the wife to recall a traumatic event from her past, one she thought was over and done with, but has returned to haunt both her and her husband.

Joining me for this tale are narrator's Nicole Doolin and Mike Delgado, as we find out what happened to the lovers. I watched the blade glide effortlessly across Nila's throat, an action performed by a steady and experienced hand. This was not the first throat this man had cut, and as he took slow steps towards me, I realized it would not be the last. On his head was a top hat, and long sideburns framed the sides of his face,

which wore a wicked grin. He looked like some cockney villain from a late 19th century London. Jack the Ripper was the first thing that came to mind, someone that had been removed from time and placed here in front of me. He slowly moved towards me, crossing one foot in front of the other

as if he were balancing on a thin beam rather than strolling across a concrete floor. Behind him, sitting beneath a single light bulb, was Nila, the blood pouring from her throat wound, and the sounds of choking and sputtering being muffled from beneath the tape that crossed her mouth. Finally, her head drooped, her chin landing on her chest, Her eyes frozen open in terror, though they were no longer in my view.

In many ways I could still see them. I always will. Nila was the love of my life. I still miss her every day, and will always miss her. Earlier that evening, Nila and I had been at dinner. It was our date night, and after nearly ten years of marriage, we still loved each other. I stared across the table at her, her low-cut dress showing off the heave of her breasts, and her thin, soft necklace.

A silver cross rested atop her cleavage. Even in the dim light of the restaurant, it caught a shine. She took a sip of her wine, and then her eyes caught mine. What are you looking at? She asked with a little laugh. Did I spill something on myself? She started looking down at herself in attempt to find an errant drop of pasta sauce or drop of wine. No, you didn't spill anything on yourself.

I said, reaching across the table and grabbing her by the hand. She ran her thumbs over my fingers as I did so and smiled at me. I was just looking at you. You are goddamn beautiful. I watched a flush of red go across her cheeks as her eyes lit up. She always loved when I called her beautiful, and I meant it every. time I did. I think she knew that. The look she would get in her eyes was one of love. Even now? I mean, I'm getting old, Carter. She said, brushing her hair away from her face

with the hand that wasn't holding mine. We were the same age and hardly old. We were only 38, but I knew Nila was getting insecure about reaching the big four-oh. She still looked as lovely as she did before I married her, though, perhaps even more so. Her large green eyes fixed to mine, looking for reassurance, and she pursed her soft lips together. I stood and leaned across the table. She leaned forward towards me. I kissed her softly. I could feel her smile against my lips. I could smell her perfumed skin, and in that moment, I just wanted dinner to be over.

I wanted to get my wife home. I wanted to show her just how beautiful I thought she still was. The top hat man reached my side. I was screaming through the tail. covering my mouth as I watched the life drain out of Nila. He tapped me on the shoulder with the blade of the knife. As he did, I could feel my wife's blood fly up in drips and land on my it mixed with tears pouring out of my eyes and ran off my chin. Benched my neck towards him with my eyes, full of rage. I tore against my bowed my bowed my bowed my bowels. I tore against my

bonds and tried to shake apart the chair that was holding me. He emptied the air out of my lungs with fruitless shouts stuck in my throat. My lip sealed shut by the duct tape wrapped around my mouth. The top hat man took a single black gloved finger and pressed it to the front of the tape, as if he were attempting to shush me. He didn't speak, only smiled that, devilish grin before stepping away from me and back over towards Nila. I struggled hard against my bonds as he reached her. He shook his long black coat from his shoulders and gripped her by her fire-red hair. He walked around behind her, slowly pulling her head back as he did.

There they were. My wife's beautiful green eyes frozen open in horror. I turned my head to look away. I couldn't see her like that. I sat there with my eyes shut as the top hat man went about his business. I could hear the sound of steel

scraping away at flesh, the wet sound of something tearing free. I cringed as I listened powerless and bound. The sound stopped, and I faintly heard the top hat man's step slowly approach me again. In my head, I could see him doing the same motion he had done previously, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. He whistled a tune as he walked this time. It was ring around the rosy. I felt something wetland in my lap,

