The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Holiday Hiatus #1

Episode Date: December 22, 2019

The show is taking a holiday break this week but we're featuring classic tales from Season 13. "Don't Choose the Goat" written by Ali Habashi (Story starts around 00:02:15) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: David – Mike DelGaudio, Jack – Elie Hirschman, Tasha – Addison Peacock, Stefan – Erika Sanderson, Mila – Nichole Goodnight, Peter – Kyle Akers, Mila’s mom – Jessica McEvoy, Chaperone – Matthew Bradford "All Black" written by Lucas Colianni (Story starts around 00:26:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Oz – Atticus Jackson, Daniel – Dan Zappulla, Christine – Jessica McEvoy Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the Euro 2020 Live Tour   Click here to learn more about Ali Habashi   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Holiday Hiatus" illustration courtesy of Krista Neubert Audio program ©2018-2019 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Close our eyes. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast video store. I'm David Cummings. We're taking a holiday break this week, so our VCR is ready to play two classic stories from season past 13 episodes. We hope everyone is being festive and merry,

no matter how you choose to celebrate the winter solstice. Naturally, we're enjoying the early sunset. and the extra long nights. And speaking of, just a reminder that we're mere weeks away from the start of our Euro 2020 Live Tour. There are still tickets available to our shows in the UK and across the continent. Just go to the no sleeppodcast.com slash tour

for tickets and details. So as visions of sugarplums dance in your head, we hope you enjoy these tales. Now turn down the lights and grab the remote, because it's time for our feature presentation. In our first tale, it's time for graduation. Attending your child's graduation, even if it's just from third grade,

is a moment to be proud of. But graduations are normally kind of, well, normal. They certainly don't usually involve strange carousels and choices that claim to affect a child's entire future. But in this tale, shared with us by author, Ali Habashi, that's exactly what one father is faced with. You see, the graduating class all have to choose one animal to ride on the carousel. But is it as simple as it seems? Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Ellie Hirschman, Addison Peacock, Erica Sanderson, Nicole Goodnight, Kyle Akers, Jessica McAvoy, and Matthew Bradford. So take a ride, make the right choice. But whatever you do, don't choose the goat.

It was graduation day, and the Oak Hills Elementary Carousel was on fire. Or, at least that's what I thought at first. I'd never actually seen it with the lights on before. It had only ever been dark and still. But now, every flashing light bulb was blazing as the festivities in the auditorium wound to a close. I scanned the crowd of children for my son, as the parents and former third graders were ushered out into the quad. The chaperone by the door, one of the teachers, I think, was clapping and urging the kids forward as they scrambled away from whatever activities they had been doing.

Let's go, let's go, let's go. The snack table was completely ravaged. Candy wrappers and abandoned plates sticky with sauce or frosting stacked precariously high. Oh yes, the kids would all be riding that sugar train for a while. Hopefully Jack would crash early and wake up in time for church tomorrow. I noticed that some well-meaning adult had attempted to include a veggie platter on the snack table, and the untouched circle of green was like a secret garden among the trash. What a waste.

No one would force their kids to eat anything they didn't want to on that day, including me. The craft's table, well, that was a wreck as well. The half-corpses of crayons littering the floor, puddles of glitter glue like gore in an illustration graveyard. Those crayons were the expensive kinds, too. the kind that came in a box of 64 or 96. Jack's blonde head appeared suddenly at my side. He was flanked, as always, by a herd of his friends

who had opted to follow my son rather than locate their own parents. I knelt down and forced my face into a smile. Hey, there you are, buddy. How are you kids feeling? Excited? Yeah! I want the bear. This morning you said you wanted a cheetah.

I tried to remember if I had read anything about a bear in the world. booklet. I wish Ashley were there with us. She had driven herself half crazy reviewing the carousel's breakdown in the months leading up to the graduation. She would have known what the bear meant. I had told her she would make herself sick staying up all night, studying the booklet, and when she had developed the high fever the night before graduation, it had taken all my restraint not to lift the ice pack off her face, stare into her eyes and whisper, I told you so. Tasha wants the cheetah now. I don't want the cheetah anymore. I want the giraffe.

But I wanted the giraffe. No wonder, Ashley got sick. There was no telling which animal each kid would choose, despite the full year they had spent learning about them. Jack and his friends changed their minds three times a day. And even if they didn't, once you're in the carousel, raw instinct takes over. I noticed Tasha's parents standing by the door

and began to encourage the kids over, hoping the group would disperse naturally. Maybe there are two drafts. I glanced down at the last one to speak. I couldn't remember this kid's name. I think I had met her once, but she was soft-spoken and pretty average on the whole, so I figured she was kind of background. There are a lot of those when you're the parent with a sociable child.

This kid didn't attend our church either, so I automatically saw less of her. At the moment, she had a streak of dark glitter above one of her eyes from the crass table. Was this the new one? I vaguely remembered my son mentioning a new student. That was classic Jack to adopt the new kid into his group. I felt a little flush of pride at that. There's only one giraffe in our carousel, stupid. Jack, language.

