The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E12

Episode Date: February 11, 2018

It's episode 12 of Season 10. On this week's show we have six tales about lost love and cunning creatures. "A Gift in the Dark"† written by Gavin Wilson and performed by Andy Cresswell & Mick Wingert & James Cleveland & David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:20:30) "My Anime Body Pillow"† written by Holly Dionis and performed by Matthew Bradford & Jessica McEvoy & Addison Peacock & Nichole Goodnight & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:43:00) "The Rat Girl of Saint Bruno's"‡ written by L.L. Madrid and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Nikolle Doolin & Jesse Cornett & Erin Lillis & Addison Peacock & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:16:15) "So Praise Him"† written by Samuel Marzioli and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Peter Lewis & Dan Zappulla. (Story starts around 01:40:00) "Sky Turns Red"¤ written by J.D. McGregor and performed by Atticus Jackson & Jesse Cornett & Mick Wingert. (Story starts around 02:12:00) 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 Hasani Walker   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about Gavin Wilson   Click here to learn more about Samuel Marzioli   Click here to learn more about J.D. McGregor   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "My Anime Body Pillow" illustration courtesy of Hasani Walker 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 six tales about,

lost love and cunning creatures. I'm sure you know, this is the very last episode of the No Sleep podcast. Until we start our Escape the Black Farm Tour, that is. That's right, starting next week with episode 13 and until episode 17, the No Sleep Tour team and I will be touring across America. And I hear you asking, will the episodes continue? Rest assured, dear listeners, we will have new episodes for you, each week while the tour is going on. And I also hear you asking, like the inquisitive little

creatures you are, whether or not I'll be hosting the next four episodes. Well, no, I won't be hosting, but the team and I hope to check in every now and then to let you know how we're doing. Hosting the show in my stead will be, you know, let's wait until next week to find that out. Don't want to let the cat out of the bag, as it were. So you can look forward to ongoing episodes, and hopefully you can also see us live on tour. I also want to introduce you to an outstanding new illustrator joining our team. Hassani Walker is an animator and illustrator living in Oregon and currently working at Laika Studios. When he's not at work, he's always working on personal projects, from short films to his self-published patchwork girls series and other books. The project most are starting to know him by

is the stop-motion horror series My Bedroom Door. He stays busy mainly because he absolutely loves the art of animation and telling stories. We welcome you to the show, Hassani. Thanks for sharing your talent with us. So it's with a bittersweet tear rolling down my cheek that I bid you farewell for the next four weeks. But you'll be in good hands, especially as season 10 doesn't stop with episode 12. The stories are ready, so as the two or two or two. team will soon say, let's start the journey. In our first tale, we meet a man lamenting his lost love.

But as author Manon Lyset shares, the man makes a pact with a mysterious stranger in order to contact his lost romance, but sometimes what you wish for is not what you get. Performing this tale are James Cleveland, David Alt, Jessica McAvoy, and Brian Mansey. So be careful. expressing your desires because you just might encounter he who listens for wishes. It was late in the evening and I was sitting alone on a park bench, hand on the phone in my coat pocket, hoping beyond hope it would start vibrating, that I'd look down and see his name on the screen. Lee, my boyfriend, we'd had a fight and it was my fault. I'd been stubborn. headstrong as usual.

Now I found myself here, estranged from the one man I'd ever truly loved, praying to any God that would listen that Lee would forgive me. He hadn't returned any of my calls so far, but maybe this time. I kept telling myself the message I'd left was good enough to change his mind. Every fibre in my body was hoping and begging he would call. As I sat there in my reverie, a man approached from across the park, his footfalls so quiet that he'd gone from a blip in the distance to sitting on the next bench over without me even noticing.

I knew it would be courteous to bid him good evening, but I was too focused on the device between my fingers to pay him any mind. I heard a deep intake of air, not dissimilar to what a child would take right before bursting into song or scream. The man spoke, loud enough for me to hear. I wish he'd call me back. His voice was soft and peaceful, like a father reading a bedtime story. Though his words had derailed my train of thought, it was the sight of his intense, unbreaking gaze in my peripheral vision which urged me to respond. Excuse me? I turned to him and found myself a little taken aback by his appearance.