opened my tearing eyes, a horrible curiosity overtaking me. I screamed through my tape as I saw my wife's beautiful red hair in my lap. He had scalped her, and I could feel, her blood soaking through my pants. I had my arm around Mila as we left the restaurant. My hand caressed her bare shoulder. The night was warm and inviting. It was a perfect date night. Her hand reached up and touched mine as we strolled slowly across the parking lot. She leaned

her head down and kissed me on the knuckles before turning her head towards me and smiling. How did I get so lucky? She asked with a wink before leaning over and kissing my cheek. You, you didn't get lucky, my dear. You attained me with pure skill and charm. A chuckle rose from her. She stifled it and put on her false serious face. As I like to call it, her serious. As I like to call it, her serious business face. She stopped walking and grabbed me by my shoulders, turning me to face her. I could see the corners of her mouth trying to curl into a smile as she attempted to hold her lips in a straight line. The only charmer here, Carter Ellison, is you. Again, her mouth curled upwards. I raised an eyebrow to her, waiting to see where she was.

going with this. I will not fall for your obvious flottery. Your attempts to get into my pants will only succeed if you answer the next question honestly. I promise nothing, I said with an upturned face, faking distaste for her line of questioning. There we stood in that low-lit parking lot, playing games like two 16-year-olds. In truth, my wife made me feel like a teenager a lot. She had that effect on me. Are you ready?

She asked her serious business face now in full effect. Because I'm serious, Carter. If you fuck this up, you get none tonight. Okay, okay. Hit me with your best shot. She gripped me by my shoulders tightly. Her eyes went as blank and cold as I'd ever seen them go. Her mouth no longer fought against a smile.

My heart honestly skipped a beat, expecting something truly serious to be coming my way. The look in her shimmering green eyes sent a chill down my spine. How? She started her voice dead in tone. How much? Now I was honestly scared. I felt my heart beating faster. What was she getting at here?

How much wood could a wood chuck, chuck, if a wood chuck could chuck wood? By the time she reached the end of the sentence, she had fallen into total laughter, and I couldn't help but follow her. My wife's jokes were stupid, and I loved them. You are such a dork. Nila was nearly doubled over, her silver cross dangling free from her chest for the first time that evening. Her hand was still placed firmly on my shoulder.

No. She said, pausing. to try and catch her breath. I'm serious. You have to answer. She stood up straight and looked me in the eye again. You have to, or you aren't getting any. Really?

I rolled my eyes, but purposefully. She knew I was playing along with her every step of the way. Fine. I paused and placed my hand to my chin as if I was deep in thought about the question. I watched her side-eyed as she giggled. So do you have an answer for me, Mr. Smart Guy? Her laughter had slowed to the occasional stifled snort and chuckle. I raised a finger as if a light bulb had gone off in my head.

my eureka moment about the wood-chucking capabilities of woodchucks. 13. I said with a stone face. Neela's eyes widened and she gave me a raised eyebrow as if returning my earlier gesture to me. Thirteen what? Hounds, tons, fucking ounces. Come on, what kind of answer is 13? The only answer you're going to get.

I said, smiling and pulling her towards me. She pouted. It looked genuine, but it was fake. I kissed her stuck out lower lip. All right then. She said, turning her head from me. You aren't getting into my pants then, buddy. I reached up to touch her face and turned her.

to look at me again. You are wearing a dress, though. I pointed out as I planted a soft kiss on her lips. She kissed me back and ran her hands through my hair. I know. She kissed me through our laughter, and we started making our way towards the car. The top hat man danced around me,

whirling and spinning while humming a gun. gleeful and unsettling tune. This one I didn't recognize or didn't care enough to remember. All I could do was cry and wheeze as he stopped in front of me mid-spin and crouched down to look me in the face. I lifted my head and looked into his long face, made to look longer by his large sideburns and top hat. His eyes held pure excitement and joy, like a child on Christmas morning. I attempted to ask him why through my tape. I'm not sure if he didn't understand me or if he just didn't care, but my pleas went ignored.

He reached out and pulled Neil's scalp from my lap. I cringed as the wet feeling lifted from my skin. He took off his hat and his long, stringy black hair fell free. He placed the shock of Neela's red hair over his own, and then placed the top hat back on his head. Cried, as I watched the blood drip down his face. He licked it from his lips like, some insane monster and slowly walked in a circle around my chair staring at me and whistling the whole time.