The group began to disband as their parents called them over. It was starting to get tense in the auditorium. I could see it in the adult's faces. I wondered if our children could feel it too. I put a hand on my son's shoulder, noticing that his new-colored shirt had not been stained yet. Ashley would be happy about that. Jack was still warm from the dancing earlier.

His eyes wide with the sugar high he had achieved beforehand. He didn't look nervous at all. I had been nervous the night I had ridden the carousel. That had been back in Iowa in a school district with a much lower ranking and with a much smaller carousel. What I wouldn't give to have had the chance to ride a cheetah. It was getting dark now, and as our group bottlenecked through the auditorium doors and out into the quad, the Oak Hills carousel shone like a beacon. In the weeks leading up to graduation, the third graders had worked diligently on their final projects, the most important of which was the preparation of their three-story carous.

Colorful silks hung neatly from the shields, which had been polished spotless. They gleamed in the flashing light, hot white, blood orange, and emergency red red ball. bulbs winked down at us. The canopy was decorated with plastic flowers so that the most faded of the carousel's color was hidden away entirely. Beautiful painted walls spun slowly, depictions of animals and children running across their surfaces as they moved, so that it seemed as though the colorful mass of creatures was transformed into an equally bright playground of kids smiling and playing. It was awe-inspiring, as expected for the price of sending our kids here. I only wish that I could see the inside of it.

If the outside looked this incredible, then the animals themselves must have appeared almost alive. The music hadn't started yet, so I took a second to dispense some last-minute advice to my son. From the chorus of muttering going on around us, the other parents were doing the same. I took a knee and looked into my son's eyes. All right, buddy, this is it.

Do you remember what we learned this year about the carousel? It's important to follow our head, heart, and gut. His expression was stoic as he pointed to his face, chest, and stomach in turn. The animal that we choose is who we are. That's right, buddy. And what else did I teach you? Do you remember the most important thing?

Yeah, don't choose the goat no matter what. That's right. No matter what. You promise? Promise. Pastor Johnston says that only bad people choose the goat. I nodded, glad that he had listened. I only hoped that it would be enough to convince him should some faulty instinct take over.

I opened my mouth to say something else, anything else that might help him. But a song cut me off, soft and gravely at first, skipping unevenly over the tune like a record player in need of repair. Gradually, it grew louder and steadier, the tinny organ music beckoning the children away from our final advice. As the door slid open, I couldn't help but think it was like the Pied Piper's fantastical rotating tomb. No matter which school district it's in, a carousel door only opens twice a year, once to let our children in, and once again to let them out. Potential lives or dies behind that door. I threw my arms around Jack as he began to turn towards the churning machine,

and I hoped he wouldn't feel the desperate fear in my embrace. I love you. Releasing him and standing up, I stepped back and watched nervously as my only child moved towards. the carousel. He practically ran the speed of his pace completely without hesitation. My son was the first one to enter. The rest of the children, all either trapped in their own parents' anxiety hugs or staring into the wide-eyed wonder at the music box that had just invited them inside, seemed to come out of a trance when Jack bounded through the door.

Tasha was the first to break away, practically clawing at her mother to escape the worried clamp of her arms and striding purposely through the doors after Jack. Stefan was not far behind. Suddenly the quad was churning with kids eager to join the riders, and in a flurry of noise and color they sprinted, pushed, and shouted through the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the new kids stand on her toes and kiss her mom's cheek, where she surely left a sprinkle of glitter behind. She was the last one through, and as soon as she stepped over the threshold, the door slammed

shut. The carousel's musical score seemed to swell as the last of the children was swallowed. Tasha's parents spotted me and approached. Her mother nodded solemnly and ran a hand over the scratch her daughter had left her. Stefan's father joined us as well, and together we waited. No one in the quad spoke, not one word. It had taken Ashley and I nearly five years to get Jack into Oak Hill's elementary. We knew at the start that we could only afford to have one. one child, especially with the price of elementary schools skyrocketing like they had been in the years before Jack was born. Ashley, at one point, had asked me about whether or not it might be better to have a second child and just enrolled them both in a less expensive school, but I had

vetoed that idea immediately. Ashley didn't get it. She had gone to a pretty decent elementary and had some choice when it came to her carousel. She didn't know what the inside of a truly cheap carousel look like, but I did. It looked like chipped peeped. paint and splinters, and when it came to the animals, there was absolutely no choice at all. Initially, I had wanted the wolf. No, that's not right. I had kneaded the wolf. It's like that when you're in there, surrounded by the garish lighting and wincing at the volume of the fairground music.

A need. Even in a small carousel like mine, the choices seemed overwhelming until you find your mount. As soon as I saw the curve of its gray neck and the curl of its fur, it was almost as if none of the carousel's shortcomings had mattered anymore. I had traced one small hand over the faded green of its saddle and gripped and twisted the pole that shot between its shoulder blades. Howling filled my ears and drowned out the broken beat of the music just as my hazy surroundings snapped into sharp focus. I was the wolf. and then Peter had shoved me down, the back of my head knocked against the shoe-worn slats of the floor,

and by the time I sat up, he had stolen my seat. Sorry, but I called the wolf when we were outside. But he hadn't. He had called the badger. I had heard him. The wolf began to move. Every animal is frozen without a rider, the natural bob of the creature on the pole

triggered only by the weight of a child. and now the wolf was moving, without me. I choked back a sob when the pole started to shift. The animal, my animal, skewered beneath the biggest bully I had ever known. In the end, I had taken the dog. It was like the wolf, the same color as my first choice, coating its greyhound body. It looked even better, smoother, like it would rather play with me than bite me. Howling again filled my ears when I gripped the pole.

and by the time the ride had finished, I was content. But I never stopped wondering exactly who I'd be if I'd only ridden the wolf. I noticed Tasha's mother pull the Oak Hill's carousel booklet from her purse and began to flip through it. I followed suit, reaching into my back pocket and grabbing the 100 pages that my wife had memorized. Boar, beaver, bear.