He was an all-black, wearing a trilby, polished shoes, clean-dress pants, and a long coat stretching from his knees to his shoulders, with preacher's collar peeking between the folds. He had a short, well-groomed beard and strong cheekbones beneath his unblinking stare. Even seated, I could tell he was quite tall, and I questioned how someone of his stature might have been so light on their feet. His lower eyelids were pronounced, almost swollen, as though he'd been awake for days or crying for hours, but the telltale signs of redness of Eva affliction was missing. As he grinned sheepishly at me, his lids arched upwards, and with the glow of the streetlight above made his eyes look

like crescent moons gleaming in the night sky. He was, by any definition, handsome and alluring, but he looked as though he'd been plucked from another time period. The preacher touched his gloved fingertips together and then dangled his now combined hands between his parted knees. That's what you were thinking just now. I wish he'd call me back. Isn't that right? I blushed and nodded.

Had it been that obvious? You know the odd saying about wishes? Who was this man? What was he doing parading around the streets of Cambridge in that antiquated get-up of his? Why had he felt the need to come and bother me? I forced a chuckle, trying to make it sound more amused than annoyed, though the scale clearly tipped towards the latter.

Yeah, well, I'm not asking the universe for much here, mate. His stare intensified to the point of making me tense. I could feel my toes going cold as they gripped the soles of my shoes. I wanted to show him away, but there was something about him that I found abundantly charming in debonair. I found myself uncharacteristically enraptured by this stranger. as though his charisma was a web, and I was an insect. May I tell you a story? I cocked a brow at the odd request.

He didn't smell drunk, nor a look disturbed in any way. But still, my mind screamed, no. Unfortunately, my mouth was too polite to vocalize what my brain was urging me to say. Sure. His smile intensified, and his half-moon eyes narrowed into waxing crescents. Marvelous. He removed his trilby and held it against his chest with one hand, while the other cupped his knee. Underneath his hat was a thin carpet of receding dirty blonde hair, just about the same length as his beard and mustache.

The preacher rotated towards me and wasted no time in starting his story. I knew a man once, much like you. But not nearly as handsome, don't you worry? He winked. He, too, was sitting on a park bench much like this one. stewing over his latest failed relationship. She'd started out as just another notch in his belt, but he'd grown quite fond of her.

He'd even started contemplating starting a family. I'd been looking at rings the weekend before he ghosted me. Out of the blue, he'd just stopped answering my calls. No goodbye message? Nothing. I can relate. He hummed, looking at me with his signature sheepish grin. Can't we all? So what happened to your friend?

Oh, he wasn't a friend. More like... He paused and squinted, a zoin deep thought, then continued. More like a client of sorts. Well, this man sat on a bench and watched his lover's house and called her over and over again, wishing, begging and praying she'd pick up. She never did, of course. But all those wishes he sent out into the ether were bound to fall on prying ears.

And so, on a night much like tonight, as the man was on the verge of tears and staring at his phone, a handsome, very well-dressed, very suave stranger approached him and offered him a deal. Let me guess. Sell his soul for a phone call. Oh, heavens no. While a handsome stranger did have mysterious powers, they were nothing of that sort. No, no. What he asked for was one year, one single year of his life in exchange for a guaranteed phone call. You see, this stranger, this attractive, kind, charismatic stranger had the ability to act as a sort of... Again, he squinted, turning his eyes into crescent moons in the process. A kind of supernatural telephone operator of sort of.

He could guarantee the man's call would go through. Hell, he could let any person speak to anyone they desired, all in exchange for a single year of their life. I snorted and twirled my finger around my temple a few times. He sounds like a loony to me. The preacher shuffled closer and leaned in, his deep brown eyes looking into mine with overwhelming intensity. Maybe he was, but if so,

then there'd be no harm in agreeing to the bargain, would there? And if his claims were legitimate, well, then what's one year? What would anyone have to lose? One less year in the twilight of his life? Half there, half not, pissing and shitting himself in a nursing home? One tiny, itty-bitty year in exchange for the potential of reuniting with his beloved and living a lifetime of happiness by her side. This, the man decided, was a bargain.

He accepted the stranger's deal, one year of his life for a phone call. I loosened my tie and looked up at my own lover's apartment building. The lights were off and the curtains drawn. Was he already asleep? Or had he gone out drinking with friends again? So the guy actually said yes? The preacher nodded enthusiastically. Why, of course.

I was skeptical. In my experience, if someone doesn't want to answer, they're not going. to answer. Nothing's going to change that. You can only sit back and hope they'll return the call. And it worked? His call went through? The preacher smiled with such excitement he looked 20 years younger. It most certainly did. The handsome stranger was no liar. My leg twitched and I jumped. Had my phone just vibrated? No. It wasn't vibrating. It was just a muscle spasm. So why are you telling me this? My boy, it's simple.

