The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E10

Episode Date: January 28, 2018

It's episode 10 of Season 10. On this week's show we have four tales about crime & punishment via fire and ice. "The Cold Grip of Death"‡ written by Manen Lyset and performed by David Cummings & Mike DelGaudio & Atticus Jackson & Erin Lillis & Dan Zappulla & Elie Hirschman & Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 00:04:10) "The Dancing Flames of Fear"† written by Jimmy Ferrer and performed by Kyle Akers & Nikolle Doolin & Addison Peacock & Dan Zappulla & Erika Sanderson & Elie Hirschman. (Story starts around 00:27:00) "Mr. White’s Last Victim"† written by Patrick Zac and performed by Jeff Clement & Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:58:00) "Aunt Alma’s House"¤ written by Brian Gaynor and performed by David Ault & Mary Murphy & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:39:45) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the Escape the Black Farm Tour   Click here to learn more about "From the Void" by Brandon Boone   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about Patrick Zac   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Cold Grip of Death" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody Audio program ©2018 - 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

The following audio horror presentation is intended to frighten and disturb. Join us on this dark and unsettling journey at your own list. Because behind these doors, there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On the show this week, we have Four Tales. about crime and punishment via fire and ice.

I have a quick note about some email issues we've had lately. If you've emailed us at admin at the no sleeppodcast.com recently, you might still be waiting for a response. Our email server has been flakier than a dry cross-home for the last month or so, and we've had trouble getting emails answered. By the time you hear this, we should hopefully be mostly caught up, but if you need customer support and haven't gotten a response, please feel free to email us again,

and we'll do our best to get back to you ASAP. We apologize for the inconvenience, and we do thank you for your patience. As you listen to our stories each week, you hear the wondrous sound of the music from our maestro and composer, Brandon Boone. Brandon has recently released his fourth album of No Sleep Music, and it's called From the Void.

You know, you really should hear this album. If only there was a way to let you hear some samples of it. Oh yeah, there is. Right now. From the Void is available digitally wherever you purchase or stream music. Envelop yourself in these stirring and engaging compositions. Perfect to listen to while reading, working, or desperately trying to fall asleep. Now, Brandon has crafted more excellent music for us,

and we've put words and effects on top of it, much to Brandon's chagrin, so it's time to put it all together. It's 10 for 10. The stories are ready. Let's start the journey. In our first tale, we visit a town in the middle of winter,

a very cold winter. As author Menonleyset shares with us, the local police are stymied by a series of events in which the weather outside isn't the coldest thing they're dealing. with. Performing this tale with me are Mike Delgado, Atticus Jackson, Aaron Lillis, Dan Zapula, Ellie Hirschman, Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Goodnight, and Peter Lewis. So whatever you do, stay warm. The last thing you want to feel is the cold grip of death. Detective Walsh,

thanks for coming out so quickly. I'm sorry I had to call you out of bed this early. Oh, you're lucky I made it. There was a 50-50 chance my car wasn't going to start. Oh, it doesn't handle sub-zero temperatures too well. All right, so what are we dealing with here? Caucasian male and female, early 40s, found dead in their bedroom. Murder suicide? No, there doesn't appear to be any foul play.

Any signs of forced entry? No, detective. But there's something odd about this case. Odd? How so? I think you're going to need to see it to believe it. Hmm, okay. Well, we're not going to solve anything standing out here in the cold. Let's go inside. I'm freezing. Actually, detective?

What? You might want to bundle up. Bundled up? To go inside? Just trust me on this one. I'm already bundled up. Let's just go in. If you say so. Why is it so cold in here? I can see my breath.

Hey, you over there. Can you turn the heat up? It's already cranked to the max. Huh, really? You sure it's working? Is the power out? What am I saying? The lights are on.

Of course there's power. Ah, the heater must be broken. It's not. He'll the radiator. It's working. Huh, warm. You're right. Then why is it so cold in?

Detective Walsh. The bedroom's up these stairs. All right, let's head up. The sooner we're done here, the sooner we can get back to the precinct where there's hot coffee. Should have listened to you and thrown on a blanket or something. Yeah. Which door did you say at what? Where's that draft coming from?

The bedroom. You've got to be kidding me. Did someone leave the window open? No, detective. You'll understand in a second. Here, let me get the door. Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick, what the fuck happened in here? It's like a, like a freezer.

This is how we found it. The window's shut. How the hell is it colder in here than it is outside? Christ almighty. We don't know. Everything's covered in frost. Look how thick this is. About a quarter inch.

This is a lot. And it's everywhere. How that hell? hell did this happen did these crazy fucks have a water balloon fight with liquid nitrogen we're not sure i had a thermometer in here earlier said it was negative 40 oh no wonder my nose hairs feel like tiny little needles okay let's see the bodies i don't want to be in here any longer than i have to they're under the covers i'd be under the covers too if you hadn't woken me up to freeze my ass in here I'm sorry.

