The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast Presents The New Decayed Episode 01

Episode Date: January 5, 2020

It's episode 01 of The NoSleep Podcast presents: The New Decayed. On this week's show we deal with the trauma people can face from their… Inner Demons.Disclaimer: This is our first experimental miniseason. For this five-part series you’ll be joining Jessica McEvoy and Olivia White as they delve into the experimental, dark abyss of horror. Instead of taking an extended break during the European tour, we thought we’d try out something new. We’ll be taking this miniseason in directions outside of the usual mandate of The NoSleep Podcast. Some episodes of this miniseason are not for the faint of heart. Some are not for the squeamish. It’s not mandatory listening. If you choose to consider this a break and wait for Season 14, that’s fine. If you choose to join us, then brace yourselves. We’ll be taking you places."Ghosts on Drugs" written by Robert Stahl (Story starts around 0:09:17)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Graham Rowat"Janelle’s Baby" written by Mr. Michael Squid (Story starts around 0:25:01)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Atticus Jackson & Jessica McEvoy"The Strangler" written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 0:37:27)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Jessica McEvoyClick here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about Hasani Walker's Kickstarter Click here to learn more about artist cvasiacru Click here to learn more about Robert Stahl Click here to learn more about Mr. Michael Squid Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor Executive Producer: David CummingsHost: Jessica McEvoyThe New Decayed showrunner: Olivia WhiteMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Shards" illustration courtesy of cvasiacruAudio program ©2019-2020 - 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

Hi there, Jessica McAvoy here. New Year, New You. That's how the saying goes. And for those who are able to use the calendar to help achieve new goals or make positive changes, that's great. But for others, the prospect of a new year might be daunting, or simply not enough to push you into taking those steps you need to take to improve your life. Then there are people who are in situations where a new year won't change anything at all. People such as those featured in the opening episode of our mini-season,

which focuses on the darkness and horror that can be found in trauma. For people facing these kinds of issues, the clock ticking over to midnight might as well be soundless. Of course, the subjects we often deal with in horror stories require some major solutions. But sometimes all you need to start improving things for the new year is a helping hand. That's where better help comes in. BetterHelp will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist.

You can start communicating in under 24 hours. It's not a crisis line. It's not self-help. It is professional counseling done securely online. There is a broad range of expertise in BetterHelp's counselor network, which may not be locally available in many areas. BetterHelp service is available for clients worldwide. It doesn't matter when you need help, day or night. You can log into your account any time and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses.

Plus, you can schedule weekly video or phone sessions so you won't ever have to sit in an uncomfortable waiting room. Plus, you can even chat and text with your therapist between sessions. BetterHelp is committed to facilitating great therapeutic matches, so they make it easy and free. to change counselors if needed. It's more affordable than traditional offline counseling, and financial aid is even available. So whenever you need help, visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep

and join the over 500,000 people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. No sleep listeners get 10% off your first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So if there are changes you want to to make in 2020 and you need help in doing so, then don't be afraid to ask. And making changes for 2020 doesn't even need to be the reason.

So don't try and go it alone if you're struggling. And don't be afraid to reach out preemptively. That's what services like BetterHelp are for to offer a helping hand. So remember, reach out to that helping hand by visiting BetterHelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% off your first month. To our experimental mini-season. For this five-part series, you'll be joining myself and Olivia White

as we delve into the experimental, dark abyss of horror. Instead of taking an extended break during the European tour, we thought we'd try out something new. We'll be taking this mini-season in directions outside of the usual mandate of the No Sleep podcast, to see what lands and what doesn't.

Some episodes of this mini-season are not for the faint of heart. Some are not for the squeamish. It's not mandatory listening. Each episode has a theme revealed in the title. If that theme isn't for you, then please don't feel obliged to sit through it as you would a regular episode. Not every episode will plumb the darkest depths of horror, but some will.

We will, as usual, provide trigger warnings for you. each of the stories. But again, we stress, this mini-season is experimental. There's no shame in changing the channel and adjusting your sets. If you'd prefer to wait for service to resume as normal, then our next full season, season 14, will begin in February, and we'll see you then. If you're still here and intend on joining us for this episode, then I'm Jessica McCavoy, and this is the new. Decade. Hello and welcome to our inaugural episode of The No Sleep Podcast Presents, the New Decade. I'm Jessica McAvoy, and I'll be your host on this journey through the experimental as we embark on a

mini-season in which Olivia White serves as showrunner. This is episode one, and it's entitled Inner Demons. It deals with people struggling against things inside themselves. Trauma, PTSD. addiction, loss. But before we get into that, there are some announcements to make. Firstly, why is this mini-season happening at all? Well, you may or may not be aware that David and the British team are off-touring Europe. First, the UK, then select other countries in the continent. Normally, we'd be launching season 14 around now.