My eyes followed him. I tried my best not to let them fall to rest on my wife. She still sat across from me, covered in blood, her skull exposed and her head down. He made his final stop directly in front of me again. He reached out and snatched the tape off of my mouth with one quick motion, and before I even took a breath, I started screaming my wife's name. Neva! The top hat man tightened his hand into a fist and brought it down hard into the side of my head. My screams abruptly stopped as the world went foggy, and I slumped forward in my chair.

He crouched in front of me again, just as he had done when he put my wife's lovely red hair under his hat in that grotesque mockery. His thumb and forefinger gripped my chin and lifted my head to face him. He was close, disgustingly close, like he wanted to kiss me. I could see the blood staining his teeth and see the thick little hairs that stuck out from the edges of his nostrils. I stared at him with glassy eyes and he looked right back through me with irises as black as coal. You get love. He said, his voice soft and calm. Why do you get love when I am denied?

Into his breast pocket and pulled out a card. It was large and cumbersome, and his gloved hands slick with blood fumble to hold it up. It was a tarot card. On it, the two people embraced in a field. a large heart behind them to symbolize their affection for each other. The woman on the card had fire red hair. At the bottom of the card, two words were printed. The lovers.

Neela was still chuckling as we reached the car. I escorted her over to the passenger side and opened the door for her. She always appreciated little romance. gestures like that. As she slid her legs inside and I shut the door behind her, I noticed something stuck under the wipers on the passenger's side. I plucked it free and headed over to the driver's side. It was an envelope and printed in blocky black letters on the front was Nila the Red. You got yourself a secret admirer? I asked as I dropped down into my seat and held the envelope out to her. She looked at me puzzled for a second and then

took the envelope from my hand and stared at the front. The color instantly drained from her face. She was already a woman of light complexion, so she basically turned white as a ghost. Where did you get this? From under the windshield wiper. What's wrong? I was confused and hoping this was just another one of her fun little jokes. Carter, you need to get rid of this right now. Just throw it out the fucking window. Nila's eyes were filled with dread.

She thrust the envelope back in my direction, practically crushing it into my hand. What the hell is going on, Nila? I could no longer hold it. hold out hope she was just joking with me. Her hand was shaking as I took the envelope back from her, and she looked like she was about to cry. I can't. I can't explain it right now. Just, would you please throw that fucking thing away?

She was sobbing now. Please, Carter. Her big green eyes filled with tears. I was scared and confused. and started to tear open the envelope, curiosity was getting the better of me. I intended to throw it away. I don't understand, baby, what the hell is this? I said as I ripped into the envelope.

She screamed and reached across the seat to try and tear it from my hands, but I had already torn it open and emptied the contents into my other hand. She lay across the center console crying and saying over and over again. Please, please, just throw it away. I looked down at what was in my hand. It was a large, cumbersome tarot card. On it were a man and a woman in an embrace. A heart was behind them.

The woman had fire red hair. Beneath them was printed, the lovers. It was hard to speak. Why did you do that to her? You're a fucking monster! The top hat man licked the back of the card and slammed it hard into my forehead, making it stick before he stood back up and removed my wife's hair from the top of his head. I heard it land on the floor with a disgusting splatter sound that made my stomach turn.

She told me I would find love. She should have given me the love I couldn't find. You fucking bastard! I was spitting and pulling hard against my bonds. He stood still in front of me, laughing at my attempts to gain my freedom. I wanted him dead I wanted to cut that fucking smile from his face this lanky lunatic

the madman out of time I ground my teeth together and pulled at the tape and the rope that bound me with all my might but only barely wiggled it loose not nearly enough to slip free and attack like I wanted. I felt helpless, angry, frustrated, and scared to death. All this was wrapped in the unbearable anguish that gripped my heart. I watched the top hat man twirl his knife around in his

hand, and he walked back over to Nila. I tore against my bonds once again, hoping against hope that this time I could get free. You're alone, you son of a bitch! Equal part screaming and crying. Every muscle in my body ate, and I felt like I was going to tear my shoulders out of the sockets. She owes me. The top hat man's voice was still that calm blue ocean of resolve.