Ah, it's fine. I'm just cranky. I'm not used to your deep freeze winters. It doesn't get this cold where I'm originally from. Help me out and get the other side of the blanket. We'll pull it back together. Got it. And pull. Jesus Christ, the blanket shattered.

I don't understand. I moved it earlier. It was a little stiff, but... I must have gotten colder in here since then. Look, there's nothing we can do about it. Now, the lab tech should be able to pull some evidence from its pieces, if necessary. Let's get to these stiffs before we freeze. Officer, take down a few notes for me.

Sure, detective. Caucasian male and female, late 30s to early 40s. They appear to have died in each other's arms. If I were to guess, I'd say they were huddled together for warmth. No obvious signs of trauma. Death appears to have been from natural causes. Not that there's anything natural about freezing to death inside your own bedroom. Lips are purple, indicative of hypothermia is a likely cause of death,

though we'll have the coroner perform an autopsy to confirm. Homicide is unlikely. I'm not seeing anything suspicious or out of place. This appears to have been some sort of freak accident. Okay, I think that's all we need. Bag them and bring them down to the coroner's office. Yes. Detective, wait.

What about the temperature? What do you think caused this? Poor insulation? Damned if I know. You can have one of our techs check the room and see if they can figure it out. But since this doesn't appear to be a homicide, I wouldn't bother combing through every corner. No point freezing to death on an open and shut case.

All right. I'll see you back at the precinct. Yeah, I hear they were encased in a block of ice. No, no. was frozen. Frozen like my ex's heart. Frozen like your mom's very. Knock it off, you two.

I was going to say her van, her minivan. She never turns the heat on her. I'm working with a bunch of children. Detective Walsh, we've got a call about a pair found frozen in their house. You're a little late to the party, Officer Cooper. I just got back from there an hour ago. No, I mean another pair. This time it appears to be a mother and child

Ah, shit What are the odds this is just a coincidence? Astronomically low I just delivered the two victims to the corners Should I tell him to be extra thorough? Shit, yeah Ask him to see if you can find anything suspicious One set of frozen bodies is one thing

But two, two is fishy Two gets my attention I'll call them right now I better get down to the scene. Here, take my car. Officer Andrews? Heated seats. You look like you need them.

Ha, you're a lifesaver, Andrews. Frozen, just like the couple earlier. Looks like these two were watching TV on the couch when it happened. Oh, Jesus. Why did it have to be a kid? The way she's wrapped up in her mother's arms for warmth. God, it's heartbreaking. Reminds me of those sculptures from Pompeii.

Detective Walsh, there's something you need to see over here. What is it? Footsteps. They're hard to tell under all this ice, but look from this angle here. Huh, snowy footprints. Are those from... Child-sized, yes. You think the kid might be playing outside and dragged snow in?

Maybe. Wouldn't explain how the living room got covered in frost, though. Maybe she forgot to shut the door. Was it open when you got here? I'm not sure. Well, who called it in? They must know. The neighbor.

Then go ask them. I'll look for clues. Right away. I swear, sometimes I feel like I'm the only person who knows how to do his damn job around here. All right, let's see here. A child's frozen footsteps from the front door to the sofa. She's wrapped around her mother, purple. lips, hypothermia again. Room temperature is abnormally low. No signs of trauma. No bruising on the bodies.

Nothing's broken. No sign of a struggle. I don't get it. Damn it, I don't get it. Is someone running around killing people by opening windows on the coldest night of the year? No, no, that's not it. These windows open outwards, and the snow outside hasn't been pushed off the ledge. These windows were shut, that's for sure. There's no footsteps in the backyard, so it's unlikely someone opened the patio door. That leaves the front door, but something tells me that wasn't it. Something's not adding up. A room can't just freeze like this overnight. I'm missing something, but what? Detective Walsh. It's Officer Andrews. Can you come back to the precinct? We need you down here.

Yeah, okay, I'm on my way. Bag the victims and make sure they get to the coroner's office, ASAP. We need to figure out the cause of death. Pronto might help us prevent this, whatever this is, from happening again. Roger. Thank goodness you made it, Detective Walsh. We've been getting report after report of people frozen to death in their homes. We're up to five couples now.

Jesus Christ. One of them is, well, what's wrong? I know the victim. They found him naked in bed with a woman, but... But what? Look, I've known Tim my whole life. He's a good guy, a real good guy. But he's also like super gay. There's no way he'd be in bed with a woman. It just doesn't make sense. Maybe he was experimenting.

No. Trust me. There's no way he... Jesus, I can't catch a break. Detective Walsh. Hi. Um... Yeah, I know who you are. What did the neighbors say? Was the door open before we got there?