But with the tour happening at the same time, we decided to take the opportunity to offer something different. There's no fixed length for these episodes, and they'll be available to anyone who wants to listen. Season past 13 owners will receive the episodes ad-free a day early, but the content itself is available to all. As we noted in the disclaimer,

this mini-season might not be for everyone. We'll be testing out some ideas for additional content, new and old. Some might seem alien and far removed, from what the podcast usually does. Others might seem nostalgic and familiar, especially to those who hold seasons one and two dear in their hearts. It might be an unmitigated disaster, but let's hope not.

Second item on the agenda is a fantastic project by beloved No Sleep podcast artist Hassani Walker, alongside our extremely talented producer Phil Mikulski and our musical maestro, Brandon Boone. It's a stop motion animation called The Christmas Visitor, and they're looking to fund it via Kickstarter to take on the festival circuit this year. It's an excellent looking short film, as you can see from the trailer on the Kickstarter, and they could really use our support right now. So, head over to the link in the show notes and back the project if you can, or even just sharing it on social media will be a great help. Thirdly, and finally, big thanks and a shout out to Brandon Boone.

two thanks to Brandon in one episode, kind of excessive but okay, for composing a brand new experimental theme for this mini-season, while preparing to go on tour and writing all the music for that. Olivia and I both hugely appreciate it. Wow, Assumptions Olivia. And I hope you enjoy this new take on our iconic theme. And that's it. Now, on to the stories. In our first tale, we meet a man who finds himself haunted by an unusual group of ghosts. While they might not be the horrifying monsters we've come to expect from a ghost story, it's easy to imagine how difficult living with spirits like these would be. Sharing this tale with us is author Robert Stahl,

and as he proves, ghosts don't have to be after you to put your life at risk. Performing this tale is Graham Rowett. So try not to party too hard. and don't let the specters trash your apartment, especially when you're dealing with ghosts on drugs. You know the ghosts were in your apartment the minute you opened the door, before you've even loosened the tie that's been choking you all day. The stench of marijuana hits you in the face, the nerve of them,

partying in your apartment while you are out selling cheap-ass suits. The evidence is everywhere. You see depressions on the couch, ghost of butt prints, What a fright. There are roaches in the ashtray, little seeds in the carpet, bits of crinkly ash on the table. They drank all your schnapps, moved on to the mouthwash, got into your medicine cabinet. They even took the pills Kimber picked up for the dog. Bastards!

It fucks your head, to tell the truth. It fucks it good, and you end up pacing the floor and chain smoking all night. So you oversleep, yeah, missed the radio alarm that's been set to the morning, It's set that way because, since the nag left with the dog, you need the second most irritating sound in the world to get you out of bed in the mornings. It's not until you're dreaming about a hurricane in Honduras, that's the big news story of the day, that you realize the sun is too bright. You've overslept again. So you get up, roll into work three hours late. Thanks for nothing, fucking ghosts.

Your boss is waiting, eager to write you up. You want you to sign a slip. You reach for the pen in your pocket, but it's gone. Stupid ghosts probably used it for meth or something. He hands you the pen from behind his ear, and you say, Okay, the pen is greasy from that shit in his hair, and you can't get to the bathroom fast enough. You wash your hands in hot water,

scrubbing and squeezing until they're red and blistery, and then you feel like a dummy. Blistered hands are not okay. They're making your life a mess, these ghosts. Nothing can stop them when they're on a bender. The fuckers got smart last night. They unplugged your alarm clock so you wouldn't wake up and catch them. You wake up anyway when you hear clanking in the living room.

You almost surprise one too, but he vanishes into the walls, leaves behind a scorched glass pipe. There's a smoky haze in the air, torn squares of foil everywhere, all grimy and smeared. There are smudges on the furniture, an aluminum can ripped open on the top. table, tiny drops of blood where one of them cut his finger. Ha ha, fuckers. It's almost noon, so you call work, tell them you're on your way. Your boss tells you not to bother. Take some time, he says,

decide if you really want to work here. You don't, of course, but you don't need him to know that. So you say, okay, it's gotten worse. They've been here every day this week. Your apartment, it's a mess. Dirty dishes are piled everywhere, and the garbage is stuffed to overflowing. The air is muggy and dank, and the carpet smells like piss, and not just in the bathroom. Then there are the oily spots. Transparent smears all over the apartment. So gross. Their jacked-up heartbeats make them ooze ghost grease on whatever they touch.

The door jams, the table, the remotes, especially the remotes. They like to watch your dirty movies. You know this because DVD cases are everywhere. Skin rags flipped open on the couch, on the floor, ripped pages all around. Random girl parts cut out with scissors, reassembled on the table. Composite girls with perfect tits, perfect asses, perfect smiles.

You find Kleenex wads stuck to the carpet, crusty washcloths in the hamper. Jesus! What to do, what to do. You catch one, finally, in the bathroom when you turn on the light. He's standing in front of you, a pasty ghoul with open sores and wild eyes glaring out from darkened sockets. Your heart flips. But when you look again, he's gone.