I simply wish to make you the same offer I made him. A year of my life for a phone call. I can see you're skeptical, but think of the man in my story. The preacher stretched his arm out and held his hand within reach. What harm could it possibly do to agree? If it's a sham, nothing will happen. If it's not, your wish will be granted and he'll return your call. I looked to him in disbelief.

I wasn't buying it. it, not one bit. At the same time, it would have been rude not to humor him a little. I shook his hand firmly, looking him in the eyes. All right. Deal. He shook my hand firmly. Excellent. In a graceful movement, the preacher dropped his hat back on his head and pushed himself to his feet, ready to leave. I stopped him. I'm not even sure what possessed me to ask, but something did. Wait, aren't you going to tell me what happened? once your client made the call? Was he able to get her back?

Did they live happily ever after? A hint of malice flickered in the preacher's smile in response to my questions. He cupped a hand to his chin pensively. Hmm. No, not quite. After the handsome stranger left him, the man took his phone and dialed her number, cautiously optimistic it might actually work.

She picked up. But at first all he heard was silence. It can take a few seconds to establish the connection, you see. He began picking lint off his long black coat. That gesture for some reason left me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something about it seemed so sinister. His head eclipsed the streetlight and endowed him with a broad halo. With his long, slender frame towering above me,

He looked like an all-powerful god, and the lint looked like his subjects, which he callously tore from their homes and discarded with little regard. I shivered. He continued. The man heard static. Then slowly the static faded and made way for a soundscape unlike anything he could ever have imagined. He heard the screams of thousands that seemed to echo off the walls of a deep cavern. He heard the sizzling of fire and the searing of flesh. When he strained his ears, he could just barely hear the sound of sparks flying as metal collided against metal. Frazzled and shocked, he made to hang up, but then he heard the girl's familiar voice, weak and threading. Make it tough.

He dropped the phone and it shattered into pieces, but the sound still came through the broken speaker. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rising. It was a story, a stupid story. But it had its hooks in me. But what did he do? The preacher shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. He tossed the remains of his phone into the woods and ran home. He couldn't sleep that night far too frightened by what he'd heard.

But the horror only truly sank in the next day, when, in an effort to return to night. normalcy, he read the morning paper on the bus. He saw her name in the obituaries. She died three days prior. He smirked. And since that day, every time he picks up the phone, he hears her cries for help and the screams of the damned, but there's nothing he can do about it. The call already went through. The connection can't be broken. I'm not going to lie. I was shaken. But But in that same way that you get from watching a horror movie. You know it's not true, but you're still rattled,

still a little afraid of the shadows in the corners of your room. The preacher brought a hand to his ear. Oh my. I'm afraid I really must get going. I hear so many people making wishes tonight. I mustn't keep them waiting. He whistled as he started down the road, adjusting his hat. I laughed a little trying to shake up.

the way the nerves his story had instilled in me. It was a story, just a story. The preacher, if he even truly was one, had been trying to get into my skin. And I, a love-sick fool I was, had fallen for it, hook-line, and sinker. I thought about calling out to him but stopped myself. After all, it had been a distraction. Something to tell Lee about when he... I yelped as I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. When I pulled it out, I saw his name on the screen and I felt a rush of excitement and anxiety. It hits a coincidence, I thought, and I believed that. I did.

But at the same time, there was the faintest doubt in the back of my mind. A different kind of hesitation took over. Was I ready to talk to him? Would he even be willing to take me back? What could I say that I hadn't said a thousand times over voicemail? This could be my only shot. Some distance away now, the preacher stopped for a moment and looked back at me, smirking wide. Well, aren't you going to answer?

Swallowed hard, looked at the phone just long enough to hit the accept call button and brought it to my ear. As I looked back up at the path, I felt a chill and I saw the preacher was gone. At first, I heard static, the sound of a connection trying to establish across distance, time. then the static began to settle and I braced myself at the sound of Lee's voice comforting, reassuring, warm.

Instead, as the static cleared, a frenzy of screams erupted from my speaker. Tortured, horrific screams, the likes of which I'd never heard before, the likes of which I couldn't have even begun to imagine in my wildest dreams. And there,

amidst the voices, as though far off in the distance, far out of my reach. I could hear the vaguest hint of Lee. I love, screaming for help. There were sirens in the distance coming closer. I barely registered them. All I could focus on was his voice, fighting to be heard over the howls of the damned.

Stop! Please! Make it stop! In Wales, there is a long tradition of both mining and folklore. And author Gavin Wilson combines the two in this tale about a man who became a miner

at a young age and who learned quickly that some mythical creatures aren't entirely fictional. Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell, Mick Wingert, James Cleveland, David Alt, and Erica Sanderson.