The man resigned to. his decision, no matter how disgusting and terrible it may have been. She owes me her heart. I watched as he sunk the blade into Neela's chest and began to carve away at her flesh. What the hell is going on? I asked, holding the tarot card with my left and running my hand over her back with my right. I could feel her shudder and sob as I made an attempt to comfort her. She looked up at me finally, her eyes red and her mascara running down her cheeks.

I'll tell you, please just throw that thing out the window and get us the fuck out of here, Carter. I did like she asked. I rolled down my window and tossed the card and the envelope out. She sat up and wiped her face clean as I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. I glanced over at her, waiting for her to start explaining why she was freaking out. I was scared, and, to be honest, more than a little confused. In the 12 years I'd known Nila, over nine of them as husband and wife. I'd never seen her like that.

not ever. So, I said, coming off a little more stern and impatient than I had actually intended. Nila sobbed once and threw her hands over her face. She collected herself quickly and stared at me once again with her beautiful eyes. Carter, when I was younger, before I met you. She paused, like if she waited, maybe I would tell her to just not say it. I couldn't, though. I needed to know.

I wanted to help, and I couldn't do that without knowing. I simply looked back at her, switching my attention between her and the road as much as I could. Nila, please. Just tell me what's going on. When I was younger, she bit her lip. I had a stalker. A stalker? A million questions flooded my mind.

I tried my best to hold them back. The one that sat at the front managed to slip out, though. Why have you never told me about this? Again, this came out far more stern and upset than I had intended. I thought I was done with him, Carter. She fired back, angry at my impatience and my attitude. What happened to me, it's not exactly something I want to share. I wanted to spare you the gory details of my past.

Did he... I stopped the question in my mouth before I said it. I couldn't say the word. She finished my sentence in her head. Oh, Carter. No, he didn't. He fucked my mind, though. For years.

I was terrified to leave the house. I fucking left Washington to get away from him. I moved halfway across the country. I wanted to put it all behind me. How did he find you? I asked like I thought she might know. I was scared and just belting out the first thing that came to my mind. Nila visibly frustrated, put her hands over her face and spoke through her fingers.

I don't know. She was crying again. How the fuck could this happen? I reached over and put my hand on her shoulder. taking my eyes off the long stretch of country road that led back to our house. It's going to be okay, Neela. I'm here with you now, and I'm not going to let it... I remember feeling the impact jar me from my seat. Something struck our car from the side. The sound of shattered glass and twisting metal mixed with the screams of my wife.

I braced my body as the car flipped over onto its side and then rolled onto the roof, leaving us upside down for a brief second before continuing its roll into the ditch on the side of the road. I'm not sure when I struck my head, but the last thing I remember was Nila reaching out to me as we rolled, just before it all went black. I couldn't watch as the top hat man did his work, but the sounds. Oh, dear God, the sounds will haunt me for the rest of my life. The splattering of blood on the concrete, the crunch of breaking bone, and the wet, tearing sound as he finished.

I didn't cry, just hung my head and closed my eyes, worked calmly. at my restraints in the hopes I could free myself. I followed the Top Hatman in one example he set forth. Despite the horror, I tried to force myself to become a calm blue ocean of resolve. What I needed to do would not be clean or pretty, but I had no choice. His voice rang in my ears once again. A squee of pleasure as he climbed off of Nila's body and held his prize up in triumph. I opened my eyes once again, knowing exactly what I'd see before I did.

The top hat man stood facing me once again, his black clothes glistening with blood, his hand stained crimson. In one hand he held the knife, in the other. He held Niela's heart. He raised the object of his mad quest above his head and smiled from ear to ear. He asked me, lowering his gaze to mine. Do you see what she gave me? Gave you? I shouted at him, the tape around my wrists finally starting to give enough to begin wiggling my hand free.

She didn't give you anything, you psychotic bastard. You butchered her. You butchered my fucking wife. And I'm going to kill you. He lowered his hand and his smile drooped into a frown. His long face made it look almost. cartoony in expression. He took the heart and pressed it against his chest like some airloom of the past. He then raised it to his lips and kissed it. She loved me.

He said in a voice that truly believed each word. She loved me and gave me her heart. You're insane. I felt the tape slide just a little over my hand. I tried to keep the movement of my arm subtle just in case he was more present in the moment than he seemed. The cards told truths. He said, finally becoming visibly agitated at what I was saying.