It's just you, staring at the mirror. Why are they here, you wonder? Or are they here? They're making you miserable. You hope they don't come tomorrow. These ghosts are going to be the death of you, possibly. Maybe it's time to do something. You look up therapy groups online and find one for depressed adults.

Oh, joy. You stand in a room full of strangers and you talk about stupid shit. Like the people you've wronged. The things you wished you hadn't done but did. The things you wished you'd done differently. You go to two different meetings and you drink bad coffee and stare at your watch and think they're all a bunch of idiots. Then, on your third visit, they ask you to talk.

And you're like, um, shit. But then something breaks, like an egg inside of you. And all those tender pieces you've been ignoring spill out. And you spill everything. Everything. To a room full of fucking strangers. They listen and listen. When it's over, they're on you like magnificent.

on a piece of shit. It's okay, they say, all awkward hugs and cold coffee smiles. You can change if you want. Slowly, you start to believe them. So you go back to your apartment. It doesn't take long to gather up the stuff, the pills, the weed, the booze, and throw it in the dumpster. You even wave to the garbage man when he hauls it all away.

He just looks at you funny. It's not easy. Nope, not at all. You get the shakes for three days straight. You scratch sores into your face with all your nervous energy. You cry yourself to sleep more than once. It's tough, damn it. But you make it somehow. Weather out the storm, so to speak. And then, something amazing. You stop feeling like crap all the time. Your skin clears up. You put weight back on. But the best thing, No more ghosts, which means you're sleeping better. So the mornings don't hurt like they used to. You do push-ups in the living room just because it feels good. It's not long before you work up the nerve to strut down to the store, talk your boss and giving you your job back.

Even Kimber's back in the picture, sort of. Just phone calls for now, but maybe more soon? Her voice doesn't annoy you like it used to. If anything, you decide it's got a musical quality. It's actually kind of beautiful. She does this silly stuff that makes you laugh, like put the dog on the phone so you can talk to him. You make your voice real high and you do kissy noises

and you say dumb things like, who's a good boy? But you're pretty sure the dumb shit doesn't get it. All he does is pant, pant, pant into the phone. But you don't mind it much, really? You don't mind it much at all. Weeks later, your team hits a big sales quota at work. Your boss is a gorilla. all chest thumps and wutes.

When the store closes, everyone is so pumped, you all decide to go out to a bar. The drinks help you all pretend to like each other. It's beer, whiskey, beer, whiskey, beer, whiskey. And then you're feeling pretty damn good. Better than you felt for months, probably. You drink until they all load into taxis like a bunch of clowns, and you wave good night.

Tell them the night air will do you some good. The moon is glowing like a meteor from another. dimension, like it's giving you powers or something, and you barely feel the sidewalk under your feet. Maybe you're flying. All you know is you don't want it to end. It doesn't have to, a voice inside of you says. So you reach for your pocket and pull out your phone. Next, it's hours later. You're standing at your front door and you think, oh shit, you'd recognize that smell anywhere. Inside, it's a raging ghost party. There's got to be 50 of the fuckers here.

Dead heads and sluts, hipsters, and rockers. The music is blurring and everybody's talking loudly, and they're laughing and they're cussing. Where you been? One of the ghosts says, leading you inside. They're up to no good, fucking ghosts. They're guzzling liquor out of paper cups, screwing on your furniture.

There are goddamn drugs everywhere. You see them in plastic baggies, in dirty foil wrappers, and fluffy piles on the table. They're doing it in every way imaginable, snorting it noisily through straws, rubbing it on their lips, smoking it in Pyrex pipes. Someone shoves a bong in your face. You think, fuck it, and take a long, slow drag. Why not, you figure? It's just one night. The buzz, it's like, damn.

Wait, what were we talking about? Now your worries are slipping away. Soon, all you care about is the drinking, the smoking, the motherfucking party, man. You're at it all night with your new friends. I said all night, baby, until the sun comes up. Shit's all over everything. That's when somebody passes around a bottle of pills, little tiny red ones, and you wolf down a handful.

It's not long until you're drowsy, and you drift off to sleep, and sleep, and sleep. Next thing you know, someone's pounding on the door. You're too tired to give a fuck, though. Sleep, that's what you need. Silence. That soothing deadness. You open your eyes to find... Wait, what are you seeing?

The perspective's all wrong. Kimber is in your apartment. but it's like you're hovering above her, like the action is happening under your feet. She's red-faced and bawling and hysterical, a mess. Damn, you've never seen the nag so upset. She's kneeling over some sleeping dude and slapping his face and crying. She's telling him to get up.

Get up, you piece of shit, God damn it. She's got the dog with her, and a fucking policeman, too. Christ Almighty. Then it hits you. That dude. he's you. There's no time to dwell on it because your new friends are here now.