So let's learn the importance of a gift in the dark. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds that haunt my dreams. Not the booming whoosh of the steam-powered pumps or the clattering of the picks and shovels, but the quiet sounds that whispered from the darkness when the men were resting.

With the Davy lamps turned low to preserve fuel, the flickering shadows breathed life into the darkness which surrounded us. The gentle drips of water and steady hissed. of the lamps, the distant rumble of the surf above our heads, and the knocks of stone and echo. These are the sounds that fill my nuts. I grew up on the wild north coast of Cornwall, an area guarded by sea and gorse, a steeply winding road to low, gray slate houses that stared at the sea. It was just me and Nanny Jago for most of my life. My father had died.

in the Karn-Galln collapse of 1910, and my mother had thrown herself on the cliffs at Zenner soon after. From then on, Morva became my home. We Cornishmen had tunneled deep. A honeycomb of adits and shafts produced the finest quality tin anywhere in the world. It was a proud boast that at the bottom of any deep hole anywhere in the world who would find a cornishman. "'Tas a proud miner who stands with his pick on his shoulder, "'Davie lamp in hand and pasty cooling in pocket. "'I still have the photo on the mantle.

"'I still bear the scars of the collapse which followed. "'At 14, I joined the line of cap-clad men "'as they wove their way across the gorse and ether, "'sheltering behind the stone walls "'and wind-torchered edges marking the cliff-edge. "'On my first day, Nanny J. had pressed a cold, coin into my hand, telling me to leave it as a gift to the knockers. They're fickle boy, but if you gift them, they'll look after you.

Your trixie folk, so beware. Be true to your arms. Maybe I should have asked more, as she was always spinning tales of knockers, the small folk and the pixies. I did as I was bade rather than question the sense of her occasional ramblings. superstition was rife among the miners. The little sounds in the adits and the flickering darkness sometimes drove men mad, and they muttered and grumbled to themselves as they worked. Knocking sounds echoed endlessly around the adits and shafts, and if you listened, they seemed to talk or reply in some sort of ancient signal,

as if in mocking counterpoint to our own feeble efforts. Every day we ate our crouse in the flickering darkness of the mine. We listened to the pounding surf overhead, the steady drip of water and the gentle hiss of the lamps that provided a barrier of light against the encroaching nothingness surrounding us. The crimp of the past he was held to keep the filth off the rest of the oggy, which contained a still warm potato, onion and beef. The remnant was also gifted to the darkness. It was dark, filthy work, but I was strong for my age, bred to dig, and soon earned the respect of my colleagues, some of whom remembered my father.

As the years passed, we had other boys who joined us in the mine. Some stayed, some went. Occasionally one died. One destroyed us. A new lad called Wilf saw the small pile of offerings and the little pool inside the mine end. on his first day, and temptation overcame caution. This was seen by one of the other young lads who mentioned it was older brother during Kraus' time. An argument flared, loud voices echoed through the mine. Then, for the first time, the knockers joined in. The argument stopped instantly. Other than the odd solitary, arithmic knock of a stone falling,

none of us had ever heard the insistent noises during break. All thoughts of food vanished. An older man who had been muttering for many years, curled into a ball and started rocking to and fro, whimpering as the noises grew more insistent. Wilf suddenly took off like a startled air into the darkness. Through some odd instinct, I grabbed my lamp and sped after him, Trying to catch him and stop him running into an unbarred shaft or dropping into a pitfall, that action saved my life.

As we raced along the drainage attic, the noises of surf and men were drowned out by the ominous creaking of timbers, scared shouts behind me, and the sudden boom of a rock fall. Lamp in hand, I ran for my life, still trying to catch the vague figure of wilf. It was suddenly obscured by a cloud of dust and debris that picked me up and threw me, unconscious, into the dark. I awoke to utter darkness, bruised and coughing up dust. The gentle dripping of water reminded me where I was. I called out softly into the funereal night. Nothing.

I started feeling my way carefully, painfully aware that every step could potentially. potentially be my last if I found a pitfall. Instead, I found a foot. I checked the body, finding a candle in a pocket which I lit with one of my few matches. A sense of enormous relief assailed me as the feeble flickering light lit the area, showing an unconscious wulf and a large section of collapsed roof. Going through the rest of his pockets as he lay there, I I found a handful of coins and a ring he had pilfered from the gift pool. These I put in my own pocket, intending to replace them, should I ever get out of the mine alive. Wilf stirred and sat up, rubbing his eyes blearily and wincing in pain.