What thing about that, is... I beg your pardon? So I did. I have kids. I know I shouldn't have, but... You did what? I was hoping she'd stretch her. I turned white as a ghost.

Get anything out of her sense. Well, nothing you can do about it now. Okay, finish collecting evidence, then try her again. If you still can't get it, anything out of her, leave her alone, and I'll deal with her later. I've got my hands full right now. Roger that. I'm going to need a vacation after this. Somewhere warm. I hear Florida's nice this time of year. Just how old do you think I am? If I'm going south, it's not to hang out in retirement communities. Anyways, we got a job to do. Fill me in on the other cases, will you? Of course, like I was telling you.

One of them is Tim Morales, an old college buddy of mine. He was found in his apartment with a woman. I need a break. Oh, in an electric blanket. Running around from frosty crime scene to frosty crime scene all days got me frozen to the bone. Oh, I'm exhausted, and we're still no closer to figuring out what's causing any of this. We should be getting the coroner's report soon.

That might shut a light on what's been happening. Maybe, hopefully. Unless it comes in a scalding hot thermos, I don't even care anymore. I can't seem to shake the cold. You want a cup of coffee? I've already had six. If I drink another ounce of caffeine, I'll have a heart attack. Detective Walsh, I've got the coroner's report here for you.

Thanks. Let's see. Wait, wait. Detective Walsh, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost. This... This is impossible. Detective?

There's no way. You mind if I take a look at those? Let's see. Caucasian... Hypothermia. Estimated time of death. Wait a second. But that's not...

What the hell's wrong with you two? Caucasian male, estimated time of death six hours ago. Caucasian female. Estimated time of death. 10 months ago. That's obviously a typo. Fingerprints match Lauren Stevens. Deceased last winter.

Second set of victims. Caucasian female, 30. Estimated time of death five hours ago. Caucasian female, six. Estimated time of death two years ago. Fingerprints match deceased Shauna Coger, daughter of Tanya Cogar, the victim's neighbor. Third victims, Tim Morales, 25 estimated time of death nine hours ago.

Chantal Dubois, 23, estimated time of death five years ago? Lauren Stevens. Shauna Cogar. Chantal Dubois. Those names sound familiar. They all died of exposure. It was in the news. I remember Shauna's death the most because she was so young.

Her mom had no idea why she snuck out of the house that night. They found her frozen stiff on the side of the road. How did the bodies wind up inside other people's homes? Who moved them? Why haven't they decomposed? In a moment in the twinkling of an eye at the last trumpet, for the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall rise again incorruptible and we shall be changed.

Pipe down with your end of day's mumbo-jumbo. Cooper. This is... This is obviously a mistake. I'll go see the coroner. We'll clear things up. I'm coming with you. Thanks. You mind driving? I'm feeling a little shaky. Cold. It's still fucking cold.

I'm so sick of it. You know, I haven't taken off my coat all day. It can't be helped. This is a morgue, after all. They've got to keep the bodies on ice. I know, I know. But does it have to be this cold? We're not even in the coroner's office. yet, and it's already cold enough to preserve a body.

Kind of defeats the purpose of having those little fridges if you can just stick them in the hall, doesn't it? I guess? Oh, I've got a bad feeling about this. I know what you mean. I think I see the door over there. Is it just me, or is it getting colder? I couldn't say. I think my nerve endings are in a cryogenic stasis.

That's weird. The door handles frozen solid. It's not the only thing. Look under the... the door. What the... Is that ice? What the hell's going on here? Try opening it.

It won't budge. Out of the way. I'm going to force it open. Gonna have to go harder. Listen here, you ice cold, Mr. Free, sucking bitch. You will open or help me God, I'll take a chainsaw to you. Way to go. Oh, no.

Look! Frost everywhere. And it's snowing? Inside? Forget that. Look. In the corner. Oh, is that?

The bodies we brought here, they're piled over the corner. They're all clutching him. I think that one just moved. Close the door. We've got to help the coroner. Look at his eyes. He's dead already. Now!

What is happening? I just now realized something. Yeah? The bodies we found. They were all curled up around other people, as though huddled for warmth. But now that I think about it, only one person in each couple was doing the holding. What are you saying? They're stealing heat from everything that's around them.

That's why the houses were so cold, even with the radiators on. But that's... Not possible. I know. Hey, hey, they're trying to get out! Andrews, you've got a cherry can in your car, yeah? Yeah? Go get it. If these things want heat, they'll get heat.

Yes. I'll hold the door shut in the meantime. I'm able to. So cold. But maybe shut my eyes. Just... Huh? Oh, good, good.