Your ghost friends. Pretty soon there's a beer in your hand and the party's raging all over again. You all sit there and watch the scene with Kimber like it's a goddamn TV show. When the paramedics show up to cart off your body, you're making commentary like it's Mystery Science Theater 3000 or something.

It's hysterical. You think you'll miss her a little. Kimber. The dog, maybe more. But hey, it's not like you're going to be alone. You've got these awesome new friends, the whole apartment full of them. You're going to be together for a long time at a party that'll last forever. Maybe being dead isn't such a bad thing, you think. At least you don't have to sell cheap-ass suits anymore, okay? The holiday shopping season is over, but it's not too late to treat yourself to a gift for this year's good habit. with quip. Quip is something that's sure to put a smile on everyone's mouth because it's dental

care they'll actually want to use every day. That's why Quip is the perfect, thoughtful, and practical gift. With an electric toothbrush, refillable floss and toothpaste, all intentionally designed to make good habits simple. The Quip electric toothbrush has sensitive sonic vibrations for an effective clean that's gentle on your sensitive gums. Why? People brush too hard, and Some electric toothbrushes are too abrasive. Quip also has a built-in two-minute timer, which pulses every 30 seconds to remind you when to switch sides and help you clean your whole mouth evenly.

Why? Because up to 90% of us don't brush for a full two minutes, or don't clean evenly. And the quip floss dispenser has pre-marked strings, so you always use the right amounts. So there's no wasting floss. Then there's the multi-use cover that works as a stand, mounts to mirrors, and slides over your bristles to pack and protect your quip on the go.

The cover makes traveling with an electric toothbrush even easier, and there are no wires or clunky chargers. It runs for three months on a single charge. Plus, Quip delivers brushheads, floss, and toothpaste refills every three months for just $5, so no need to worry about running out of refills or wearing out your brush. Join over three million happy customers in terms. Treat yourself at the start of 2020 right now with Quip. Just go to getquip.com slash no sleep to save on gift sets

and to get your first refill free with a refill plan. That's your first refill free at getQUIP.com slash no sleep. Getquip.com slash no sleep. Go, do it. Start the new year off right. Looking to become parents is a dream for many. couples. From that initial positive test to the ultrasound scans, to the moment your offspring is brought gently into this world in a beautiful, magical way. Of course, we're glossing over the extreme

stress and trauma and drugs and searing agony, but it's still beautiful. Unfortunately, in this tale shared with us by author Mr. Michael Squid, we meet a couple who aren't able to conceive, and it's devastating for both of them. Performing this tale with me is Atticus Jackson. But who knows? Perhaps there's a way to overcome the issue. Perhaps we will be able to meet Janelle's baby. Janelle and I couldn't get enough of each other in the beginning. We were young and insatiable, attached at the hip in every way. When I finally proposed, she responded with the tearful yes. But soon she began asking her own question. One, I was less eager to answer. She'd hold me with her smooth, sweaty legs as we lay exhausted in bed. Her pounding heart would beat against mine as she lay on top of me and she would

whisper into my ear. Can I have a child now? I was hesitant at the start and would pick from a number of preloaded responses. Soon. Of course, just not yet. I want us to be more financially stable before starting a family. I was young and wanted to focus on my career, and the permanent jump into parenthood with no experience was a terrifying thought. Still, I loved Jen more than I'd ever loved anyone. When we finally married in a small, intimate ceremony upstate, I began to realize I wanted to raise a child too.

Though young, it was true we weren't getting any younger. One night about a month after our wedding, Janelle squeezed me with her arms and asked the question. Can I have a baby? Yes. I'll never forget the glint in her tear-filled emerald eyes as she took in my reply. They sparkled with a passion I'd never seen before, and a sudden lust consumed her. Birth control was immediately cast aside. Jan straddled me with an unbridled passion that it clicked.

to any of our previous love-making sessions. And all I could think as my seed entered her is that I'd wished I'd said yes sooner. Those first few weeks we spent every evening in each other's sweaty embrace, rarely bothering to get dressed until the jarring alarm woke us each morning. Janelle began the bi-weekly habit of skipping to the bathroom to pee on a plastic stick, eager to see those two lines appear. But they never did.

After a month of waning enthusiasm, the skip became a trudge. By two months, she began to drag her feet as if dreading the results she knew she'd receive. I consoled her as best I could, and after three months of no joy, I suggested we see a fertility specialist. I was unreasonably nervous as I produced sperm samples to give to my physician. I had a feeling Janelle would have kids with or without me. based on how passionate and determined she was about it. I felt like a truly selfish asshole at the relief I felt when we discovered the problem was within Jan's anatomy, not mine.

My wife was infertile, an ovulation due to POF, premature ovarian failure. She was devastated. We both were. The first few weeks I would gently try to help by suggesting alternative options, but they only seemed to exacerbate Janelle's miserable state. When I brought up the suggestions from the fertility specialist, such as donor eggs or adopting a child, my wife's face contorted with a hatred I'd never seen her show before.