He started when he saw me and shrank back against the wall of the cave. Wild-eyed. He stopped when he saw the look on my face. He nodded and furtively checked his pockets. I have what you stole, and this is the only candle we have, unless you have one in your sock. Wilf looked down, shamefaced, and that was the last time I ever saw him in normal light, as the candle guttered out with a dismal little flicker. He panicked in the sudden dark, scrabbling around and whimpering in the utter blackness. I grabbed his coat and bade him be quiet, but it was too late.

The sounds came closer and closer, getting louder and louder, each time an extra beat, then a pause. We froze in the absolute dark, the knocking providing a steady but wholly unresuring counterpoint to the amoring beat of our own hearts. The knocking ceased with two final beats, which drove me to my knees. A faint blue glow lifted the veil of dark, and we could see again. I immediately wished we couldn't. We were surrounded, a flickering mass of blue-lit shadow swarmed around us, constantly changing and obscuring the rocks. One area appeared to pause and stings.

and a large head with massive dark eyes moved away from the cloud. It hung in front of our eyes, glowing with the same faint blue as the remainder of his swarming kin. Without sound, the words whispered straightened my head. Looking at Wilf, I could see he'd heard it too. He started patting frantically at his pockets, forgetting in his panic that I had relieved him of it. I reached into my pocket and mutely held out the small collection. An arm flickered out from the blue swirling mass which provided the sickly light around us. A long, multi-jointed finger extended as he pointed at Wilf.

Wilf stood, sweating and way-faced in the eerie blue light. Suddenly he bolted, breaking through the swirling mass of creatures. A group of indistinct glowing figures followed him, lighting the cave walls ahead of him as he ran. As he rounded a kink in the tunnel, there was a sudden, shrill scream which cut off with an audible thudder. The distant blue glow winked out, leaving me prone against the cave wall in my own private pool of fear. I raised myself painfully to my feet and stood waiting. The impulse to run was high in me, but something made me stay where I was. No, I will not.

What can I offer? There was a pause. Tapping noises started in the depths of the cave, joining in rhythm and communication. The cusseration increased, the movement around me intensifying. It stopped as a consensus was reached. For some reason, a vision was a vision. of Nanny J. rose in my mind, and I laughed. There was a palpable change in the environment of the cave. The blue glow increased in intensity and malevolence with a cloud closing the space

around me, until two large eyes were all I could see. No, not at you, a memory. You will have no part of any child of mine. I have nothing to lose here at this moment other than my life. Why should I condemn an unknown, an innocent to suffer an uncertain fate simply to save myself? I refuse. The atmosphere changed again. There was a curious edge to it. Perhaps I had given them something to think about. We have seen a life before.

I'll get there one day. One had survived. John and Alfred were my grandfather and father. Both had died in the mines. Thomas? I had a distant memory of an Uncle Tom, but didn't know what had happened to him. And Zena?

Well, Nanny J had a lot to answer for, and would certainly be asked some questions when I returned. If I returned, they closed in, the black and swirling blue enveloping me. In an instant I was bound and gagged, panic set in. and I struggled as hard as I could. Could not get free.

A stone knife was produced, blue-edged in the swarming darkness, and I screamed in terror into the filth of the gag, screaming again and again as the knife gouged into me, searing with every cut, until I once again fell into blessed unconsciousness. I awoke in moonlight and blessed fresh air. Something was tugging at my eyes. arm and I glanced over fearfully, only to see something run away on sturdy legs, something that

looked a little like a child. The small folk? I lifted my arm to find it bandaged and clean. Definitely the small folk. Had it been the Piskies, I would have been stripped and roasted, probably with an apple in my mouth knowing their reputed brand of humour. Standing carefully and feeling weak. I surveyed the surrounding land by bright moonlight. My father's Davy lamp sat on the ground next to me, and I picked it up and began walking west. An hour later, I crested the rise above the village

and made my way home to Nanny J. A roar sounded from the bar next door and brought me back to myself. I looked back into the deep brown of the beer in front of me, A new pint of ale in the local pub craftily called Cornish knocker. As I'd sat down in the corner to await the arrival of my grandson, the crow had alighted on the window sill and tap, tap, tapped on the window pane. Already thinking about knockers, the sound had tipped me over into memory. Pint all right, Charlie. You'm taking your time tonight.

