The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E11

Episode Date: February 4, 2018

It's episode 11 of Season 10. On this week's show we have five tales about sacrosanct sinners, confounded children, and evil elders. "Smidge"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:06:00) "The Art of Transubstantiation"† written by Henry Galley and performed by Dan Zappulla & Peter Lewis & Kyle Akers & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:20:00) "The Animals Went In Two By Two"¤ written by Olivia White and performed by Erika Sanderson & Penny Scott-Andrews. (Story starts around 00:42:30) "She Catches Demons in Her Teeth"‡ written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Erin Lillis & Jessica McEvoy & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 01:11:45) "His Life's Work"† written by Gemma Amor and performed by Brian Mansi & David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:32:25) 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 The Salvation State audiobook   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg   Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "She Catches Demons in Her Teeth" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski 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

Hi, David. Hey, Jessica. What's wrong? You look a little down. Just one of those days, I guess. Something on your mind? Well, okay, here's the thing. I know everybody thinks I'm this famous podcaster,

fantastic voice actor, stunningly handsome stud. No one thinks that. But sometimes life gets hard, you know? Sometimes it helps to talk things out with someone objective and trained. You know, I'm no longer ashamed to admit that I suffer from depressive. Look, I get it. I struggle with issues too. I have my own battles with anxiety and depression. Being able to talk to a therapist would be great, but they can be pricey, and I don't have much time to see one a couple times a week. That's why I'm so excited about the great new service called TalkSpace. It's the online therapy company that lets you message a licensed therapist from anywhere at any time. All you need is an online device or the Talkspace mobile app. That means you. means you can improve your mental health even if you've had trouble making time for it in the past.

Online therapy? Interesting. Oh, it is. Like you, my work takes up so much of my time. But with talk space, therapy is as easy as sending your therapist a message. Get something off your chest whenever you need. Talk about everyday challenges at work or at home. Just chat about life. There are no extra commutes, no leaving the office, and no judgments. That sounds amazingly helpful. I'll be on. honest. Some days I just need to vent and clear my head. Yeah, me too. But remember that therapy isn't just about venting your innermost thoughts or digging into childhood memories. It's also about practical everyday strategies for stress management and living a happier life. Having a therapist

simply provides you a designated person for you to talk to who's trained to listen and help you make positive changes. I suppose people might think that with all the horror stories we tell, We must be either deeply disturbed or unflappable. Yeah, but fortunately our demons are fictional. But that doesn't mean there aren't issues which could benefit from us talking it out with a caring person. You know, the Talkspace platform has over 2,000 licensed therapists who are experienced in addressing life challenges we all face. To match with a perfect therapist for a fraction of the price of traditional therapy, our listeners can go to Talkspace.com slash No Sleep and use the offer to,

code no sleep to get $30 off their first month. That sounds like something well worth doing for ourselves. So, this ad won't have a scary twist, will it? No, not this time. There's enough scary stuff out there. This time we want people to know that there's a way out of those dark, sleepless hours. So do yourself a favor. Find some space to talk.

That's talkspace.com slash no sleep with the offer code, No Sleep. The following audio horror presentation is intended to frighten and disturb. Join us on this dark and unsettling journey at your own risk. 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 five tales about, about sacrosanct sinners, confounded children, and evil elders. Many of you know the great author and friend of the show, Marcus Demanda. Marcus' latest book, titled The Salvation State, has recently been released as an audiobook, and it's narrated by our very own Jessica McAvoy.

Sat in a dystopian future, ruled by corrupt police in the pockets of corrupt churches, it will take two teenage girls to find a way out of the nightmare. Check the show notes to learn more about how you can get your copy of this engaging story, well told by Jessica. That's The Salvation State by Marcus Demanda. And I'm happy to announce we have a winner in our Urban Legends contest. We received a lot of great entries,

and it's fascinating to learn how so many areas have creepy legends. And it turns out there's a legend told around the Denver area, and no, it's not the one about a wild Peter Lewis being spotted running naked through the dark forests, I think. And the person who shared that particular legend, and who will be joining us in Denver on March 1st, is Jamie Bearin. Congratulations, Jamie. We look forward to seeing you at the show, along with our special guests that night, a fully clothed Peter Lewis.

Should be a fantastic evening, as will all the stops on the tour, which starts in just over two weeks at the time of this episode's release. I hope you have your tickets. We have all the merch ready for you, t-shirts, and some very cool exclusive tour enamel pins, the first ever no-sleep pins, so don't miss out on your chance to see the Escape the Black Farm Tour. Now, we're ready to take a little tour around our five stories this week. Season 10 goes up to 11, so let's start the journey. In our first tale, we meet a young boy with a vivid imagination. As author S.H. Cooper shares with us, the boy wants to be a good friend to the imaginary creature he thinks lives under the house, and good friends provide lots of food, right?

Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgado, and Erica Sanderson. So don't worry about a boy's imagination, especially when his new friend is named Smidge. The steak was the first thing to go missing. I had left it to defrost in the fridge overnight, but by morning, only the plate it had been sitting on remained. I asked my husband Connor about it, but he said he hadn't touched it. And our seven-year-old son, Jamie, was so thoroughly grossed up by raw meat that I didn't bother questioning him. It was a mystery I wasn't sure would ever be solved. The kind that no doubt would be a funny story you tell it family get-togethers in the future.

And then the sausages vanished a few days later, followed by a couple of chicken quarters sometime after that. And then a whole spiral-cut ham I'd been planning to cook for Garner's birthday dinner. I swear, babe, I don't know what's going on. Connor and I were gazing down at the empty space that the ham had been in. We decided it could only be one of two things. Either we had a very single-minded thief breaking in every couple of nights, or Jamie had suddenly gotten over his aversion to raw meat. I turned to Connor.