Quick. I don't think I can hold them back much longer. Pour the gasoline around the door. Yeah, okay. Good, good, good. I'm willing to bed, as soon as I let go, they're going to come tumbling out. You need to light a match the second I let go. No, but you're standing in gasoline.

You'll catch fire. Don't worry about me. I'll make a run for the stairs. If we've got our timing right, we'll both make it out of here alive. On the count of three, you strike the match. I let go with a door. I run, you drop the match, and you run after me. Got it?

Okay. Got it. Godspeed. Here we go. One, two, three. I think it worked. Don't stop running. Get to the car.

You did good, kid. Yeah, well, it was a team effort. Do you think we got them? I think so. If I'm right and they are drawn to heat, well, hopefully they'll make like moths to a flame. Don't think I've ever felt this cold before. I'll stop. a coffee shop on the way back to the precinct.

In a hell of a day. Mr. Betty by, here I come. Oh, still so cold. Can't get warm. We'll feel better in the morning. When we're young, we can experience events which shape us for the rest of our lives. As we learn from author Jimmy Ferrer, a man develops a particular fear as a child,

only to realize his fear may be pointing to an even deeper trauma. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Nicole Doolin, Addison Peacock, Dan Zapula, Erica Sanderson, and Ellie Hirschman. So learn to deal with your fear when you're young, lest you end up confronting the dancing flames of fear. Fire needs three components to burn. oxygen, fuel, and a heat source. If any of these three are absent, the fire will not start. I think loss of innocence is similar. There must be an event that would elicit fear,

a poor reception to this event, and a memory of this moment. But what happens when you hold on to that fear, but you don't remember why? Does it continue to grow like a fire and a desiccated cornfield? I'm losing focus. Innocence. Innocence is the greatest gift a child may possess. To a child, a closet is just that, a place to store clothes and toys.

Something must happen for that to change. An exposure. A single moment in time where your trust is shaken and a new reality takes hold forever. When I was about five years old, I had a small bedroom at the end of a long hallway. I had all the amenities I could want. Television, toy boxes, closet full of clothes, play sets, game systems. You name it. I was the type of kid that found the punishment of going to my room entirely assinine.

I was always safe in my own little world, and I didn't think anything could change that. As a kid, I would spend my playtime outside, specifically my backyard or the stretch of trees directly behind my home. I moved a lot, so holding on to friendships wasn't easy for me, which left me only with my ever-evolving imagination. Don't get me wrong, my parents would be there if I needed them, but the imagination. imaginary world I created was just fine. My childhood home was a cozy and average looking house in a town seemingly swallowed by trees. The thing I remember most about this house was the hallway.

It was a straight shot about 40 or 50 feet, not too long of a trek for an adult, but a seemingly endless hike for a sleepy kid. My bedroom, of course, resided at the end of this hallway. Traveling down the hallway, I would pass three doors, a guest room, a bathroom, and my parents' bedroom. The bathroom was on the right at the beginning of the hallway, so any late trips to there or to the kitchen would have incited a frustrating debate of, do I really need to? It was on one late-night trip that my veil of carelessness was lifted,

for what I later found out was the second time. That night, I struggled awake with a feeling in my mouth not dissimilar to eating peanut butter without milk. My clock shone 3 a.m. and faint red letters. Groaning, I weighed my options. Go back to sleep, or walk. walk through the longest hallway in the world. My throat begged me to do the latter.

Now, I didn't consider any consequence of getting a drink because what could have possibly happened. Would you? The moon's faint, pale blue light drifted through the hallway from my room just enough that I could see a few feet ahead of me. As my soft footsteps echoed through the hallway, I passed what looked like holes in the world, shaped like doorways. Nothing of concern.

They were just that, doorways. after downing a drink from the kitchen I headed back Figuring my trip was a success because no one was roused from their sleep I began the arduous half-asleep hiked to my room with the only quiet pitter-patter of my feet to keep me company A few long steps past the first hole in the world And a hand broke the darkness And grabbed a hold of my arm with a dizzy and quickness

I screamed pulling away from the grasp of this dark entity with everything I had My once calm demeanor quickly mutated into a frantic hysteria strangely this feeling was familiar I had felt this way before but in the split second this realization took to hit me I had no time to recall why instead my fight or flight response kicked in and I fought back against my assailant

only to be met by another dark hand firmly gripping my shoulder this was it I was convinced that these hands would be my escorts into this hole in the earth dragging me to who knows where possibly forever with the last of my energy my scream reached a shrill pitch, only to break into nothing but silence. My voice having failed me, the last defense was to kick and flail as hard as I could.

I fought right until I reached the opening of the black door-shaped abyss. I saw orange. Why was I seeing orange out of the corner of my eye? I fought until I heard a soft but concerned voice. It's me, kiddo. Calm down. It was just a joke, just scaring you for fun. I'm sorry.