Family. That was the bear's main attribute. and that wasn't bad. A strong family, a large family might be fun. I scanned through the required classes, applicable colleges, and recommended jobs first. I saw almost immediately that Jack couldn't possibly be this one. As a bear, he would be required to take every math class that his high school had to offer, plus extra summer classes, and Jack hated math. Decent college prospects for a bear, but I had always imagined him at a better school than any of the ones listed. The jobs ranged from construction to engineering, nowhere close to the political role I thought he might have grown into eventually.

Living conditions recommended a large house, small town. He would definitely change his mind once he saw the animals themselves. There was no way he was the bear. He's in third grade, I reminded myself. People change. Still. I skipped over the romantic compatibilities and began reading about the clubs and societies that benefited the bear. Not much. A few small-name groups that might help him find an internship or a daycare for his kids at some

point, but nothing too flashy. I wasn't expecting much help from the society section for any of the animals here, though. Even if I sold my house, hell, even if I sold 10 of my house, I wouldn't even touch the amount needed to send my kid to the schools with connections. Those schools were elite, nearly impossible to get in, unless you were the offspring of some celebrity or millionaire or something. Those carousels, well, they would have lions, griffins, dragons, and an entire pack of wolves, easy. Either way, Jack would have other networks, or church, for one, unless, of course, he chose the goat. The organ music ground on. Then the song hitched, the machinery stalled, and stopped.

Everything reversed. All of the children had chosen their animal. Now as the murals turned slowly before us, it looked as though the playground of children were ballooning into animals, a flurry of feathers and scales and fur punctuated by the gleam of eyes and teeth and talons. The painted animals were too realistic, I decided suddenly. They should have been more cartoonish, smiling and dancing and holding hands. In the blink of the fiery bulbs, the shadows dipped too deeply into their roaring mouths. At the heart of the roiling herd I saw the goat rearing its ugly head.

Black box pupils and curling horns in a mass of brown fur highlighted red with the light. The boy who had chosen a goat at our school had been called Miguel. My most vivid memory of him was of the last time he was in class with us. Peter, the boy who had taken the wolf from me, was leaning over Miguel's desk and chanting an old playground song. It was the one that the girls always sang when they jumped rope. Nothing good about a goat, a goat's no good. Doesn't do the things that an animal should.

He screams all day and he bucks all night. Better watch out for his overbite. Nothing good about a goat's no good. Wouldn't grow a brain even if he could. Want some food, but he doesn't have cash. That's when the goat goes and eats some trash. Nothing good about a goat. A goat's no good.

Dumber than coal or firewood. Peter only stopped singing when the pencil had gone all the way through his eye, like a pole through a carousel animal. We didn't see Miguel again after that. Now, I knew that all goats probably weren't violent offenders, but the statistics don't lie. prisons in the U.S. were packed with goats. I don't think anyone could blame a parent for wanting their child to steer clear of that risk.

Please, God, let Jack have picked anything, anything at all but the... I gasped as the first child stepped through the door. Tasha's toothy grin was wide and triumphant, and I heard her mom draw in a shaky breath beside me. I felt a thin layer of sweat blanket my skin. Where was Jack? Had the pecking order changed? Had he been cast out before the door had even opened?

And then one pale hand reached out and tugged on one of Tasha's braids. She yelped and smacked at him. Jack elbowed her in the side, and they laughed roughly as they both shoved their way towards us. Wait for me! Stefan bounded after them as the throngs of post-carousel children poured out of the machine and sought their parents. My niece nearly gave out with relief. Jack still had friends, and the fact that they had... had led the children out of the carousel meant that they hadn't chosen weak options either.

There was no need to ask what they had chosen. Each child had started babbling at once as soon as they were close enough. Dad, Dad, I got the boar. It had super sharp tusks like this on its nose. I got the crocodile, and Jack and I were practically right next to each other, but I was up and to the side to the right. Yeah, Tasha was on the crocodile, and it was so awesome. It had jaws like this.

The boar that Jack was on, had this dark fur that was like... I wrote the swan. Their wings were gigantic. You could tell, even though they weren't open and spread out. There is no swan, Stefan. You got a goose. There are no swans in our carousel, Stefan.