She loved me. You saw! He walked over to me, dropping the knife into the sheath on his belt and pulling the tarot card from where it had been stuck on my head. He flipped it back around and shoved it in my face. Look! Look at what? The tape was nearly halfway down my thumb. It's a fucking tarot card, you nutcase! The old lady, she gave me the reading, My Red Neela was on the card. She's mine, always mine.

My true love. The cards told truths! The cards told truths! The cards told truths! I was keeping him distracted. It was when I said that she didn't give him anything that he became truly agitated. I held back the moon. misery that was welling in me, and I replaced it with anger and rage. It allowed me to fire

forth the most natural laugh I could. I felt like I was slipping into madness with this man. I laughed in absolute hysterics as I looked past the droopy-faced man in a top hat to my butchered wife behind him. I couldn't tell if I was was laughing or crying anymore. I wanted to die, but I wanted him to die first. This is about a fucking tarot card reading. My wife looked like the drawing on some goddamn tarot card, so you murdered her and cut out her heart.

I was laughing with no humor. My mind had snapped. There was actual fear in the top hat man's eyes as he watched me slip lower on the scale of sanity than him. My insides felt cold. Look at her. He said, pointing one gloved finger at the red-haired woman on the card, and streaked blood across its face. My red nila, we are the lovers.

Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Anne slid free from the tape, and it all happened so fast. I'm not sure either of us knew what was going on. The Top Hatman was close, so close I didn't need to lunge far to grab him. He was hunched down in front of me.

so he fell off balance quickly as I grabbed his head and pressed my thumbs into his temples. We both toppled to the ground with me on top of him and my chair on top of me. My feet were still taped to the base, so I dragged it with me as we slammed into the ground. I watched as his top hat flew from his head and landed at kneeless feet. I sunk my fingers into his skull and lifted it before slamming it into the concrete floor with every ounce of strength I could muster. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as it struck the concrete. He pawed for his knife, but I paid little attention as I lifted his head again, ready to crush his skull.

He brought the blade up. into my side. I howled in pain and forced his head down even harder this time. He grunted as my wife's heart fell from his hands and he left the knife jammed into my ribs. I picked his head up once more, my body only still moving through the power of pure rage. Over and over again, I slammed his head down, The blade sticking out of my side caused pain with each slam. I ignored the sharp, intense feeling. It was nothing compared to what I felt inside. I rolled off of him when the back of his head felt like mush in my fingers.

I cried and screamed and raged on the floor, for I don't know how long before I passed out. I woke up to the EMTs working on me. Apparently, we were in some warehouse in the industrial district of the city. By chance, some urban explorers happened upon me before I bled out there on the floor. There are times, far too many times, that I wish they never had. I miss Neal every day. As they worked on me, I asked them if he was dead.

I told them to tell me he was dead. Through a haze of blood loss and sadness, I needed to know he was rotting in hell. What I heard from them, though, were the worst words I could possibly hear. Uh, sorry, sir. You're the only one we found here. He lived. The son of a bitch lived through me beating his fucking head into the concrete over and over again. Not only did the top hat man not die, but he took her. He took my fucking wife. The EMTs had to sedate me.

I wouldn't stop thrashing around and screaming. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to die. I barely spoke for months afterwards. I was not exactly helpful to the police. The thought of that monster had consumed my life ever since. I've been tracking him, looking for him, It's taken years, six fucking years of searching. I found him, though, and tonight I'm going to end this story.

I even bought two tarot cards special just for him. Death. That one's his. I'm going to put it in his fucking pocket before I blow his brains out all over the fucking floor. Judgment, that one's for me. I'm going to put it in my pocket after I shove it in his long, greasy face, and when it's all over, it'll be my last statement to the world besides this story. Unlike the last time I saw a tarot card, though, these ones actually tell truths. He is fucking dead, and I'm his last judgment on this earth. I hope I see Neela again

in the next life. Thank you for joining us at the No Sleep Podcast. Please visit the nosleeppodcast.com to learn more about the show and how you can sign up for Season Pass 6. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast. We thank you for listening, and we hope you'll join us on September 6 for the start of Season 6.