Waving off his worries, I resumed drinking. enjoying the traditional ale as I slipped back into the past. Nanny J. had been waiting for me when I returned from the hills. Tears had coursed down her cheeks as she embraced me and led me inside. Over a steaming mug of tea, she told a tale of loss. Thomas, a great uncle, had been lost in the mines, as had my grandfather job. But when Alfred had gone missing following a collapse, A younger Zena Jago had left her grandson and daughter-in-law crying in the night, and had walked to the mine.

Always considered an advocate of the white craft, she'd managed to summon the knockers with a gift of blood and something precious. A life. She'd intended for it to be hers. But the knockers had misunderstood, and had taken not only Alfred's, but his wife's too. Be true to your heart. She'd said all those years ago, and I had. But some sort of deal had been done on the blood they'd taken from me. In time, I married a local lass, and we had a daughter and two sons.

The youngest died of measles, but the other two survived and grew strong. I had long since apprenticed myself to a local carpenter, and when he died childless of an art attack, I took over the business and passed it on to my son in turn. My daughter married and had lovely twin girls. My son married and passed my name on to his only son. My boy never had to go into the mines, and not long after they closed for good, with the world demand for tin dropping through the floor. And so here I was, a maudlin old fool waiting for a grandson of the same name. An old man in a modern world with technology and widescreen TV blaring out the football in the next room. A world with no room for fairy and legends.

A world with no place for knockers and small folk, unless they were a whimsically named pint of beer. I was looking forward to seeing young Charlie again, though. He'd mentioned a new job a few weeks ago, and I was keen to see how he was getting on. The door to the pub opened, and Charlie walked into the snug. He didn't see me straight away as I was sitting in the corner opposite the bar. A big lad, he was well over six feet tall with the rugby player's build and a shock of sandy surfers' hair, which defied all efforts to keep it lying down. Evening, Alan.

He drew the barman's attention from the still rowdy game next door. Pint of tennis, please. He carefully eased his jacket off his shoulders, showing one arm in a sling. And it was then that I saw it, printed in large letters on an obviously new top, with a proud words, Cornish rescue, not rugby, something else, something far worse. You've been in the wars, boy? Alan lifted a glass from the shelf. Sort of. We had a mine rescue out at St Just earlier in the week and it all got a bit rough down there.

Eerie light flared in my eyes. Panic rode through my veins and blue-edged pain seared my nerves as Wilf ran away through my memory. There was a sudden disappointed group groaned from next door as the opposing team scored a goal. In the few quiet moments which followed, I tapped a rhythm on the table. in front of me. And there was the answer to the question I dared not ask. Charlie wheeled around to face me, colour draining from his cheeks as his freshly lifted pint glass dropped clumsily from his uninjured end. I rose from my seat and led him to the table, apologising to the barman who stood open mouth behind the bar. Leaving him there, I returned to the bar, bought him another pint, and sat down next to my still-shaking grandson,

leaving the barman to turn his attention to the spillage. They've got a new beer in. It's called knocker. I placed his drink in front of him. For a second I thought he was going to run, but instead he took a deep breath and reached for his drink. As he looked into his amber beer, I rolled up my shirt sleeve, exposing my left forearm, and the crude stickman carved there so long ago by a sharp blade.

Charlie put his drink down and looked at me, his eyes widening as he saw the scars. Involuntarily, he touched his own tightly bound arm and shuddered. Did you make them any promises? After many long seconds, Charlie spoke. No, they didn't want to talk. They just tied me down and made me bleed. He paused and looked me in the eye.

I don't suppose offering them my Kendall mint cake would have made any difference, would it? There is a beauty in the human soul. Something truly inspiring about seeing a spirit who has come up against the darkness and survived. There is also something more binding than love. A shared laughter amidst the common suffering. No child of mine had gone. to the knockers. But it appeared that the blood of generations had been offered as a gift. You'll find few fan groups more devoted than those who love anime. And in this tale from author

Holly Dionis, we meet a young man whose love for a particular anime character inspires the purchase of a very special memento. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Jessica McCavoy, Addison Peacock, Nicole Goodnight, and Atticus Jackson. So snuggle up close to a loved one as we learn about what the man calls my anime body pillow. I want to tell you a love story. As with all the best love stories, the ending is maybe bittersweet, but I think there's an important lesson to be learned from it. The lesson that What we want isn't always best for us, and that what we're given may be more valuable than we first realize. It's my love story, and it's one that changed my life, and it all started when I bought an anime body pillow.