We learned about the goose in class. See, Jack says so too. Told you. I glanced at Stefan's fathers, and they nodded and mouthed goose. Glancing down at my own packet, I flipped back a few pages and scanned the information on the boar. career that was the main attribute for the boar huh i could have sworn jack would have chosen something with a social ranking like the dog people change i brightened when i saw the rest starting in the following year jack would automatically be signed up for a solid balance of classes with sports-based extracurricular activities

speech and debate would be added as an extracurricular in high school with an opportunity for student government roles after sophomore year he would ultimately have a great pick when it would came to university options, there were even some international ones on the list. And the jobs, the choices ranged from professional sports to consulting to law. I nearly cried when I noticed that there were even a few societies listed in the networking section. Jack, you picked an amazing animal, bud. I knelt down and scooped him into a hug, squeezing him to me despite his muffled protest. After church tomorrow, I am going to buy you the biggest frozen. and yogurt with whatever you want on top, okay?

Really? Yeah, I am so proud of you. You know that? Yeah. I let Jack escape and stood up, feeling the weight of that night lift from my shoulders. In about a week, Jack would receive his official ID card in the mail. He would be registered in the system as a bore, and next year he would start his required classes. Ashley's anxiety would improve, and we would finally be able to sleep easier.

It was finally over. Mila. I glanced to my left and noticed that a mom, the new kid's mom, was wringing her hands and staring at the open carousel door. Mila, so that was her name. A teacher came forward to start corraling the children. Tasha, your dress. The little crocodile's outfit was completely splashed with something. The latest sacrifice to the craft's table, no doubt.

Stefan, not you too. What is on your shoes? Did you step in paint, kiddo? I chuckled and glanced down at Jack's pristine collared shirt. And I frowned. I swiped a thumb over a few large spots that had appeared over his heart like merit badges. They were still wet. Was this here earlier?

What is this, Jack? Mila. Mila, please come out of the carousel now, honey. The kids had gone quiet, but they were all exchanging excited glances with each other. Their baby teeth had started falling out a few years earlier, and the jumble of two large adult teeth fitted in their mouths reminded me of the murals on the carousel, still twisting behind them. I looked around, and even in the dark,

it was clear that ours were not the only children that were stained. It happened in the carousel. I glanced down at Jack, at his two large teeth. Mila, mella, please come out of there. The door is going to close. Jack, where is Mila? Please, Mila. Please come out.

In the carousel? Why? Jack stared at me, and the carousel seemed to burn behind him. Mila chose the goat. The memory of Miguel, of the day that he had stabbed Peter suddenly resurfaced from the deepest pools of my repression. I had been the one to start the chant, the one about the goat. Peter may have been the wolf, but I was the dog, and ever since the carousel, we had run in the same pack. Nothing good about a goat, a goat's no good.

Doesn't do the things that an animal should. Only bad people choose the goat, Dad. Nothing's good about a goat, a goat's no good. And Milo was stupid and chose it anyway. Teeth, tusks, howl, Eyes spark flash fire, scratch, super sharp tusks, jaws like this. The wings were gigantic, you could tell. Mila.

Mila. Her name was Mila. So we didn't let her leave. Mila! Just as all eyes seemed to flash to my son, the carousel door slammed shut, and everything was dark and still. With a creepy eye and a twisty horn, Should have stayed home, should have never been born.

A goat's no good. Nothing good about a goat. Nothing left to do but cut its throat. In our final tale, we meet a man who's decided it'd be a great idea to meddle with forces beyond his control. When boredom sets in, some of us turn to podcasts or video games or going for a walk. No, not this guy. He decides to dabble in dark magic. His goal, to summon a creature from the other side.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Lucas Colliani, things don't go quite as planned. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson, Dan Zepula, and Jessica McAvoy. So next time you're suffering from crushing on we, maybe just read a book, because there's no light in this magic, it's all black. I don't remember precisely when I began my fascination with black magic. I'm sure the seed was planted by one too many old school HTML sites with black backdrops and animated skulls adorned with melting candles. Life bored me, a little too much.

I've always had proficiency for memorization and the regurgitation of whatever it was I had learned. As I was patting myself on the back for all of my academic accolades, I found myself slipping further and further down the proverbial slope of apathy. I realized I was being horribly unreasonable, but there was still some infantile side of me that wanted radical discoveries and divine insights to be part of human existence. So, naturally, the supernatural was a field of study

that snatched my interest. From websites that made my antivirus software nervous to ectomorphic bookkeepers that made good parents nervous, I entered the world of the religious underbelly. Entry into the occult is no small undertaking. You got to know the right people. And the right people tend to be the wrong people you want your buddies to know, you know. I crawled my way up the demonic food chain over the years,

and surprisingly enough, death metal bands tend to shed the most light on these very shady practices. However, a recent conversation with an occult chieftain of satanic flavor had directed my attention towards rituals that crossed the horizon between ethereal, intangible. He had dawned the head of an eight-point stag as an insidious helm and made intimidating eye contact throughout our conference, which I would have taken more seriously if the deer hadn't obviously been caught off guard at the time of its demise.

It made the man look surprised through the stupefaction of the animal's eye-holes. He turned me on to the Arsgoetia and the black church. as well as the methodology of various rituals. The word grimoire invokes visions of high schoolers smoking cigarettes in the bathroom and reading romantic wizard fiction. I, however, got my hands on several dusty, dismembered entries of unholy texts and constructed a ritual that would give me just what I wanted. A divine radical encounter with something we cannot explain.