I decided to let her come to terms with her infertility on her own. I did my best to be sensitive, supportive, and caring, yet she only withdrew as the week stretched on in a month. I felt like I was losing her, and an echo chamber of misery seemed to cast a permanent shadow inside our apartment. Then two months ago, Janelle had an accident. I was on my lunch break uptown when I got a call for my wife in the hospital she worked at. She assured me everything was all right.

She had sliced the tip of her thumb off while chopping vegetables. She just needed stitches. I was going to rush over, but she assured me she was fine and to wait until after work. When I picked her up from the hospital, Jan rushed over and squeezed me tight, crying hot, wet tears into my chest as she apologized over and over for having being so cold to me. We held each other and cried, releasing the toxic buildup that we'd held in for so long. I teased her about her puffy bandaged thumb with dad jokes about hitchhiking and mentioning how she, her perpetual thumbs up, appeared to be giving everything in approval of coolness.

She groaned, but then truly laughed for the first time since her diagnosis. It felt like everything might actually be okay. Janelle began smiling, laughing, and truly living in the present with me once again. That sparkle that I'd missed for the past few miserable months returned to her crystal eyes. Facing one's own mortality has a way of knocking. other problems down to size, and Janelle seemed to follow that pattern of putting things into perspective. Despite her improvement and mood, however, she continually shied away from my physical advances. It was as if sex had no productive purpose anymore, so she'd lost interest in it altogether.

Not now, please. I'm just not ready yet. It doesn't feel right. I'd nod and breathe deeply before letting her know I understood. I wanted to spend my life with her. There was no rush. Then Jan began dressing differently. Long turtlenecks and blue jeans quickly replaced her form-fitting outfits. She would switch out into long sweatpants in the bathroom each evening, and I felt she was intentionally hiding any glimpse of her body to avoid turning me on.

However, I soon began to notice the strange way her clothing hung and realized she'd been losing a dramatic amount of weight. In a matter of months, she had withered away from the curvy woman I couldn't get enough of into a slim, stiff version of herself. I knew I hadn't grown less attracted to her, that it was simply the rapidity of the change that made it so jarring and I'd get used to it. but deep in the recesses of my brain, I began to admit that the change was unsettling me, and it was only getting worse. I began to spend more time at work, focusing on getting the rays that my employer dangled before me like bait. I tagged along to a trade show in Miami one weekend, realizing part of me just wanted to get away from Jan. I kissed her goodbye that Friday morning, expecting to see her on Sunday evening, but,

plans changed. The second day of the trade show was canceled due to a power outage, and I took a flight back Saturday instead. I was exhausted and looking forward to a long shower, but concern grew when Janelle didn't answer my text I'd sent from the airport. Worry became panic when I called repeatedly and got her inbox. I rushed home and unlocked the door, but sighed with relief upon entering. Jan's coat was on the chair, and the shower was running.

Jan, honey? I'm back a day early. Everything okay? The hiss of the shower seemed to drown out my voice. Honey? I walked over to the door. My dress shoe slipped on the floor, and I fought to remain upright. I looked down in confusion at the spattering of red on the floor I immediately knew was blood. Dread twisted. My heart.

Janelle! I turned the knob and flung open the door, my gaze following the blood trail to a serrated kitchen knife on the tile floor. Above it, sitting naked on the lip of the bathtub, was Janelle. I then understood why she'd stayed covered up from head to toe around me for the past few months. Large chunks of her skin and muscle were sliced away. Puffy, model, mottled. skin encircled the sinewy craters she'd carved from her own body. In other places, large,

crusty scabs sat within bruised flesh, purple and infected. Deep gouges ran along her forearms and thighs, revealing scar tissue, shiny and pink where the muscle had been whittled down. Some wounds were red and fresh, streaming, glistening ribbons of blood from recently flayed strips. I struggled to remain upright as the butchered body of my wife turned to me with a smile, revealing what she held in her slender peeled arms. It was a mass of clumped meat, wrapped in a stitched-together quilt of Janelle's skin. A sculpture comprised of her own carven flesh and blood, sewn into the form of a patchwork infant and varying degrees of spoil.

It was a child produced. from her own mutilated body, with a putrid thumb-tipped nose from the accident that must have triggered the horrific idea. Janelle held the thing to her now breastless chest and rocked it gently back and forth in her hacked arms. Isn't he beautiful? She looked down at the meaty collage with loving eyes wet with tears of joy. Terror caused me to fall backward on the blood-splattered trail on the floor, struggling to get away from the ungodly scene.

But it wasn't just the sight of my beautiful wife mutilated beyond recognition that caused me to recoil in horror. It wasn't just the concept of what she'd been doing with her flesh. Before I called the ambulance with shaky hands, before I vomited on myself, before I crawled from the bloody scene, before I could turn away from the horror. I saw it. I saw that nightmarish sculpture of a baby slowly turn its bloated head towards me and smile.