The voice was instantly familiar. My father. Despite this revelation, my heart continued slamming against my ribcage. My breaths became sparse and my legs pulsed with pain. The light switch was promptly switched on by my mother, who, just as promptly, smacked my father in the back of the head. All that escaped her lips was a somber scolding aimed at my father. Damn it. Now he's going to have nightmares again. Thanks.

Again? I thought to myself amidst the panic. Only when my mother knelt to embrace me in her arms did I finally let go and break in to panic and sobs. Everything's okay, honey. Mother's soothing whispered had nothing to help me escape the feeling of terror burning

inside of me. This is why he's never going to grow up. Well, if you didn't do this shit, he wouldn't be like this. And exasperated, it was just a joke, was heard from my father as he left the room.

I was astounded by his casual response to my fear. My innocence crumbled. The foundations of courage laid by the entirety of my life to that point. destroyed by a blaze of fear. I felt like something had irrevocably changed inside me,

like I'd never felt fear like this before. But Mother said, again, what had she meant by that? This alien feeling of an ease that welled up in my chest was certainly nothing like I could recall. I can stay with you tonight if you need, honey. In the morning, we'll wake up and talk about how silly this all was and all laughed together over some breakfast pancakes. Mother sounded on edge, like unspoken worries were resurfacing, drifting around her mind just out of my reach. I held my mother's hand in a vice grip as we walked down the hallway to my room.

Scooping my stuffed yellow duck off the floor, I crawled into bed and my mother tucked me in. I have duckie, mom. I'm okay. A frown creased her brow, and a look danced across her eyes that seemed almost pleading somehow. Are you sure? I nodded. Mother left the room giving me a sweet smile before doing her rounds, closing my closet door, locking my window, and shutting off my light to let the darkness flood in and take me to Dreamland.

A click woke me. I tried to look around in the dark to spot the cause. It looked like my closet door was cracked ajar, the blackness of the open door standing out in the moon-dark room. Only when my vision fully adjusted to the gloom and I focused, could I see more? A hand. Rested on the doorframe of my clon.

closet, about five or six feet up the doorframe. This was familiar too, but I couldn't grasp why. Despite the nagging familiarity, this didn't look like a hand I was used to seeing. No. It had long, slender fingers that ended in points that seemed premature. The hand was somehow even darker than the darkness from which it emerged. I heard a scratch followed by a woman's soft laughter. It sounded as playful as it did predatory. And then, a glowing orange eye. eye like burning coals meant my own. My entire body locked up and I let out a soft wine. The fingers started to tap the frame, making soft clicks like knives on wood. I felt like I was going to pee myself. Seemingly reacting to my fear a soft, satisfied moan more befitting the end of a five-star dinner

escaped my closet. The hand slowly retracted into the darkness and as I could see the following morning left lines of black debris on the doorframe. Goose flesh covered me in the panes sat in. The closet door slowly shut and made the same click as before. Only then was I able to scream. Within moments, my parents scrambled into my house. Honey, are you okay? What's going on? My panic mother questioned me as she grabbed me and began rocking me back and forth. I was in my own little world screaming hysterically. This made no sense to me. My parents told me I'd be safe in this room. There was nothing trying to get me. All lies. And we were, and we were, you know, and we were Yet, I knew this.

I felt vindicated, not surprised, but how? Why? There were no words from me that night, just unintelligible babbling flowing from my lips. All I could focus on with the image of the slender black finger-like claws burned into my memory. The next day I woke up to an entirely new world. Gone were the days of childlike carelessness, replaced with apprehension and paranoia. I felt forever doomed to analyze every possible danger. At the breakfast table, pancakes as promised.

I didn't say anything. No way they would believe me because they were the ones that told me I was safe. A joke. A joke that opened a gateway that could never be closed. This new world was not like yesterday's though. Oh, no. Gone was the world of heroes. This was a world of monsters.

a world I knew I had to adapt to. A world I'd always lived in, but one that had been hidden from me by the comfort of childhood and the lies to my parents. You see, this slender-fingered woman was what I like to call my first passenger. I called her this because that moment, that night, was her gateway into my life.

And ever since that night, she's been along for the ride. whenever my feelings of anxiety, paranoia, or fear would rear their heads, she was there, drinking them in as if they were fuel for her. The more she drank, the more she appeared, and the more afraid I got, bracing myself for that slender hand, that orange eye, that burning sense of deja vu, which I was never able to explain. Over time, I gave up my toys in favor of books. subject matter being monsters in the supernatural.