But what would he even be doing with it? I couldn't imagine why a seven-year-old would start hoarding food out of the blue. He was well-fed at every meal, had access to snacks when he asked for them, and had never once gone to bed hungry. It befelled both of us. Connor shook his head. Only one way to find out. When Jamie came home from school that afternoon, we all sat at the kitchen table, our usual spot for the more serious family discussions.

Jamie kept his gaze on his lap, where his little hands were twisting nervously around one another. I think you know what we're going to ask you. Jamie half shrugged. James? Connor tapped the tabletop with his index finger. Look at us. Our son glanced out of the corner of his eyes at us. guilt stamped across his features.

You want to tell us what's been going on with the meat? I tried matching Connor's stern but still gentle tone. When Jamie didn't answer, I added, We know you took it. Sorry. We just want to know why, little man. This isn't like you. You hate even looking at raw meat.

It's not for me. It was for all of us. But we had a lot, and he didn't have any, and he didn't like it when I tried to give him left. Who? Connor and I frowned towards one another. Smidge! What?

Smidge. He lives under the house and likes meat, and he's good and doesn't bother anybody. Connor and I exchanged another glance. This one tinged with relief. A stray animal hiding under the house was far preferable to some of the other things that had popped into my head. We tried to ask Jamie if Smidge was a dog or a cat, maybe even a raccoon. But he was unable, or maybe unwilling, to give us an answer. He stays in the back, in the shadows.

It's hard to see him, but he makes happy noises when I visit, and he likes it when I talk to him. After assuring him we weren't mad at him or smidge, Jamie opened up a bit. He had seen something crawling under a gap in the latticework on the porch when he was playing outside one evening a couple of weeks before. Just a brief glimpse, and with all the infinite wisdom of a child, he decided to follow it. He claimed it to dug a deep hole in the far corner

where it was darkest and mostly stayed in it when he visited. He growled at first, but I kept talking to him, and then I fed him, and now he likes me. When do you go visit him, kiddo? After you and Daddy are in bed? It was so I could feed him.

He was very hungry. Connor and I made Jamie agree to stop bringing food to smidge and put an end to their nighttime visits until we could determine exactly what the critter was. Jamie pouted and kicked his feet, but promised he'd keep his distance from his newfound friend. To keep him honest, we even went through the fridge and made note of what was there, just in case anything went missing.

Conor and I discussed it while getting ready for bed. What do we do, call animal control? Not yet. I'll get under there in the morning to see what it is. If it's a dog or something, maybe we can consider keeping it. I don't know. I was doubtful. I didn't want to get stuck ticking on all the wrong. responsibilities of a pet that should have been Jamie's.

He's already done a pretty good job of keeping it fed. Connor pointed this out with a cheeky grin. I rolled my eyes and told him to turn off the light. The next morning, while I took Jamie to school, Connor crawled under the house to see if he could locate the mysterious smidge. A tiny kitten. Black and fluffy and purring wildly was waiting for me in the bathroom when I got home. This is smidge?

I laughed as it rubbed against my ankles. Jamie thought this little guy needed a whole ham? I guess? Cute, isn't he? Adorable. Jamie must have been cleaning up after him because there's no bones or anything left under the house. Thank God.

I can only imagine what that would have smelled like. And the hole? It's just where he said it was. Looked pretty deep. Probably been used by other critters before smidge here. I'll fill it in when I've got more time, but I really got to get going to work. We traded a quick kiss before he hurried off to change and leave.

Smidge turned out to be a clingy, affectionate kitten who yelled every time I left the bathroom. I made some calls and found a vet who could see us in short order. Smidge was less than thrilled when I zipped him up in an old handbag and drove him over. He was given a few shots, a thorough exam, and finally declared completely healthy. I was surprised to find how happy that made me. I'd only had him for a short time, but I was already falling in love. It was hard not to when he looked up at me with those big amber eyes. His whole body rumbling with never-ending purrs.

I had a feeling it was going to be an easy choice when it came to deciding if we were going to keep him. Back at home, I put Smidge in the bathroom again and set out to kitten-proof our house as best I could before running to the store for some supplies. I snapped a picture of Smidge in his new bed once I got back and texted it to Connor. He replied almost immediately. So, I guess we have a cat now. I sent him another picture of Smidge flopped over in my lap as confirmation. Jamie was going to be thrilled. I could barely contain my excitement when I went to pick Jamie up from school.

I almost blurted out that we'd found Smidge and he could stay, but decided that it would be more fun to let it be a surprise. Smidge's cries for attention from the bathroom greeted us as soon as we walked in the front door. What's that? Jamie looked to me. Go look. With less enthusiasm than I had expected, Jamie went to the bathroom and opened it up. Smidge came darting out immediately.

We found him. I scooped the kitten up and offered him to Jamie. We're going to keep him. Who? Jamie looked from me to the kitten and back. Smidge? I replied with some uncertainty. That's not Smidge.

He's bigger than that. But he was under the house near where you said. Jamie dropped his gaze and his hands started to ring in front of him. His tell that he was trying to hide something. What is it? Nothing? Jamie? I found the kitten last night.

It was in the front yard. You were outside again? Yeah. James! Sorry, but I knew Smidge would be hungry. We talked about this. But I didn't give him any of our food. Then what were you doing out there?

Jamie hung his head and shuffled his feet, and I had to keep probing and prodding until he finally broke down and answered me. I was checking on smidge and telling him I was sorry that I didn't have food. And then I found the kitten and I put it under the house for smidge. I couldn't stop my mouth from hanging open. My son, my little man, had tried to feed a live kitten to whatever was under the house. He must have still been full from the ham, though. Not knowing what else to do, I told him to go do his homework while I started dinner. I couldn't wait for Connor to get home so we could talk this over together.