In our final tale, we meet a mother who most certainly did conceive, and most certainly does not gloss over the extreme stress and trauma and drugs and searing agony. nor does she gloss over everything that comes after for some mothers. Postnatal depression and similar issues often go overlooked by society, but in this tale shared with us by author Gemma Amor, we explore the darkness that so often goes ignored in the experience of motherhood.

So join me as I perform this story in which we meet a struggling mother, a devastated child, and the strangler. Okay, we have an hour, so let me tell you a story. Better still, let me paint a picture for you. Imagine, if you will, a room in a house. The room is dark and hot and stuffy. The curtains are drawn across the windows, and the door is closed firmly against a dreadful sound. The sound of a small child screaming. The screaming is a relentless, savage dirge that has been escalating in volume and intensity for a full hour. It is coming from the mouth of a confused, angry toddler whose tiny fists beat against the door, demanding attention and reassurance and getting neither. Inside the room,

her back to the other side of the door, braced against the door. Braced against her. against the screaming assault, a woman sits alone on the floor, her head resting heavily on her drawn-up knees. The woman is not crying or covering her ears against the sound of her child's inconsolable tears, nor is she angry or panicked or scared. The woman is nothing. She's just sitting there, barely existing, letting the odd tear. leak half-heartedly down her cheek, eyes wide, staring into the distance. The screaming and

banging ramps up a notch. The child is getting desperate now. The door thumps into the woman's spine as the child kicks against it, demanding to be let in. The woman, in case it isn't obvious, is me, and the child is my son. Later, Someone, a person like you maybe, might call it postnatal depression. But my poor kid, my darling boy, my life and soul who has no idea what postnatal depression is, doesn't give a shit about that. He is having a full-scale toddler tantrum, which is actually a very normal, healthy developmental thing. Or so I'm told. I am not having a healthy, normal reaction to it, however.

I should be consoling him, cuddling him, or at the very least, cautioning him with that ancient, somehow successful threat, counting to three. Funny how things come in threes in life, isn't it? Like the Holy Trinity and primary colors and the three little pigs. I've seen other parents do it. Start counting the three in slow, menacing tones. And the kid, whatever it is up to, stops doing that thing it shouldn't be doing

and behaves itself, terrified of what happens when their mom or dad reaches three. Like the Jackson said, easy as one, two, three. Well, easy for them. I mean, I would try it myself, but I can't. speak. They can't even open my mouth. My tongue feels heavy, like lead. And if I could remember how to

make words with that tongue, I'm not sure I'd know how to use it anyway. And so we have moved beyond the point of return. No amount of cautioning or counting to three will help here in this situation because things have gone way past that. Anyone who owns a child will know what I mean. Sometimes it's like watching a volcano erupt. Just when you think it's calming down, the top comes off the mountain and all hell's fire just shoots out the top all over the place. And I don't blame the kid, honestly, because all he needs is his mother. Objectively, I can see that.

I can recognize that. I just can't do anything about it. All the kid needs is a hug and probably a snack and to have his snotty face washed clean with kisses. But alas, the kid's mother is not home right now. She has retreated to the safe room inside of herself, and the shutters have crashed down. It's selfish, and if she could organize her thoughts properly,

she would hate herself for it. But she also understands that she has no control. not now. It is an instinctual self-preservation response that takes hold whenever the sadness comes rushing up. So here we are, in the grip of inertia, as the little kid tries to beat the door down, and the woman who is me, but also not a version of me I recognize, sits like a folded-up dummy on the floor of the bedroom. And as I sit there, it occurs. to me that I am not alone in the room. It occurs to me that there is something underneath my bed, something that shouldn't be there. At first, all I can see is a shadow, a long, irregular shadow.

Then I see what looks like an eye peering out from the darkness. The eye blinks, and inside the safe room, in my head, the kid's mother starts to scream. The rest of me, the physical part of me sitting on the bedroom floor just sits there and thinks, here we go again. At this point, it should be obvious that this is a scary story. I mean, we have it all, don't we, looking at it? A mentally unstable protagonist, a small, vulnerable child, a monster under the bed? I mean, as stories go, it's kind of on the dreary side. Trust me, I know. No one likes to hear about a woman who can't take care of her kid because her brain doesn't work properly anymore. Where's the fun in that? People want stories about teenagers with tits or dudes with shady backgrounds or serial killers or whatever.

A tired, middle-aged mom with a fat belly and drooping boobs isn't exactly Netflix territory, is it? I have peanut butter all over my pajama bottoms and vomit in my hair. Like real, actual puke. Just sitting in my hair like it's meant to be there. Like it's a fucking style choice or something. because kids. But nobody wants that image in their mind.

But here's the thing about scary stories. The ones that get in your head, really get under your skin, creep into your brain and scramble things around. They don't give a fuck about what you want. Because the story is happening anyway. Feel free to go ahead and do something else while I talk if you like. Kind of rude, but not the first time someone has walked away from me while I'm talking about real stuff. Real life.