I had to understand these things if I planned on surviving. While mother seemed broken by these changes in the loss of her baby, Father proudly told me how glad he was I was choosing to grow up and become a man so fast. If only he saw it wasn't out of choice, but necessity. And yet, despite the necessity, as time passed, my research felt increasingly futile. Before anyone wastes their time reading the remedies on how to get rid of these things, I can tell you that everything published is shit. None of it works once they are with you.

And then when they reach a certain strength, they are with you for good. Even if you could forget about them for a while, something will remind you. Not long into my newfound premature adulthood. Father adopted a new method of spending time with me. Friday night horror movies. While I was still terrified of everything horror-related, it made me feel normal. The anxiety and fear promoted by horror, provided a feeling of normalcy in their absence.

Without the heightened fear response, there was no normal for me. With each film, my perspective adjusted slightly. Clowns used to be funny, but now they could kill me. Even worse, they could morph into my worst fears and hypnotize me into gleefully walking to my death. As bad as these movies made me freak out, nothing was nearly as bad as how I started seeing two black silhouettes in the corner of my vision, even in the daytime. Two tall black female smoke-like figures with bright, orange burning eyes, existed as blurs in my periphery. At first I believed my fear drew them to me, and for a short time I tried to avoid horror. But this simply made it worse, with the figures appearing with increasing frequency as the days passed.

Instead, I realized that my fear, while fueling them, was also keeping them satisfied and thus at bay. So the horror marathons continued. I figured that my fear binging was sufficient enough to support and satiate another passenger, but I couldn't predict how things would escalate. I used to like swimming, if I could see the bottom. I always felt like entering darker water was a death sentence, like I would dive in to never resurface, held in the grip of my passengers. Did you know that freshwater and saltwater kill you differently?

I do. You see, freshwater is much more like our blood than saltwater. salt water. If you drown in fresh water, you pass out from lack of oxygen, and then the lack of oxygen itself is what kills you. However, salt water diffuses into your bloodstream once you breathe it in. This causes massive cell death and multiple organ failure within about three minutes. A fun fact, but not nearly as curious as the six glowing orbs in the nearby waters the last time I dared to go swimming. Do you ever sprint up the stairs after turning out your basement lights? Me too. Only for me, my inspiration lay in the eight orbs that pierced the darkness when the switch was hit.

One after another, my fears fed my passengers. I didn't get to see what they looked like, not right away at least, but by my teens, I saw them everywhere. The more of them I saw, the more I needed horror. My addiction to fear felt out of control. My heart pumping, my pulse racing, meant I was resting that control back. Horror novels, podcasts, online forums, all fuel. to feed the passenger.

If the adrenaline was flowing, everything fell into its proper place. But one day a new problem arose for me. I started to see monsters and the people around me. My elderly neighbor, Mrs. Richards, seemed to look more fragile each day. One early morning while taking out the trash, my eyes met hers, and they were pitch black. Her shirt, a crumpled mess, with brownish-red specks, her mouth, a maw of gnashing yellowed teeth.

I'm ashamed to say I ran as fast as I could that day. Something was wrong with me. My thirst for terror wouldn't stop. It couldn't stop. But the reprieves I received from my stories and books were ephemeral. As time went on, I stopped counting new passengers. The misty, pitch-black silhouettes with slender fingers ending in points and glowing orange eyes were omnipresent. It was a miracle I functioned at all.

But somehow I had a good job. beautiful wife and everything was going okay until I really saw them. After seeing so many passengers for such a long time, I decided that my horror addiction itself might have been the problem. I had become addicted to the new feeling of normal that I experienced in my constant state of anxiety and paranoia. Cutting myself off completely was decidedly the best method to save my sanity and starve my passengers.

So I did. And months passed without incident. But after a while, I would feel, unexplained sensations and ignore them the best that I could. Breathing on my neck. An intensive light glow in my periphery, sounds of scratching and dark rooms, all dismissed as a side effect from years of horror indulgence.

You see, addictions of any kind are tricky. 46 to 60% of all users will relapse. One could attribute one's relax to a weakness of will, physical need, bad luck, or ease of availability, but sometimes the addiction wants you back. This was my unfortunate reality. My passengers made a statement. I was theirs, and ignoring them would no longer be an option.

As I've said, I only saw them out of the corner of my eye before this, never directly. Over time, the passengers were accompanied by a ringing in my ears. I can't remember when it started. It was yet another facet of them, which was just there. I came to take it for granted, like their presence. or my fear. And then one night as I sat outside on the porch, taking in the cool air,

the ringing stopped all at once. Not a sound. I tried popping my ears, but nothing. Seconds later, I noticed something that drained all color from me. Another sound. Lower than the ringing. Quieter. A sound that instinctively I knew had always been there.