Kitten's smidge wound around my feet, meowing and purring and kneading at my pant legs. I stared blankly down at him, wondering what had been going through Jamie's head. Connor barely managed to get through the door before I grabbed his arm and dragged him to our room to tell him what our son had told me. He wanted smidge to eat the kitten? Connor had paused in the middle of removing his tie. Yeah, that's what he said. I don't know how to feel about that. I mean, it's not like he was torturing it or anything.

I know, but it's weird, isn't it? For a little boy to try to make one animal eat another? It's nature, I guess? I don't know, Audrey. It definitely feels weird. Look, let's have dinner, think a bit, and regroup after. We can talk to him once we've figured things out better on our end. It was quite a meal.

Jamie seemed to sense the tension and kept his head down, while Connor and I were each lost in our own thoughts. I wondered if I was overreacting. If it wasn't the big deal I was making it out to be in my head. But then I'd looked down a kitten smidge, threading himself through the chair legs, and swatting playfully at our toes. And I'd wondered how Jamie could have looked at that same creature.

and wanted to feed it to another. I knew that animals eating animals was, as Connor said, nature, but that didn't make me feel any better about it. When we were done, Jamie asked if he could go out to play with some of the other neighborhood kids. Yeah, just don't go under the house, okay? Not until your dad and I can check out the real smidge. He nodded and darted outside. Connor and I remained quiet while we washed dishes.

I absently watched Jamie running around the house with Maya and AJ from next door. He looked so carefree, so innocent in the orange glow of dusk. He didn't really understand what he was doing, I thought. He was just trying to take care of smidge, whatever smidge was. And that wasn't a bad thing, really. A dog probably. Hopefully. Connor had come to a similar conclusion by the time we'd taken a seat in the living room to discuss it.

Kids are impulsive. They don't think things through. It wasn't about hurting the kitten. It was about helping smidge. I think so, too. We just need to talk about what he should have done differently. It was going to be an odd, possibly uncomfortable conversation, but we both knew we had to have it.

We sat back with matching size, glad that we could navigate through this often strange land of parenthood together. We were feeling better, more relaxed, like we had a handle on things. And then the screaming started. We almost tripped over each other running out the door. By the time we rounded the corner towards where it had been coming from, it had stopped. Jamie was just finishing, pulling himself out from under the house,

and I grabbed him by his shoulders, looking him over for any sign of injury. What is it? What happened? I wanted to show him him to smidge. His voice had an eerie calm. Who? Maya and AJ? Connor started to look around. Where are they? James? Jamie looked towards the gap and the lattice work.

Oh, God. Are they under there? His question was cut off by the sound of something tearing wetly. And then long, slow, crunching. Connor staggered back a step and I had to put a hand over my mouth to keep from being sick. Jamie looked solemnly up at us. Still so carefree, so innocent. I guess Smidge wasn't full anymore. The art world is full of creative people

with rather eclectic ways of expressing themselves. Just ask author Henry Galley. He shares an encounter with an avant-garde artist who pushes the boundaries of what is considered art and good taste. Performing this tale are Dan Zapula, Peter Lewis, Kyle Akers and Erica Sanderson. So even if you don't know your religious dogma, you'll be okay, as we learn about the art of transubstantiation.

Everyone in the underground art scene has heard of antithesis. Maybe he was a footnote in your art professor's forgotten thesis, or you overheard his name whispered at some secret rave where the lights were strobing and everyone was wired. on something. Maybe Molly, maybe something stronger. Critics who have seen his work call him a genius. Psychologists who have seen it call him a maniac. But no matter who you are or what side of the schism you happen to fall on, you have to concede to the fact that nobody pushes the boundaries of physical performance, quite like antithesis does. And what's more?

Well, chances are, you've probably never even heard of him. His real name is unknown, but antithesis has been his semi-public persona ever since he debuted back in 1995 with his piece, a cacophony of life. Damien Hearst, one of the six audience members privy to the piece, reportedly described it to friends and colleagues as, quote, A beautiful nightmare, as ugly as it is honest, end quote, but refused to. say anymore. What is avant-garde performance art in a world where Milo-Moir births paint-filled

eggs onto a canvas, and Peter Pavlensky nails his balls to red square? Shocking imagery and violence has saturated the media to the point of inducing apathy. So what can really be considered controversial these days? Antithesis is the antidote to the numbness. of the modern age. He's willing to experience pain, to experience suffering, to break and rebuild his body time and time again

just to teach us the value of sensation. Nobody who attends one of his legendary private performances leaves as the same person as they entered. Audiences don't just witness there. They transcend. They be. become. And any specific information about the work of antithesis comes from either hearsay or

firsthand experience. The handful of people invited to his piece, Yun's Beast, for example, reported that he donned a costume sewn from the pelts of predatory creatures, crawling on all fours and growling like an animal. He chased down a live goat that was released onto the stage with him and tore it limb from limb with his bare hands. What's even more intriguing about antithesis than the art itself is the exclusivity of it all. To see a performance of his, you must be formally invited, and to the best of our knowledge, you only ever get invited once.

Though perhaps seeing one antithesis performance a lifetime is enough to say to a person's appetite for the bizarre. The audiences for each performance are small but select. They can be artists and critics alike, rich and poor, young and old. All of them leave changed by their experience, some renewed and some harrowed and broken. The group that attended his performance of Pilates' verdict witnessed him being beaten, flagellated and eventually crucified in a manner identical to the torture and execution of Christ in the Bible. Some left believing that there was no God and that we had killed him.

Others left with a sense of faith that they had never possessed before. I work as a columnist for a contemporary art website that to preserve my professionalism will remain nameless. Throughout my career, I've caught snippets of antithesis by interviewing artists that have been connected to him somewhere down the line, with names as big as Marina Abramovich and Gunter von Hagen's on the list. It had become somewhat of an unhealthy obsession for me, but every open door presented the same brick wall just behind it. Antithesis, a man apparently so secretive that he makes Banksy look like the Kardashians, refuses every interview and bombards his audience with enough

non-disclosure agreements to seal their lips permanently when speaking on the record. Hence, you won't find any articles about him online, and you certainly won't find him in a book or a documentary. I spoke to Marina Abramovich about antithesis. He's a purist. He said he only wants his art to exist in the memories of those who see it personally.