Some years ago, I got really into this one anime. The latest season had just finished airing, and an online buddy got me into it because he knew. would be my kind of thing. I watched a couple episodes and, yeah, I was hooked, went back and caught up on all the previous stuff I'd missed. I spent months enraptured by the show. It became a bit of an obsession. I was in love.

I downloaded fan translations of the source novels and devoured those two, and I don't normally even like reading. But mostly, I'm a big, big anime fan. I spend a lot of my time watching anime. I've always been kind of a loner. I grew up in a podunk backwater town in the U.S. where finding other people who were into the things I was into, anime, video games, tabletop games, card games.

It was damn hard. I'm sure a lot of people can relate. It's much easier to make friends online. I guess as well I'm prone to fantasizing about friendships with fictional characters. I know you'll think I'm a sad loser, but I was lonely, miserable. I'd been diagnosed with depression and anxiety.

I wouldn't even know how to go about getting friends, let alone a girlfriend, telling me that I'm not the coolest guy in the world is preaching to the choir, trust me. I lose myself in these fantasy worlds because I have nothing else. Better that than to be bitter, resentful, lashing out at the world.

world, I think. So I was really into this one anime about a group of friends with mysterious abilities. It gave me the sense of friendship I longed for in my real life. The main character hanging out with cool girls who are kind of weird and a bit out there, the kind of people I'd like to meet myself. There were a lot of characters in the anime that I liked, a lot I could relate to. But my absolute favorite was a girl called Hanny Kawa. The aspect of her character where she has a fucked up family life, I could relate to that. But where Hany Kawa is an overachiever comes across as strong and confident, I'm a nervous wreck, an anxious loser, my brother used to say.

I guess in some ways I really looked up to Hany Kawa, like a role model. I also really had the hots for her. I had a whole folder of images of her on my PC, stills from the show, fan art, and of course plenty of, well, more explicit imagery. I wasn't very good, but I practiced drawing her in all sorts of poses too. Online, I talk about her a fair bunch and even get some good nature teasing about how Hany Kawa was my wafu.

I kind of liked it when people. said that, really. I got lost in a dream where she was my girlfriend. I know it sounds sad and pathetic. Trust me, I know. It was when I was between 15, 18. I was a kid. And it gets worse before it gets better. Only without the getting better part. When people say it gets better, they're lying. I found that out the hard way. One day my friend showed me. showed me a link for a bunch of Henikawa body pillows. There was one pillow that really caught my eye, so much so I obsessed over it a little. On the pillow, Henny Cow is naked, lying on her back.

She has her hands up by her shoulders and one leg bent, a pose I'd drawn her in myself. As you can imagine, I really wanted it, but it was expensive. way too expensive for a kid who was still in high school, didn't have a job, and didn't have parents who were exactly forthcoming with money. I had a bit of cash saved away for college, but as much as I wanted the pillow, I still kind of knew it was a sad, dumb idea. And dropping that much dough on a naked anime girl was a stupid idea. So I googled around.

Imagine my delight when I found the exact same pillow for 30 goddamn dollars plus shipping. And the shipping was only $10 from overseas. Knock-off merchandising company from Australia. Of course I wasn't going to pass that up. I waited eagerly for six weeks, checking the tracking online which seemed to move glacially. A few weeks into the whole debacle, I became convinced I'd been scammed and could kiss my $40,

by no means, a small amount of money for me. Goodbye. Then the shipping updated, and eventually it was in the country and on its way to the states to me. I started worrying about my parents. They weren't exactly supportive of the stupid cartoons that I watched. My father was always riding my ass to be more active, more sporty, make friends, get a girlfriend. My older brother, the stereotypical pussy slang jock dickhead, was the son my father had always wanted. I was an accident, an afterthought.

If he caught wind of me getting a naked anime chick on a pillow, he'd lose his shit. It was bad enough to him that I wasn't out there chasing tail as it was. As for mom, she probably would have just been disappointed in me. Thankfully, the pillow arrived while they were on vacation, as I'd vaguely planned to be the case. My brother, home from college, wouldn't give a shit if I took a pack. package up to my room. Then, all I had to do was make sure I stashed it under my bed and I'd be fine. My room was kind of a sanctum. I had a lock. My parents didn't really ever come in. They did respect my privacy that way. Once the pillow was in my room, it'd be fine. After hastily

retrieving the package from the mailman, I turned to head upstairs. My brother, the kitchen, called out to me. Ordering more shit online, bro. Don't spend all day jerking into cartoons, dude. You got chores. I'm the man of the house now, bro. You got to listen to me. I grinned my teeth and hurried upstairs,

package under my arm. I unwrapped the brown paper, and the plastic wrapping excitedly. The pillow was around four feet long, and it unfurled quickly, springing into shape. I looked at my beautiful. beautiful Henny Kawa, and at first my heart ached with disappointment.