I had acquired almost everything I needed to put my place. plan into motion. All that was left was to rendezvous with my close friend Daniel, who would no doubt supply me with the last grotesque piece to my satanic machine. Absolutely fucking not. Daniel, what the hell? You owe me for county, dude. What you're asking? We'll do a lot worse than fucking county, man. True, but your old man would have beat your ass a lot worse than fucking prison. I'm not stealing human skin, Ozzie. I'm not going to be skin stealer Daniel for the rest of my life. You're not going to get caught, dude. Organ banks are still totally underdeveloped. There's so much room for error. No, don't sleep with him. That's skin-stealer Dan Wheeler. Skin-steely dad...

Your dad already gets you in under the radar anyway. You're like a ghost. Ozzie, why are you doing this to me? I know I said you can ask me for anything, but what the fuck, dude? Black magic? Really? When this doesn't work, all that risk for nothing. And even if it does, you're calling the goddamn devil. I'm not the most devout Christian, but from what I remember, Satan isn't the friendliest motherfucker you want crawling out of dead people's skin. You're right, dude. Because jump-starting some dude's grand coop to impress a chick you met scanning your groceries wasn't risky.

I was drunk, Oz. You can't get me for that. How could I be so dense? My bad, you piece of shit. Dan, you said anything, and I expect you to retain your honor. I steal cars, man. I'm not some Haragana chivalry. But we go way back.

That shit means a little more between friends. Daniel looked over his shoulders like there was somebody eavesdropping. But all it really meant was that he was actually going to agree to something he knew was wicked stupid. All right, bro, I'll, uh, I'll fucking get you the skin. But I swear to God, Our tab is even, and if I get caught, I expect you to tell Megan from Quickstop that I'll wait for her on the other side. I'm sure she'll be faithful. Thank you, thank you, thank you, bro.

First round's on me. Thanks, dog. I can't believe I have this little respect for myself. Daniel came through with 10 pounds of human flesh, and it felt like cold, yeast-risen dough and plastic wrap between my fingers. The way my eyes looked in the mirror always felt a little different than before he supplied me with the humanoid paraphernalia. All that remained was for Christine to transport me to the decrepit building that stood forsaken in the woods, miles away from civilization. Dude, your backpack reeks of death. It's probably Frederick's flesh and the deadbirds.

No shit. I'd belittle you if I didn't have 15 tattoos that look. just like what you have in that duffel bag. You know, tramp stamps will get you laid a lot quicker than dead animals? You know, tattoos of dead animals will get you laid a lot quicker than actual dead animals. I need a lot more than ink to get laid. You think your axles can handle the shit? Yep. Remember I hit that deer last year and nothing too terrible happened?

Right. That deer. He may have been doe-eyed, but I don't think his parents would appreciate your recollection. I think you're missing the point that my train. truck can take a beating. All right, all right. I trust you and your boys up in Detroit. You ever been out this far? Not even close. I usually turn around about three miles ago. Well, thanks for indulging me. You believe in what I'm doing out here? As a god-fearing woman? Fuck no. I respect that. But don't you feel shackled by common understanding? Hey, I go to church and get validation for breathing. You can try to talk to Lucifer and find you a real reason for living, but I try to believe in what my pastor preaches.

And you're fine with that? Maybe, maybe not. All I've been taught is to avoid the man you're trying to hold conversation with. But that's exactly what I think I should do. Interact with the people I've been conditioned not to talk with. Or maybe they say you shouldn't because they know what they're talking about. Well, I'll get back to you if you're right. Jesus Christ.

Easy. I don't think he'd appreciate your sacrilegious behavior. My gesture to the limestone replica of Jesus on the cross appearing before us, withered away from the elements over a generous amount of time. Christine smiled and put the vehicle into first gear and then slowed it down to a stop before unlocking all four of the doors. We left the vehicle, my door slamming a little gentler than Christine's. Whop, I sure as hell ain't joining you on this supernatural endeavor.

but consider us even for introducing me to your brother. You still owe me, and I still feel a little bitter for selling out my own family. Marcus has never been happier than with a bitch like me. Well, thanks. I appreciate you enabling my mental illness. Hey, some people believe in God, some people put their faith in the devil. Who am I to judge? Word, love you, Chris. Remember, my brother hates it when you get back late.

At this point, I just do it to see him get mad. but you make sure Lucifer doesn't ruin that pretty face of yours. Impossible. Marcus will be home by four. Get moving. Say hi to the devil for me. Godspeed, Ozzy. Godspeed.

Christine looked at the large oak door and then back at me. Her concern changed to optimism and she gave me a hug. She exaggerated her strides to the driver's seat and shut the door. The echoes sent three flocks of birds on a nondescript journey to the second best branches to perch upon. Once she was gone, the outdoors sounded empty, but the inside of my brain sounded turbulent. I faced the building, alone, yet determined. I lugged my sack of sacrilege alongside me until the old oak door slammed behind me. The windows projected beacons of yellowish light peppered with dust that spoke to the age of the structure I just set foot in. Finding a

truly forsaken building is a much greater task than most would believe. If somebody has pimples and a bad attitude, chances are they are already on their way to spray paint and pass out in whatever abandoned building you want to peacefully summon evil inside. I found out about this beauty through urban legends concerning hermit ghosts and then rifled through some county record books to discover that the old property actually existed. The only thing revealing its location was a dirt road that could easily be mistaken for a hiking trail. All things considered, the infrastructure was in pretty good shape. Still creepy, though.