Otherwise, it's not special. The reason I share this here today, at great legal risk to myself, I might add, is that last week I received an invitation from the man himself. While all notes sent by antithesis are printed in a special ink that fades with time, it certainly matched the descriptions I had collated. The whole thing was written in a fine cursive script and marked with his distinctly stylized A, one that was sketched identically by every artist who had attended one of his performances. It was the real deal. The invitation read, You are cordially invited to attend my latest performance piece.

Transubstantiation at the Nymnuridzni warehouse in the industrial district of Jorninjjjemin. I look forward to seeing you among my audience. Be there at 257 p.m. on Tuesday, the 23rd of February. With his distinctive A symbol drawn by hand just underneath. Naturally, I was consumed by excitement. This was literally the opportunity of a lifetime, one that only a handful of people in the entire world could attest to experiencing. It's possible that the ripples of my search for antithesis had eventually,

reached him and he had reached out to me in return, like I was a wriggling fly in a spider's web. Transubstantiation. The performance I was destined to see. Having heard about his previous pieces, I knew that there was no telling what to expect, even at the vaguest level. I mean, during his performance of a man's life, he suddenly and intentionally severed one of his testicles with a straight razor, and bound the wound with electrical tape shortly afterwards. I found my way to the warehouse specified in the invitation on Tuesday. It was one of those hideous, brutalist buildings that looked like a concrete filing cabinet. So cold, so unfeeling.

Almost the antithesis of antithesis. And thus, it was the perfect place for his latest performance to be born. The inside of the building was almost exaseless. Exactly what springs to mind when you hear the words, Abandoned Warehouse. Think boxes, dust, and darkness occupying almost half of it. Beyond the box maze, I saw a harsh white light being thrown down from the fizzing halogen bulbs grafted to the ceiling,

illuminating what I presumed to be Antithesis's little setup. There were 12 guests, including me. All of them were gathered in little islands of conversation, speaking in hushed tones. There was an opulent buffet table covered in plates of appetizing foods, a selection of metal fold-out chairs, and a large white stretch of cloth hanging from the far wall. Presiding over all of this was a man wearing a tuxedo,

his face totally obscured by a silken black hood and white Mickey Mouse gloves on either hand. That was another detail consistent with every account of an antithel. Joseph's performance. Giovanni, the hooded man, Antithesis's loyal assistant. Rumor had it that he was a trained surgeon that patched up Antithesis every time he finished a piece, and that he was also a highly skilled bodyguard. Now, I couldn't confirm the truth of either of those things, but it certainly added to the mystery. Giovanni stood with his back as straight as a little tin soldier, his hands clasped together in front of him.

And when he saw me arrive, he spoke to the audience in a calm, authoritative voice. Thank you all for attending. His voice commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Antithesis handpicked everyone of you to witness transubstantiation, his finest performance so far. That comment certainly raised some eyebrows. This piece requires a great deal of preparation, so we kindly request that you be patient. for his arrival. The performance will commence in approximately two hours, and in the meantime, you can enjoy the buffet and talk amongst yourselves, and we'll roll out dessert trays once the

performance has concluded. Antithesis and I both thank you for your cooperation. With that, Giovanni filed through a door on the far side of the room and left us. I mingled through the crowd, seeing if there were any faces I recognized. There was an artist or two, sure, but most were journalists like myself, whose faces seemed a mix of excitement and fear. While I didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, it certainly seemed odd for antithesis to invite so many people with the function he seemed to despise. Spreading news. Perhaps he was truly different every time, after all.

Not feeling all that conversational and a little nervous myself, I went to get some food and a drink from the buffet table. Of course, I was cautious. Anyone who knows anything about Antithesis should know that whenever you step into his artistic zone, everything, including the audience, was part of the performance. I ate the cured ham and sipped from my wine glass very slowly, knowing that in the great God pan, Antithesis had drugged the wine with ecstasy,

and then had full, unsimulated sex with every member of the audience, while wearing a crown of ram's horns. Thankfully, after a few minutes I sensed no ill effects and carried on eating what was actually very good and mercifully drugless food. While eating, I noticed that there were shadows on the wall, but not real shadows. I swallowed a mouthful of pulled pork

and realized that someone had meticulously painted every single one of them, like a faceless crowd lurking just beyond the wall. It set my imagination to work on the variety of events we could potentially be experiencing tonight, but none of the possibilities my imagination conjured up could even compare to antithesis's dullest thought. That's why he makes the art, and I write about it, I thought. Eventually, we all finished the buffet and retired to our seats, realizing just how long two hours can feel when you're really waiting for something. I found myself scanning the room in the crowd for clues, assuming that maybe one of them knew something that the rest of us didn't.

Their blank faces didn't offer any more of an answer than the shadows on the walls. When my watch hit precisely 457 p.m., all in the lights in the room went out, and we issued a collective gasp of shock. Now, tensions were high anyway, and now the freakishly punctual antithesis was about to begin his performance. I heard the wheels on Giovanni's trolley squeak as he pushed a large 10-millimeter film projector into the room and positioned it behind us. He adjusted the controls and aimed the lens toward the swath of white on the far wall. I heard a click and the clatter of film reels turned as the projector came to life and a white square lit up on the wall. My palms were clenched and sweating in anticipation. Dancing colors began to form on the screen.

We were looking at a man in his living room, wearing a sand-colored blazer and a t-shirt. He stared at the camera. There was an intensity in his brilliant green eyes, but his face was otherwise very unremarkable. Soft-looking, smooth contours, a wide, welcoming smile. This was antitherto. And he looked so startlingly normal.