Real shit. So, the woman who is me is sitting in her pajamas, coated in vomit and peanut butter. And there is a child crying behind her, through the wall and a thing under the bed. So what does she do? What would you do? No, not that. She doesn't fight back. She doesn't whip out a kitchen knife or grab a lamp shade and try to fight the thing off.

She just sits there because that is all her body will allow her to do. The rest of the monster climbs out with a slow, awkward movement. There are arms and legs, a lumpy body and a pale face. Long, black hair, kind of greasy, you know, deal. Its face is kind of odd, like a child's face but not. Vacant, but a little greedy looking, if that makes sense. Like it's a hungry kid and there is food lying on the floor in front of it. I guess there is in a way. It's holding what looks like an old towel in its hands. I look more clearly and realize it isn't a towel. It's a baby,

blanket. It's bright yellow and fluffy, a fleece blanket, and it has a bunny rabbit embroidered in one corner, and there is blood on it, blood all over it, in fact. And I wish I could get up. I really do. But the thing gets closer and closer, and I can see it has chubby little arms, like a baby's arms, only larger, and the hands are enormous. It snaps the blanket tight between those hands as it comes for me, like an overbearing father in a black and white movie snapping a belt tight in his hands before he administers a darn good whipping to little Jimmy, who had spent the whole day being a total asshole.

We don't do things like that, not these days. And boy am I glad. Because realization dawns that mom's hairbrush or wooden spoon approach might be half the reason I've run bat shit crazy now. Like the realization, the monster is on me now. It straddles me then, lifting one pasty, flabby leg over me as I sit on the floor until it is riding cowboy, staring at me. It pushes its face right up close into mine, and I know what comes next, because this is not the first time I have seen the strangler.

Its body is a horrible, dumpy, doughy back of skin, and the skin is moving. In that skin, I see faces, and I think they might be the faces of all the other women that the monster likes to visit. women like me who can't look after their kids properly because they are weak because they are sick because they didn't do what nature told them to do which was nurture if you're still with me then thank you i appreciate it because loneliness is part and parcel of being the woman who is not me and i guess sharing this is a way to make a path through that loneliness a path to a path to a path to a way to another person. And if I'm strong enough, I might finish this story and walk up that path. If I'm strong enough. Boo, I can hear you thinking. Get on with it. Tell the story, the one with the

monster. Stop talking about yourself. Talking about yourself is not allowed. Which might also be another reason why I'm that shit crazy. But I'm not the psychologist here. If I were, I would wear better clothes. Get a haircut. Drink fancy cocktails. Buy a glass dildo and enjoy it with a crisp Zinfandel in my swanky, clean, minimalist upstate apartment, the one with a panoramic view and a whole refrigerator just for wine, floor to ceiling. God, can you imagine? For Christ's sake, I'll never get there like this. Give me a little slap, would you, Doc? Okay, okay, I know you're not allowed to actually hit me, but I need something.

Maybe a glass of water? Can I have a glass of water? Thank you. Anyway, the yellow blanket is now twisted up, wound tight like a rope between the strangler's hands. And then the rope is around my neck. And the strangler whispers something in my ear. It only ever says one word, being a fuckload more economical with words than I am,

does what it does best. It pulls the rope tight and watches me choke. I should probably apologize at this point. Okay, we have a little strangulation, but honestly, there's not a lot of blood in this story. And I know, I know, people like blood in scary stories. They like the color red. They like descriptions of gore and gross things like intestines and brain matter and arteries spraying red shit everywhere.

I'm going to level with you. There's no blood in this story. I mean, I'm not squeamish or anything. I pushed a nine-pound, 11-ounce baby out of my vagina. Let me tell you, that was a horror. story. I mean, I nearly split in half, peeled back like a fucking banana. Thank God for drugs. All the drugs. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I broke another rule, didn't I? Don't talk about childbirth. Number one way to put your audience off. I just can't help it. It's like vomit,

but with words. It just comes out. You see, a person. A person, since been so long not talking to a single other human being, aside from a small child, and you kind of forget all the rules and social niceties when you do get the chance. Anyway, so here I am, lying on the floor, and the strangler is choking the life out of me, and honestly, it's doing a really efficient job. It always does. First, there is pain as the blanket it squeezes my neck. Then my head starts to throb, and I can feel the tiny capillaries and my eyeballs popping like popcorn. Be there they go. And my head gets all light and starts throbbing, and I get these little black spots across my vision, and the strangler is smiling now, kind of troubic-like,

but not, because it's really fucking evil, this monster. It feeds on sickness. It feeds on sickness. and mental illness and grief and fear and all that shit that real monsters like to eat. Not a very balanced diet, if you ask me, which might be why this thing looks the way it does. Ever think about that? How the monsters and scary stories might not be so monstrous if they had a more varied, nutritious attitude to food? No one ever got clear skin eating brains or chowing down on human bones.