The ringing had just been hiding laughter. women's distorted predatory laughter from all around me, just like when I was a child, as if aware now that I could hear at the laughter increased in volume, accompanied by satisfied moans. And I made it mistake. For the first time ever, I addressed my passengers. I closed my eyes and screamed,

Leave me the fuck alone! And then silence. I opened my eyes to see hundreds of abstract, vaguely feminine, inhuman-shaped clouds of smoke with glowing orange eyes. One by one they started to casually walk to one spot directly in front of me, forming something more real. The more they converged, the more of a shape was defined. And the intensity of the orange-glowing eyes grew to a searing white.

I shook as I took in a single figure before me. It was a ballerina. Her hair up in the typical ballerina bun and tutu. Her skin and clothes were all the colors of her. of smoldering lumber. Her skin and parts of her tutu flaked off like paint chips and floated away like ashes from a fire. She was tall, exceedingly so. Her slender, human-like fingers, ended very suddenly in sharp points like the tips were missing. She appeared solid, not like the figures had done previously, and yet there was still an intangibility to her, as if she was phasing

in and out of existence. And I recognized this. I knew it. Somehow this, Flickering, drifting figure was known to me. And most familiar were her eyes, just as I remembered. I remembered they were reminiscent of scorching hot coals. I couldn't move. Finally, after all the research, all the fuel, all the horror, I had a face to put to my fear. We looked into each other's eyes and hers burned with hatred.

Then moments later, as if relenting, she slowly smiled. and cocked her head deliberately to one side, and then the other. Then her mouth fell open like of entryloquist dummies. Just as suddenly as she'd opened her mouth, the deafening sound of burning flames began to event from it. Within the roaring of the flames, I heard screams. It was hard to hear over the sound of the inferno, but I was sure the screaming was that of a child. I felt a pressure in my ears and blacked out. I woke up in the hospital.

I was told I'd been out for a week. My wife informed me that the nurses had heard me mumble something about monsters in my comatose state. Maybe it was mental illness stemming for my paranoia all these years. Maybe I'd had a complete breakdown. Maybe that's all it was. I prayed, that's all it was. And I was in hospital. I could get help now.

I turned to the left looking for a glass of water to ease my parched throat. The ballerine was there, smiling. I gasped and jumped back. What's wrong, honey? I just... I looked back and forth from my wife to the monster. The ends of the ballerina's mouth were turned up ever so slightly, clearly pleased with herself. I just want to go home.

The doctors want to do more testing just to make sure you're okay. Please stay. I glanced back towards the ballerina. In that moment, I felt like I needed her approval, her guidance, but she was gone. Fine, just... I reached my hand out to my wife and finally let out my breath. Just stick around, please. Can you?

I can for a bit, but I have work in the morning, so I can't afford to call out. After some medication, an MRI and a CT scan, I was back in my room alone. The absence of my passengers nod at me. I needed to stretch my legs, see another living soul. I was going stir crazy. I walked around the hospital, one eye out for my missing passengers. Not a sign. Not of them.

Nor the ballerina they'd seemingly. become. There was something else, though, other glowing orange circles. Not like the eyes of my passengers, but organized in patterns. I could only justify the patterns as the locations of joints, knees, elbows, wrists, fingers, and so on. Two things puzzled me as far as these new circles were concerned. At times there were too many of these joint circles to really make sense of as shapes I was used to seeing. Some were humanoid, but others were too complex for an honest description. The more important observation I made was that, unlike my passengers, these shapes seemed oblivious to my presence. In fact, it soon dawned on me that they were following others.

Eventually, the doctors sent me home. They clearly had no idea how to deal with me, so they gave me some half-ass explanation of how I'd had an episode, but could expect to be completely fine from then on. But with no end in sight to my turmoil, I had the pleasure of making another observation. The figures of glowing ember and smoke were everywhere. They seemed to follow people in groups like mine always did me, but where were mine? Not to complain, but something was off. I had to talk to someone, my mother.

It had been ages since we spoke, but who else could I turn to? I'd never spoken to my wife of the passengers, never wanted her to know the fragility of the man she'd married. So I called my mother and told her every terrifying detail. I'd half expected her to have me committed, with the other half preparing her to laugh at off. Instead, what followed, left me stunned. I can't believe you remember. Remember what? The ballerina.

Stop messing with me. It's not funny. Darling, I'm not in any way. We could have lost you that night in the fire. I froze. As the floodgates were shattered. The repressed memories were oppressed, no more. Bright embers. The familiar smell of smoke.

A ballerina bathed in flames. and my inability to look away. When I was much younger, even before the hallway incident, I would stay up with my grandparents during the summer. Every time I visited, they would set me up in my grandmother's knitting room with a Nintendo. This was the room where I first saw the ballerina, but not as the tall, monstrous figure she was now. She was a lamp, two feet tall, including the lampshade.