The foyer was sprawling and smelled like my grandma's house. It had an expansive wooden floor that resembled an incomplete jigsaw puzzle. There was shoddy decorative furniture, a frayed cord that hung from the ceiling with its gas lamps divorced and in pieces on the floor, and bushes of dust growing in any... corner that was away from the cracked windows. In the far right corner, there was a cellar entrance with its door unhinged and frosted with cobwebs. I figured the basement would be the best location on the off-chance any hikers who got lost saw the place and wanted to take shelter.

I headed towards the basement door, the entire house complaining along the way. After sending my right foot through three different steps, I made it to the solid clay floor. I reached into my goody bag to retrieve my utility flashlight and shine the white light around the black ether. The floor was dry clay, but from years of debris and animal nesting, the ground had the appearance of new forest soil. The basement was laid out much differently than the foyer above it. There were many rooms partitioned off by walls made of materials unknown. I was impressed by what I saw during my self-guided tour. There was a room completely covered with ornate rugs, another piled high with once-fined china and trinkets,

some with locked doors, a room that was probably some sort of study with a huge mirror and books strewn everywhere, one with a large divot in the ground that held a lot of standing water, as well as a few more rooms of vague definition. I concluded that the underground was dug out to be far bigger than the structure above. I settled on a room that was almost entirely empty, save for a couple of picture frames with no occupants. I made it a point to leave the doors wide open in the event I needed to make a quick escape. I stared into the contents of my bag, and it almost felt like they stared back at me. I ground up graveyard dirt, a variety of berries, goat's blood, my own urine, as well as a few other cliche ingredients in a large mortar of rough calcite.

Candles of sheep's fat were lit to administer that almost palpable ceremonious feel. I retrieved a few small sheaves of rye infected with ergot and lashed them together to create a sort of frail twine. The next step required a more macabre offering. In a large vacuum-sealed bag, I had concealed seven dead crows. Surprisingly easy to kill with a pellet gun.

I bound their legs together with the twine and hung them upside down from the low ceiling rafters. Mugwort dipped in red wine and then dried again was burned to inoculate the room with a growing, oddly inviting haze. An athamaze, an inscribed ceremonial dagger that is just another household tool for those who wish to perform acts of witchcraft. I unsheathed my own and began carving up the old clay floor, reading the lesser key of Solomon, One will find that there is no shortage of information regarding the satanic occult, and I used it subdivision, the Arsgoetia, to familiarize myself with the demons I plan to contact. Using the latter and several other sources of text, I was able to create a sigil that would allow me to pass through this world and look at the next.

I finished my outer ring and inscribed Pymon in between its circles. I poured my dirt and blood mixture into the grooves and brandished my piece de resistance, human skin. I laid it in the middle of the symbol. Reading about the demon, Pymon, everything I encountered spoke about an offering. I decided my own blood was sufficient, so I sliced my palm with the athame and let it dribble down onto the heap of flesh. I began my incantations.

Halfway through my Latin rhetoric, I began to feel a warm fuzz ascend quickly from my center, much like the come-up of a good psychedelic. I couldn't help but smile as it climbed up to my face. I could swear the glow of the candles was dropping to lower and lower shades of red. As I continued, I could hear the echo of my voice sounding deeper than my own. It sounded like a choir of Gregorian. and monks was assisting me with my recitations. I looked towards the center of the seal, and my body jumped a little bit. The mound of flesh was pulsing.

Less pulsing, because that implies a rhythm. What was transpiring on the floor looked more akin to something trying to wrestle its way out of the skin. As the deep echoes and I continued our chanting, the pile of flesh continued to ride, and I was beginning to hear what sounded like several bones snapping and dislocated joints being popped back into position. It was growing and fast. I was kneeling down and my creation was already reaching the height of my chest. I finished my vowels in time to catch my breath, only to lose it again.

The skin thrashed and slithered. I saw sections stretch out into what looked like mangled fingers. Pieces split apart and resembled empty eye sockets and open maws. Two long, crude arms burst forward and thudded onto the ground, complete with hands that mothered eight mangled fingers each. Then another two, and the creature began to evolve from the ambiguously embryonic to the horrifically macabre. Three fleshy faces sprouted out of the beast and were conjoined by one. gaping mouth. I wanted to say something to it, but I couldn't find the words. My thoughts twisting like the creature before me. My attention lay buried in the open mouth, and I swore I saw movement

inside. I was already only a few feet away from the monster, but I wanted to lean in further, to touch it. I felt absorbed by it. There was no fear. I only felt deep curiosity. as my face practically entered its gaping mall. I was met with still darkness, an orpheusal eye in the center of an anatomical tempest. Its breath was hot, damp, and stale, but I persisted to peer deeper into the creature. The subtle movement inside caught my attention,

and I tried to focus on it until I could finally see what it was. Two small bony hands wrung themselves around each other inside of the mouth. It almost felt like I made eye contact with them. They paused and separated themselves. My stomach turned when the hands exuded the electric tension of an animal corner. I rocked back, but it was too late. The bony hands plunged into my head. What the fuck!