Antithesis spoke to the camera, his voice soft and cheerful, like a man in love. Hello, I'd like to thank you all for attending today. The name I give to the world is Antithesis. And I'm sure you've all heard a lot about me, most of which is true. The audience, myself included, was dead silence. He had us at rapt attention. Over the years, I've made art that pushed to the boundaries of physical tenacity. I have broken down the barriers of what a person can do to their body and survive.

All in the name of beauty and of ugliness. You see, I look at the world and see. the muted concrete of this building, full of such monotony and blandness. Hideousness is better than blandness. It was a surreal experience hearing him talk so candidly. It had an almost dreamlike quality to it. I saw flashes of silver as Giovanni wheeled a gilded dessert tray into the room for after the performance. Antithesis spoke on. The point of realization was Pilot's verdict, which I'm sure you all already know about,

despite my best efforts to conceal it. He offered a quiet chuckle at this, as though sensing the futility of trying to keep a secret in the information age. It opened my eyes, dying the way our Lord and Savior did, had a kind of inherent nobility to it, even behind all the blood and pain. It made me realize that there is one more physical barrier left to break. And if I wish to continue propagating my art, I must move on to a different plane to do it. He itched his brow as though the words weren't coming easily. I've elected to undergo a transformation, transubstantiation.

The crucifixion was freeing, definitely, but like our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I felt my final performance had to be a Eucharist, my own little last supper, if you will, before I go to invoke beauty and ugliness in a different place. The bulbs crackled into life above us, bathing the room in light. The projection continued to play. I realized it was selfish of me to go without a parting gift. Some trace of me that can exist with you until your dying day, even when your memories fail you.

That's why I had Giovanni make me into the buffet, you see. In that instant, it felt almost as though the air was sucked from the room. He'd let Giovanni do what? Like the twelve disciples you have eaten my body and drank of my blood. In that regard, I shall exist as part of you forever. What could be a more fitting final performance? The cured ham, the pulled pork, the beef, the lamb, the turkey. It had all tasted so strangely similar now that I thought about it, though I hadn't noticed it at the time.

My God, we had eaten antithesis. Thank you for your cooperation, my friends. A wide grin spread across his face as Giovanni stepped into the view of the camera behind him. While I may not be of this world anymore, part of me will always exist in you. You are my final performance. Antithesis then turned to Giovanni in the video and spoke one final time. Right. I'm ready to begin. The video cut off there.

And Giovanni, who was poised in front of us, lifted the lid from the gilded desert platter. Antithesis's brilliant green eyes were staring at us. His mouth fixed into a permanent smile, just like the one in the video. His head was severed flawlessly. Giovanni truly was a master's surgeon and an expert butcher. When the projector stopped rumbling, the room was flattened by deafening silence. We sat there, motionless and speechless. It was dawning on us that we were the dinner guests at the Last Supper Antithesis so desperately wanted.

Seconds later, a thunderous applause erupted from the silence. I clapped until my hands hurt, hoping that wherever he was, he could hear me. Some of the other guests cackled in admiration and wolf whistled. It was genius, it was transcendent, it was the ultimate send-off. Transubstantiation sat at the perfect locus between genius and madness, true artistry. And we, mere mortals, had been a part of it. I could call it without a shred of exaggeration, the greatest honor of my honor. life. Witnessing a performance from antithesis was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and how lucky we were

to be the last ones. We left shortly after that. I can't imagine I'll ever speak to those people again, but that doesn't matter. Between us, we are, Antithesis. We're what's left of him in the physical world. And that brings us to the here and now. Of course, I could. could have stayed silent about the whole thing, but what good is pride if you can't tell people? Finally, I can dispel the hearsay and the conjecture. I can speak with my own convictions on the subject of the person that was once antithesis. What they had said about him was all true and more. He was a genius. He was a madman. And he was a true. Truly delicious meal.

During our younger days, the memories of playing in the schoolyard can be both happy and perhaps not quite as pleasant as we'd hoped. As we learn from author Olivia White, an event in her childhood evokes terrible memories of rainy days, a children's song, and lost friends. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and Penny Scott Andrews. So even if you know the song, I wouldn't recommend singing along to. The animals went in two by two. I never thought about my early school days. If the subject would ever come up around friends, I'd smile and say I didn't really remember those times.

People wouldn't press. They knew enough about me to understand why that might be the case. And it was true. I didn't remember. Not really. Snatches would come back to me, the smell of scented rubber, that filled my pencil case.

The squeak, squeak of the big pencil sharpener in the corner of the classroom into which you had to insert your pencil and turn the handle over and over and over. The taste of the gum on the back of the gold stars we were rewarded for good work. And I remembered the rain. Puddles on the playground. Scuffed black shoes kicking up spray as the boys jumped from one pool to another, playing an esoteric game that us girls kept away from. Soaked grey trouser legs.

A fall to the ground. Tears. Blue school jumper warming on the radiator. For me, my shiny, buckled shoes stepping gingerly over muddy pools, careful not to get my pristine white socks dirty. Shivering, legs clammy beneath the skirts the girls were forced to wear, even in this weather. I remember my brother, cowering by the bench at the side of the school building. Soot-stained red brick slick with the downpour. Water flowing from the strange gargoyle on the corner. of the roof that on clearer days we'd all gather round and stare up at. My brother John, my twin, often alone, a shivering, sickly child. I never questioned why he was outside with the rest of us. He just was. John, with his messy shock of ginger hair and a face just like mine. Me, tossing my red curls as I plagued jump rope with my friends, even as the rope got dirty and wet from the weather.