The ballerina herself looked ancient, with paint delicately flaking off in places. I remembered one detail above the rest that made me sick. Fingers. At the end of her long, slender fingers, the fingertips were broken off in such a way that made her digits look like jagged points. They almost looked like claws.

I'd always been afraid of the lamp from the first time I saw it. I always refused to touch it or even go near it. I would convince someone else to shut it off whenever I was ready for bed. One night my grandparents fell asleep before I did, and the lamp remained on. My resolution at this point was to simply yank the blankets over my head and go to sleep. hours later I awoke to a loud pop I pulled the covers down to see the bulb from the lamp had exploded and the lampshade was now aflame

being in the knitting room the fire caught quickly wool caught a blaze fire licking up the walls the curtains consuming everything but none of that mattered to me all I could do was stare directly at the ballerina the paint chipping and burning away as she was ignited the little black eyes glowed hot orange within the flame Her face, morphing hideously into a smile, etched itself into my mind as predatory.

My mother had been talking the entire time, but I didn't start hearing her again until I snapped out of my stupor, breathless and shaking from the wave of memory that battered the inside of my skull. Your grandfather said he woke up to the fire alarm going off. He ran into your room and saw everything bathed in flames. He grabbed you and ran out that said you disregarded the fire entirely. You were in your own little world, and... and your only focus was the ballerina lamp.

Her whole house burned down that night. We thought the fire was the reason for your paralysis, but you insisted that it was the ballerina. Even back home you insisted that you saw her at times. You were a wreck, afraid of everything. I kept dismissing at telling you that you were imagining it. I assumed that you eventually believed me because you let it go. You went back to normal.

Everything was fine for a couple of things. years, until your father scared you in the hallway, that is. That's when I noticed you acting nervous again. I waited for you to bring the ballerina up again, but you never did. You just changed. I can't believe you remember her 27 years later. I can't believe it's been affecting you for so long. I should have listened. I should have done something when you started getting scared again. Your father convinced me you were just growing up. I'm so sorry, honey. we should have done something sooner. I was quiet for a long time.

She let me be, clearly understanding what this meant to me. I had acknowledged the ballerina directly. So too had I remembered the incident that burned her into the back of my mind, hidden behind as much mental clutter as I could to help me forget her. And with the memory came a hope. I had faced my fears like all the Sunday morning cartoons said I had to. Was she... Could she be gone?

or snot. It's never that simple. After ending the call with my mother, I walked into town to clear my head. I walked for hours. Any hope that this was over was soon extinguished. I still saw passengers everywhere, just not mine. I took some comfort in that. But the other passengers acknowledged me with glances and nods, laughing like they were in on some joke that I wasn't. I learned the punchline of the joke when I got home.

Or should I say the ashes of my former home? My wife didn't make it out. Through the haze of grief as I stood in front of the smoldering ruins of my house, I checked my phone screen, texts from her, my wife. I never even looked at them due to my earlier distraction, never even checked my phone. I'd ignored her, and now she was gone. I couldn't open them, couldn't bring myself to read her last words. I couldn't accept that this was the end.

But that wasn't the end, not really. I wasn't getting off that easily. I was informed sometime later that the source of the fire was confirmed. Somehow, something short-circuited and caught fire fast enough to spread quickly through the house. I was told that the heat necessary to do this shouldn't have been reached by what caused the fire. I asked for more detail on what he said. Broke me. Well, sir, it looks like it was a lamp that caused it.

I was shaking and yet knew what was coming next. It's shaped like a ballerina. You can come back. it up if you want to. Dawn thing survived the fire that it started. I hung up. Remembering the unread texts from my wife, I pulled up my phone and took a deep breath in and out

before accessing her messages. Pictures. My wife's smiling face with new workout gear, some weird-looking fruit and an antique ballerina lamp with chipping paint and missing fingertips, smiling. I dropped the phone and cried for hours. So, please, protect your children, guard them from unneeded fears, let them be ignorant.

Innocence is the strongest barrier between them and the passengers. If you can hold off fear until they're strong enough to guard themselves, the passengers won't have time to grow. As for me, I have one last thing to do. I feel that it is most fitting to face her one last time by entering her domain. I have made the necessary preparations, gasoline, an abandoned house, and a handful of matches. Fuel, air, and heat sores.

The fire is burning hot now. I can clearly see her waiting for me within the flames, smiling, laughing. The scream I heard the last time I faced her is much clearer now. The screaming of a terrified three-year-old boy. My screams. Her gateway into this world was fire,

and I will use it to cast her out. And I will smile one last time as I walk in to the inferno, drowned in the cacophony of her laughter and my screams. It's time to rest on our dark journey. We thank you for joining us. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the nosleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long,

and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when the journey resumes its descent into the sleepless night. This audio production is copyright 2017-2018 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.