I tumbled onto my ass. All I saw was a brief flash of red so quick that I wasn't sure if I was experiencing it or remembering it. There was nothing but black as I used my hands to inspect the state of my face. Sharp pain greeted me as my middle finger rounded the socket that was normally occupied by my right eye. My thoughts were off the rails, consumed by panic and fear. My horror acted like gravity as it kept my body stunned in place where I thought. fell. Luckily, my instincts broke the lock my head held on my body, and I managed to stumble to my feet and sprint towards the exit with only half of my balance. Arms perpendicular,

I ran into the frame of the door and managed to skirt the corner into a different room. My fingers probed the tender flesh under my empty sockets. I spun my head back and forth as I tried in vain to capture some inkling of light. There was nothing. The sounds coming from the Ritual Room reminded me of a newborn animal trying to make its legs work for the first time. As my psyche was coping with the loss of one of my favorite senses, my ears relayed to me that the creature's stumbling was becoming less drunken and began to sound a crude version of the waltz. It was going to come for me. I had to get out of the building, but I could barely remember the layout of the basement.

I shuffled away from the wall with steps shackled by uncertainty. Hands out in front of me. I continued forward, arms waving gently to and fro. Walking while blind was like swimming through a pool of black ink, and without the wall it felt like I was stranded in open water. I figured the walls were my only lifeline, so I sidestepped back to the rough surface and used my fingertips to call the dark unknown before me.

At this point, I was just drifting unguided. I had no idea what room I was in. room I was in, or which room was the exit. I figured if my fingers could get a feel of what every wall was bearing, and I could eventually piece together a sort of rail blueprint that I could use to navigate. All I had to do was avoid the noise that the creature was making, and I could remain out of harm's way. I ran my fingers around a wooden frame, and then a cold, smooth surface. Must have been the mirror from the study. I was adding the study to the map in my mind. When the thumping from the ritual room began to sound different,

there was deliberation in the thuds, movement with purpose, a vector. The footsteps, if I can call them that, were of course headed in my direction. Instead of trying to outpace it, I decided to double back, because I figured it would take the beast a longer time to turn itself around.

Judging by the smell and past the ritual room, again and continued into a room with a large tapestry on the wall and the secretary desk with knick-knacks that I toppled over. It wasn't too difficult to avoid the raucous monster, but I realized I too was making plenty of noise to be followed with. I navigated three more rooms and had a rough blueprint. The ritual room was more or less in the center. Adjacent on the left was the room I made my escape through, characterized by lots of empty cabinets.

The next room to the left had a stone wall and what must have been a fireplace. If I walked another room perpendicular and forward, that was the study. But since I had reversed direction, I doubled back to the tapestry room. And then there was the fine china room. Another room forward held a few empty wine racks, and this room was in a corner. I was placing this room into my mental layout when I realized I no longer heard the obnoxious stomping. I took in a light gas and trained my ears.

It was quiet. Fear makes silence weigh a thousand pounds, and without my sense of sight, that weight was borderline bone snapping. I baited my breath and finally heard it. It was fucking tiptoeing to get to me. The long, exaggerated strides, sent chills down my spine.

But even worse, was the fact that I couldn't pinpoint where they were coming from. They were too soft for me to hear which walls the sound was bouncing off of. I was fucked. I had no idea if I would walk right into a brutal mutilation. Each one sounded closer, yet remained untraceable. The anxiety was brain melting, and I had to make something happen before my heart exploded. I removed my shoe and launched it overhead into the blackness. I knew which room it was moving through. The China room. I made a breakaway through the opposite door and cleared a few rooms,

my hand dragging along the walls to get a quick idea of their composition. I knew it had made it to the room with the shoe. Silence returned to conceal the beast, but this time I had a good idea of where it was prowling. I must have been in the space ahead of the ritual room by then, but honestly, I didn't know. Sacrificing the shoe scored me some breathing room, but after my foot grazed over a few pieces of glass, I realized that one misstep, and I would give away my position. I continued to tread lightly until the sock on my left foot soaked up some cool water around the big toe.

I was cornered. The divot allowed the entire room. to fill with stagnant water from what I remembered, which meant a lot of fucking noise if I tried to pass through. Reverseing direction was a no-go unless I felt like confronting demon spawn. I decided to jump it. I let off a little slack in my knees and threw my weight into my legs. Shit. The water tasted like dirt and rust.

I nursed the top of my head with an investigatory rub from where it had kissed the sea. stealing and wasted no time scrambling out of the puddle. It had no doubt heard the fall, but getting frantic and losing my place was not an option. I didn't have the time to fully survey the rooms I moved through. I ran my hands over a large picture frame, some kind of knob protruding from a wall, a desk complete with a lamp, and as I reached the edge of the room, some kind of chair. I rounded the door frame and put my back and weight against the wall. I panted as quietly as I could, hands pressed to my thighs.