Casting glances over at my twin. concern in my little heart, a lack of understanding in my mind. That's where it used to stop, these snatches of memory, visions of unconnected scenes that, thanks to history, I knew, led to tragedy. But lately, I've been reminded of the song, and with that comes further snatches, flashes of times, places, a door opening onto a dark room. The hut, some distance behind the school,

tucked into the corner of the wildlife garden, overgrown with shrubs. The obsidian pond, rippling with raindrops, with the rotting keep-away sign in danger of falling into the water. But mostly, I remember the song and the game we played. I don't remember who first began singing the song. I don't remember it being one we'd sang in school sitting there in assembly. I just remember that someone started, the animals went in two by two, and then we were all singing, forming an impromptu line, the 12 of us in pairs. I don't recall the other classes being on the playground. All I remember was us, singing, stomping our way through the puddles.

The same line, over and over again, my class tromping forth like regimental soldiers, circling the small brick school building round and round. Even John was there beside me. He was my partner, John, my younger twin brother, sniffling with the cold. I don't remember our teacher, Ms. Wilkinson being there to watch us. I don't remember why we were playing outside when it should have been a wet playtime day inside. I just remember singing, the words and tune coming naturally to our six-year-old voices. I remember the conga line approaching the wildlife garden.

I remember Kirsty McAverill and George Brolin, head of the line, pushing the creaky wooden gate open. I don't remember any of us saying stop. Even though we weren't allowed in there by ourselves at playtime, we did it anyway. I don't remember why. Then, I remember Kirsteen George pushing open the door to the dirty old hut that we were never allowed inside. It was normally padlocked. Why wasn't it padlocked that day? The pair disappeared inside. The door swung shut behind them, rain pitterpattering off the corrugated hut roof. The next memory I have, we're back in class. Ms. Wilkinson is teaching us local history.

It's the same day. I know this because my socks are wet. George and Kirsty are sitting together. That's unusual. Normally Kirsty sits with Lisa. They're whispering to each other, giggling. Miss Wilkinson just lets it happen. Doesn't tell them off like she normally would. George and Kirsty are looking back at me now, turning in their seats, staring at me.

Just staring. It kept raining. It was always raining back then. The next time we played, I guess it was the next thing. day, someone began singing. We formed a line, three kids strong. We marched. Stomping, tromping through puddles, water splashing my legs. Rain, light but persistent, slicking my red hair, soaking through the woolen blue cardigan of my uniform to drench the shirt beneath. Why were we even allowed out here in that weather? I don't remember being told to stop. I just remember the marching, the singing, around and around the school. John's hand clutched mine. He was trembling, I think.

I don't recall why. His blue eyes stared at me over freckled cheeks, as if looking for me to stop. Whatever it was. The march? The song? Again, back in the wildlife garden, weaving carefully through the path since we were three abreast,

taking care not to step in the mud, making sure nobody fell in the pond. The door to the hut creaked open. shoved gently by George. At the back of the line, I tried to peer around my classmates to get a look inside. All I saw was darkness, darkness and a faint smell of sawdust, like pencil sharpenings, but damp. John tugged at my hand. What didn't he want me to see?

I gazed longingly at the tiny cobwebred windows, too high for children our age to peer into. George and Kirsty disappeared into the hut, and this time they were a bit of. accompanied by Lisa. The door swung shut. I remember the metal latch clanging. It became a ritual then. The lunchtime game we played as the skies continued to open and unleash their downpour upon our small bodies. Never interrupted by other classes, never observed by the dinner lady, or even Ms. Wilkinson, we marched. Perhaps they were there, outside of my peripheral memory. Perhaps. Perhaps they watched. Perhaps we were alone. In my memories, we are alone, marching forward, onwards, heading towards that one terrible incident that changed everything.

In my memories, I stand there, watching my six-year-old self walk hand in hand with my brother John. I want to reach out to her, to yell, to clamp a hand over her mouth and silence that singing, to grip her in my arms until the marching stops. But I cannot. So in my memories, I watch. That day, they picked Wendell. Wendell, the big boy, who towered over the rest of us, big in height and width. Wendell, the jolly, happy kid who cried for his mum on the first day of school,

then with tears drying on his cheeks, joined us in the play corner and threw himself into our games, a smile on his face. Wendell didn't get stuck in the door. Instead, he'd disappeared into that wooden hut, accompanied by Kirsty, George and Lisa. The door clacked shut. I don't have memories of any of the kids ever leaving the hut. My memories jump then, back to class. And I remember...

I remember how they changed. George, Kirsty and Lisa, pale with sharp eyes, whispering and giggling, looking at the rest of us, falling silent when we approached. And now Wendell, too. Wendell, who'd been so enthusiastic to invite us all to his birthday party, he'd given us an invite every day. Silent, whispering, shunning. Never saying a word to the rest of us,

never interacting with the rest of us until the next lunchtime when we'd play the game again, when we'd march. Thoughts drifted through my mind as I reached day five in my recollection. The wildlife garden seems impossibly big when I try to picture it. trees shielding the pond from the school itself, a path that leads across marshy grounds to where that hut sits, mysterious and tantalizing. Could the garden have been as big as I remembered it? Why were we allowed there unsupervised? What had the hut been for? I didn't think I'd ever been inside. I was sure of it. And yet, I could smell the interior. The rust, the sawdust, a dusty scent beneath all that. The rhythmic squirt. weaking of a long-abandoned tool hanging on a hook. Were these my recollections? Were they

Johns? That day, Kirsty, George, Lisa and Wendell chose Blake. The rest of us marched behind the huddle of five, singing and chanting and stamping our feet. The rain wasn't as heavy that day. A fine mist that got into your eyes and made them sting. The wildlife garden smelled fresh. Dew-dripping grass tickled my nose. The first sign of summer. Hard to think about summer when the skies were so cloudy, the downpour so permanent. Back in the classroom, Miss Wilkinson teaching us the five times table. Chalk scraping across the blackboard, a sound that will forever send a shudder through my body. The quintet who'd visited the hut, huddling together in the play corner, whispering and looking at the rest of us.