I'll tell you that now. Eat some broccoli, dude. Drink some fucking green tea. I know, I know. I am the worst at telling stories. The meds you gave me, they just make it really hard to focus. But I'm trying. I'm trying.

I really am. I need you to know that. The strangler is breaking my neck now. I can feel it. The vertebrae at the top of my spine. starting to crackle and move around, the cartilage in my throat, crumpling like an eggshell being smashed. But every time I think the strangler is going to give a final squeeze and end me properly, I remember what a sadist it is. Because just as I'm about to die, it lets go.

Only a little, only enough to let a tiny bit of air down my esophagus. And as soon as it's in me, The strangler pulls tight on the blanket rope again, and we're off. And it's quiet, because the strangler likes to watch me in silence as I nearly die over and over. But the problem with silence in scary stories is that it never lasts, and this one is no different. So, into the silence, a little voice calls out, because the kids scream. have died down, although I didn't realize it at first. They've dissolved into choked little hiccups and sad, sad little murmurs, and tears form in my eyes, which is good, because I'd kind of forgotten how to cry up to that point.

There is movement as the kid sits on the floor on the other side of the door behind my back and slides a single chubby hand underneath to see if he can. can reach me. Mommy, love you, mommy. And without knowing what I'm doing, I slide my own hand across the floor to meet his. The strangler snarls and pulls the blanket so tight I feel like my head might pop clean off my shoulders.

But it doesn't matter, because there is a little hand reaching for mine. A little hand. A hand. I am responsible for, a hand that grew in my belly. Our fingers touch, and a warm, brilliant light flares in the dark inside my head. I feel a sudden rush of strength, and the strangler screams in fury and fear, and drops the towel and scuttles away, back to the shadows, to the place where it lives

under my bed. So, what next? Well, very gradually, I recover a degree of awareness, swimming up from the depths of the blackness, like bubbles of air rising to the surface of a stagnant pond. And ten minutes later, I stand up a little wobbly on my numb legs and undo the door carefully. The kid, exhausted, has fallen asleep on the carpet outside. I watch him so peaceful, his fat, round little cheeks stained red with exertion, and my heart breaks into a thousand tiny pieces right then and there on the spot,

because it is so hard to love someone so much whilst failing them with every waking breath, failing them so hard you can barely look yourself in the eye anymore, or anyone else for that matter. I avoid looking in the mirror as much as possible these days anyway, which is why the puke is still in my hair. Wouldn't want you to forget that. Because when I do look in the mirror, I see the strangler just standing there over my shoulder.

And honestly, I'm kind of okay with looking like a bird's nest on crack. Really, I am. Because I hate that fucking thing. So, this is probably where the story should end. Like, it's a logical conclusion point. Light meets dark. Dark gets a few punches in. Light wins out eventually.

Except. Except. You want more, don't you? I mean, I am paying you for this, and we have time left on the clock, so what do you want me to say? The truth, I guess. although the truth is every bit as dreary as the rest of this story because instead of getting the help I needed instead of calling someone instead of accepting that it was not normal to feel the way I did

I just kind of ignored it pretended like it didn't happen I scooped my kid up in my arms lay him in his cot bed and move to the kitchen because life doesn't work like it does in the same stories. I didn't have that amazing moment where someone looked me in the eye and asked if I was okay. Instead, I just got on with stuff. Stuff like the endless piles of laundry to navigate, and meals to prepare and work schedules to plan and daycare bills to pay and shit to wipe off the kitchen floor. Literal or metaphorical, I'll let you decide. And I guess that's it,

really. Kind of a dumb story, isn't it? Oh, me? I'm fine, really. Thanks for asking. Yeah, I know. I'm not really. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here, would I? But it's easy enough to say, and people seem happy enough to believe it. And in the back of my mind, you see, the strangler is always there. And it whispers to me the same thing throughout the day, that idiot litany that blots everything else out. Even now, sitting here with you, I can hear it. Listen, carefully. Maybe you can hear it too. Shh, you need to listen hard. There, there it is. See?

I'm not crazy. Monsters are real. The strangler is real and can't be defeated. Only scared away for a while. There it is again. Are you sure you? You can't hear that? Fuck, dude, I'd go get a hearing test or something because...

Oh, my God. It's literally right behind you. Mine. Thank you for joining us for the first episode of The New Decade. If any of the topics dealt with in today's episode have affected you, then there are links in the show notes to find support and help. Don't be afraid to reach out and talk to someone if you need it, no matter your inner demons.

express yourself through talking or through art, or whatever helps you to be safe and healthy. Look after yourselves out there. We all have inner demons, and there's no shame in seeking backup to fight them. I've been Jessica McAvoy, and this has been the New Decade, Episode 1, Inner Demons. This audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted

without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.