I couldn't believe this shit was happening. Since stopping, the throbbing made my head wound feel a lot bigger than it was. I was unsure if I could keep going. I thought of all the people that loved me and how I had traded them all away for a supernatural evil that I only got to see for a brief moment. I was so consumed by the allure of it all that I never even imagined what would happen after I pulled it off.

The memories heard worse than the pain. I had got what I wanted, even though I never knew what that was, an answer without a question. Only two things played in my mind. First, the visualization of bursting forth through the oak door upstairs and into air that didn't stick to my lungs.

Second, the face, if I could even call it that, of my creation. and whatever it was that squirmed around inside of it. Determination and defeat cycled around my mind and had me mentally seasick. I thought it was my turbulent state of mind that was making my head split. But then my skull felt two times tighter. I recoiled and flung my palms up to my forehead and pressed down to try to alleviate some of the pressure.

What the fuck was happening? My previously empty sense of sight began to fuzz up and create an image. All of a sudden, my vision was crystal clear. I moved my hands down and waved them in front of my face, but they were nowhere to be found. I didn't understand. I whipped my head back and forth, but the image only slowly coasted forward.

There were stalactites of pale sunlight oozing, through the loose boards overhead, and they only gently illuminated the room I was seeing. I tried to orient my sight. There was a small, dilapidated wooden animal head mounted on the wall, a crusty desk with a piano lamp, and near the room's exit, a fucking chair. The same chair I had just fumbled past before rounding the doorframe.

In the glint of shattered glass, I saw the reflection of pallid limbs in motion. They barely resembled anything terrestrial. My vision approached the doorway and slowly skirted its frame to observe a familiar humanoid shape sprinting away down the hallway. Me. When I could no longer see myself, I darted through an open door I felt with my left hand. My sight passed the door I had ducked into and continued forward. When the creature realized it had lost me, it slowed to its signature crawl.

It was still on the move, scanning. It passed the study again, the one with the mirror, and I was treated to a full-blown, viscerally abhorring view of my satanic child. I wanted to vomit. Back and forth I softly knocked my head against the wall, as if to stimulate some miraculous epiphany. I got control of myself and invited back my composure. It was nauseating to think in my body and observe through another.

I quietly fell to hands and knees and began navigating my way across the floor, the way a mold travels through dirt. My open hands surveyed to and fro until they reached something familiar. I wrapped them around the malleable, warm fat of my extinguished candles. I was in the ritual room, the epicenter of the basement. The cogs of cognition began to turn again, and I scoured the ground to find as many candles as I could get my hands on. I rose to my feet and returned to the walls. I scooted along the perimeter of the room and found all three doors. I popped myself out of a doorway and threw a candle down the hall I anticipated to be closest to the exit.

I retreated back to a corner of the ritual room and waited. The creature took off, hunting down the bang it had just heard. My vision followed. Using the hazy light that trickled from above, I began scoping out the hallways and rooms the monster barreled through. It arrived at my candle, and my sight was whipped back and forth. It was searching.

It marched onward, and I slipped out of the ritual room into the hallway and tiptoed to where the beast had come from. In order to make this work, I essentially had to daydream. my way into my memories and ignore what the creature was currently seen. I lobbed another candle and darted around an inconspicuous corner. The creature turned around and hauled ass towards the new sound. I was beginning to recognize my whereabouts. It scanned the room it was in. I was looking at paintings I recognized, overturned pots I sort of remembered. But most importantly, a few of my own

footprints in the detritus. If I could lead it backwards along my footprints, I could find the staircase. It did it twice over of the room, but then turned back to the door it had just come from. It stood there, and we both stared into the murk. I knew I was being paranoid, but I swore I could almost make my shape out at the far end. But it turned around and proceeded through a door perpendicular to my prince. I gave a gentle exhale and traced the monster's directions. I felt the pots

and picture frames with my sore fingertips. I passed the door it used and located the one where the prince remained. I tossed another candle. I did a complete backpedal through the door I had entered from and watched as the creature jumped from

room to room until it came to a stop in a room that had an ornate wooden doorframe. It didn't I didn't take any time to scout its surroundings this time. I figured it was getting frustrated. It popped a 180 and exited out the door it had come through. I waited for a bit and then tuned back into my memory to get to the new checkpoint. I felt the intricacies of the wooden door frame and slipped inside.

This time I was on my own. I ran my hands along the walls and got to the door on the other side. I found the knob and suddenly put some torque on it. It didn't budge. I tried with a little more Vim this time, but it remained unmovable. I let out a brief gasp and dropped to all fours. With more movement than was responsible, I scoured the ground, my heart beginning to pound. I had never actually checked to see if there was a candle when the creature had stopped here.

I was baited. I tuned back to my vision, into my horror, saw I turn around and saunter back to the entrance of the room I was in. I observed a familiar person on the floor, revealed only by a sliver of light. I made eye contact with empty holes in my head. I witnessed my own face twist into grotesque trepidation as the monster crept closer and closer. I couldn't scream, only sputter did a flee. I was scared of losing everybody. I was scared of how bad it was going to hurt.

But mostly, but mostly, I was scared of what I was going to look like, watching myself as I died. As the lights come back on, our stories come to an end. Please remember to be kind and rewind. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us at the video store next week. Our door is always open.

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