A hunger in their eyes, conspiratorial nods and the silent mouthing of words. I reached across the gap between the desks and squeezed my brother John's hand. I don't know why. A fly landed on Wendell's cheek. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes glassy. Kirsty reached out and plucked the insect from Wendell,

an impossibly fast movement, so sudden I thought I'd imagined it. She moved her hand. hands to her mouth and I saw her chew as she slid something between her lips. The fly. When our classmate Michael had eaten a worm in February, Kirsty had shrieked and told the teacher. She called him worm breath for a month after that.

Things change. Kids change. Day six. Michael's turn. Our singing had gotten louder now. How do we know how the rhyme went? We marched and stomped. It was the rainiest day yet.

I think I recall thunder, lightning splitting the sky, so close I smelled the electric burn in the air. At any other time, we would have stopped whatever we were doing to count the seconds between lightning strikes and thunder peals. That day, we marched and sang. We stood there outside the hut, waiting as the door swung closed. It was as if we knew something was due to happen that day. A few minutes later, the door creaked open. I strained to see what lay in the blackness beyond. Faint shadows of movement greeted me, the whispers of my classmates.

Then a boy sprawling through the door and out into the garden, catching himself before he bowed. Michael. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was a tiny boy, a troublemaker, a crybaby. One time he put a slice of bread and butter in my hair. I didn't like Michael. And yet, even in my childish mind, it broke my heart as I saw him turn back to the closed door.

He hammered on the wood with his fists, sobbing, wet, snotty sniffles, punctuating his cries. We all watched. None of us moving. That's what we were supposed to do. We watched as Michael pounded and howled. We watched as the door was yanked open, and a hand reached out and pulled Michael inside. I want to remember it being the hand of one of my classmates. It can't have been the impossibly long, pale, bony fingers that materialise when I try and picture the scene. It must have been George or Wendell.

Marching, marching. The rain even heavier the next day. A large puddle had formed in the corner of the playground and we had to adjust our route to avoid it. The boys would play football in that puddle sometimes and they'd always get shouted at by the dinner lady. There was no sign of the dinner lady that day, not as myself, John, and the others, followed the group of seven, leading the march. Vanessa was the next pick. Brattie, spoiled Vanessa, who had to win all the games we'd play,

or else she'd throw a tantrum. Petulant, rude Vanessa, who by all right should have run away crying on the first day when Kirsty didn't pick her, even though she hated Kirsty. Nasty, bullying Vanessa, who would normally have told on us the minute we strayed off the end. approved path. But Vanessa had marched along with the rest of us, and today it was her turn.

Solemly, my classmates filed inside the hut, the door swinging shut behind them. I noticed that the windows had been overtaken even further by cobwebs. Next to me, John Swade, scuffing his old school shoes in the mud. He looked paler than usual, his freckles like burning embers on his face. Something was different in class that day. The six children from the day before were huddled together still. The gang that went into the hut had taken up permanent residence in the play corner, it seemed. They whispered and muttered as Ms Wilkinson read to us from the water babies. I remember that clearly.

I remember that story, the tale of Tom the Waterbaby, swimming through treacherous oceans on a tale of redemption. I remember to Vanessa sitting alone, shunned not just by her newfound group, but by the rest of us also. She was Ms Wilkinson's favourite and would often raise her hand with questions about the lesson or story, but that day she was silent. She sat in her seat, looking small and inconsequential, and I distinctly recall she was shivering.

The next day, Vanessa was not in school. Twelve had become eleven. The flood on the playground was. getting worse. Our march snaked around puddles, splashing through the shallows where there were no better route. Singing, singing at the top of our voices. I was at the back of the line that day, John striding dutifully forward in front of me. In my memory, I can count the rest of my classmates, all ten of them, and yet when I bring to mind the event, I'm sure, absolutely sure that there was another behind me. I can recall the sensation of eyes on the back of my neck.

a hand brushing gently against my arm. It wasn't Vanessa. Vanessa was gone by then. She was the first of us to go. I just didn't know it at the time. Even as we made our way through the now rotting gate into the wildlife garden, I could sense that mystery person behind me at the end of the conglom. Why didn't I stop? Why didn't I turn around? Was I too afraid? Or perhaps I could not? Perhaps whatever had compelled. as to play this game had taken hold of me, forced me to march onwards, my tiny voice singing the song of the animals. Two had been selected on this day, perhaps to make up the numbers with Vanessa's absence, Jimmy and Josephine. Eight children crowded into the hut, pushing the door closed behind them. I stood there with John and our remaining classmate Sarah, my best friend at the time. For the first time, I remember. one of us speaking while the others were inside. It was Sarah who spoke. Her voice was mournful, melancholy. I don't think she was speaking to John or I. I saw a shadow pass across the window,

far too tall for it to be one of our peers. It'll be soon. I tried to reassure Sarah, not understanding why. Day nine. The day the flood consumed the playground. The day we had no choice but to wade through water as we marched. It flowed into our shoes, drenching our socks. It made my feet clammy and uncomfortable, my tender skin rubbing and pleasantly against the fabric. Ms. Wilkinson was there that day. She stood on the stoop leading into the school, watching us, a smile on her aging face. Ms. Wilkinson was a spinster, I knew, but I didn't know what that meant. I'd heard my dad calling her a sad, old lady, but she'd never seen her. sad to me. Apart from that one time, that one day, Sarah had called Ms. Wilkinson mummy,

and the rest of the class had laughed at her for it, giggling and shrieking until our mirth died down and we became engrossed in our colouring. Ms. Wilkinson hadn't laughed, though. She hadn't done anything. And later, after class, I'd crept back to retrieve the coat I'd left behind and found her crying at her desk. I'd turned on my heel and ran, scared by the sight of my teacher weeping. As we rounded the school building and headed towards the wildlife garden, I saw that Ms Wilkinson wasn't really watching us at all. She was staring out across the playground at the rain, the flood, at the street beyond the school gates.

That's something else. The door to the hut swung shut in my face as my feet stopped moving. Behind me, John froze too. I was so close to the wood of the door that I could smell it, could have leaned forward and poked it with my nose. But I didn't. I stood there, staring at the whirles, the flaking of the paint. The spider ran across the surface, scurrying to get out of the downpour.

From inside, I could hear a creaking sound, like my great-grandma's rocking chair she used to always sit in before she was sent to the home. Rhythmic, eerie, echoing throughout the hut, which seemed to vibrate that day with an unseen energy. I listened for my classmates. I heard the sound of teeth chattering. Or maybe it was the rattling of dice, the big old white kind that John and I would throw to play snakes and ladders,

moving our pieces as many spaces as we wanted, regardless of what the numbers said. I don't know how long we stood there in the pouring rain, or why we suddenly turned and walked back to class alone. The tenth day. The final day. I don't know how I knew it was. But I did. I don't know how each day we knew the next verse of the song, but we did. I don't know how we knew the order in which to queue up, but we did. I don't know why I ended up at the back of the line again that day, but that's how it was supposed to be. And so I did.

Oh, how I sang that day. Though my heart was heavy and my soul afraid, I sang. It rained. It poured. Splish, splash, wet shoes, wet socks, wet legs, wet, heavy hair, the rain extinguishing the flames of red. My eyes were fixed on the back of John's head. His curls, his thin arms, his bony legs. The way his shirt was untucked at the back.

The flooded playground made marching harder. The water restricting our steps like we were in slow motion. And maybe I'm remembering it wrong, but I think we sang slower too. The song taking on a deeper, more macabre tone like a dirge, like this was the end. Down and round and round about and through the puddles and down the spout, the water flowed. The children marched, we marched, we sang with all our hearts. I remember the gate. I remember it falling away under Kirstie's hand,

disintegrating as she kicked the wood away. Then, the winding path through the wildlife garden. It seemed to last forever. The ground, a quagmire where the pond had finally broken its banks and burst forth, torrents of muddy water turning the undergrowth into marshland. But still, we reached the hut, which stood just above the flood, rain hammering on its metal roof. The door was fully open this time.

Waiting for us, a yawning mouth that revealed naught but darkness inside. The walls hummed, the ground hummed, my body hummed, and we sang, we sang, we sang, we sang. They filed inside, ahead of me, not stopping, as if the darkness swallowed them whole. The second that one of my classmates crossed the threshold, they disappeared from my view. We marched forth, as if on a production line, five, six, seven, eight. The song had become a choral cacophony, echoing from all around me,

the hut, the trees, the pond. I sang so hard my lungs felt like they'd burst. Sarah was next, her shrill and chuneless voice carrying on as she stepped into the darkness, drifting out of the interior of the hut and settling in the air around me. John, only John left.

Just John, one step away from the doorway. Suddenly, the icy cold realization gripped me that something was very, very wrong. The song faltered on my lips. Freezing rain pounded my body. I blinked as if awakening from a dream, unsure of where I was, when I was. John's back ahead of me. John turning. My brother, John, turning, looking me in the eye.

He teetered in the doorway of the hut, the shadows within seeming to lap at his shoulders, caress his messy hair. And he sang too. John sang. And we all went into the yard for to get out of the race. I reached out to grab him. I did. I tried. And I swear, I swear, in my memories, I caught hold of his school jumper at the chest. And I swear John's eyes cleared then, like he'd awoken to, and he was moving to step forward. The shadows came alive. I saw a pale, bone. figure, impossibly tall, impossibly gaunt with scraggly grey hair at his temples and sunken yellow eyes.

A jaw that chittered up and down like he was singing. Thin fingers, papery skin, moving like it didn't come natural to him. The arms, reaching out, grasping John around his body. A whistle, melodic and somehow strangely beautiful, forcing itself through this creature's cleat. Then he pulled back. John was dragged into the shadowy depths and the door slammed shut in my face. As I stood there hammering on the door of the hut, crying and screaming until my voice was hoarse,

I barely even noticed that the rain had stopped. It was only when, unable to force my way through, I turned and ran back to the school that I saw the sun shining through the clouds. The school was locked also. Why would it be locked in the middle of the day? I circled the building, scared and confused, a lost six-year-old with no understanding of the situation I'd found myself in. I screamed and screamed and screamed, first for Miss Wilkinson, then for the dinner lady, then for the headmistress. The windows were stony still and onyx black.

No faces in the glass, no classmates, teachers. I was alone. I had no recourse but to do the most forbidden thing for any child in school. I exited through the school gates and ran home. All this I remembered. All this flooded back to me like a conga line flowing the words of the song. This is how I remembered it. But this cannot have been how it happened.

It cannot. And yet, in my heart, I know it was. After John disappeared, after they all disappeared, I went to live with my grandparents because my mother became very sick. She was sent to live in a special hospital that now, as an adult, I came to recognise as a psychiatric hospital. Dad moved away, remarried, had a new family. I never heard from him again.

He blamed mum, but I never knew why. I'd blotted everything out. I'd grown up knowing that when I was six years old, in 1989, my brother and nine of my classmates had been abducted, never to be found. I'd grown up knowing that I'd been lucky. I'd had a narrow escape. It was a distant life, my old life, before Granny and Grandpa, before Nottingham, halfway across the country.

But with the song comes the memories, and with the memories comes the burning desire to know the truth. One day, perhaps I will return home, if I can face it. But for now, I simply remember these impossible days, the smell of scented rubbers, the squeak of the pencil sharpener, the taste of gum, and the song, like instructions, echoing down the years. 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 no-sleeppodcast. to learn about our season pass 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.

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