The printing on the fabric was slightly faded, a bit blurry, clearly cheap knockoff quality. The pillow itself was lumpy, hard in places and too thin and soft in others. But Henikawa's face, her eyes, they were printed just fine. They looked up at me eagerly. Her arms spread, showing off her glorious chest. My disappointment faded as quickly as it had risen. I was in love. My mom and dad weren't going to be back for another week.

That gave me an entire seven days to hang out with Henikawa, sleeping in as much as I wanted, no nagging about getting a job or doing assignments ready for school to start back again after the summer break. I was already behind a year, not set to graduate until I was 19, and they were always on me about that. I'd been lucky to avoid summer school for once. All I wanted was a bit of time to chill out, watch anime, get my head together, and cuddle up to Hanikawa. I decided to wait until that night to try her out.

With a renewed energy, I even went out and did some errands. grocery shopping and stuff like that. That evening, my brother had gone out with his douchebag friends. I watched some Netflix in the living room, then retired early to bed. Hanny Kawa was waiting for me when I got there. I felt a stirring of lust as I stared into her eyes. Quickly, I stripped into my boxers and climbed onto the bed, snuggling into the pillow.

Despite the lumpiness, the shitty qualifies. the shitty quality of the stuffing. It was heaven. For once, I didn't feel so entirely alone. I woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty and disoriented. Outside was pitch dark. I checked my phone, 1.45 a.m. Something had woken me.

I listened for the sounds of my brother coming home, probably drunk. The house was silent. Shrugging it off, I prepared to go back to sleep. My hand slipping over the pillow. My palm resting over Hanykawa's heart. That's when I felt it. Her heartbeat. Just gently, but it was there.

It was there. I held my hand against the pillow, not breathing, not daring to move. Her heart beat under my touch. faintly, pulsing, alive. In the moonlight, her wide eyes stared at me. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips. The fabric musty and rough against my face. As I kissed her, I felt her heart, Skip.

The next day, I decided to leave Hanny Cowo alone until the next night. I knew girls didn't like to be bothered constantly. And while I couldn't explain it, I didn't even want to. I knew that somehow the Hanikawa on my pillow was alive. In some way. I'd felt her heartbeat, after all. I'd talked to her all morning as I got ready, then watched anime on my laptop.

I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd replied. I wondered if it would get to that stage one day. If she had a heartbeat, it stood to reason that she had other functions. Maybe they were developing slowly. Maybe the more love I showed her, the more she'd become real. I was already convinced that the print was less blurry, slightly more vibrant. That afternoon I had to mow the lawn. My brother came storming home as I pushed the mower back and forth, sweating heavily.

He grunted a greeting at me and I watched through the kitchen window as he made a sandwich. He disappeared upstairs and I heard the sand. sound of hip-hop drifting from his window. That evening, I lay in bed beside Hanikawa as I played a competitive video game. Whenever I got a kill, which wasn't often, I wasn't very good. I could imagine her squealing with joy. I could almost feel her lips brushing my cheek or she would have kissed me and congratulations. In between rounds, I held my hand to her chest.

Her heartbeat was still there. I hadn't imagined it, hadn't dreamed it, a faint, pulsing heartbeat beneath my fingers. I pressed slightly harder. Her heartbeat quickened in response to my touch. My other hand stroked her printed body. It felt like she was reacting to me. I was doing it. I was giving her life. After a while, the heartbeat stopped, and I figured she'd had enough for the night. I climbed into bed beside her and fell into a deep, restful sleep. I spent the next day just chilling with shows and video games,

turning up the volume to drown out the sound of my brother bashing away in his room. By the evening, Annie Cow's heartbeat was back. I was relieved. I'd started to worry I'd done something to her somehow. But no, she was back. Her skin glowed, I thought. She definitely looked less faded than she had when I'd gotten her. It didn't seem like she was developing any further.

But even just the feeling of her heartbeat was enough for me. I had no idea how long a process like this would take. It's not like there was any precedent I could learn from. I googled body pillows coming to life, but all I found was some wishful and often very explicit fan fiction. Of course, I was sexually attracted to Hanny Kawa, but it felt wrong to think about her in that way while she was still a pillow. I quickly closed the fanfic and snuggled up to her. That night, I dreamed she was leaning over me, kissing me on the forehead, her lips gently tickling my skin.

I felt her fingers on my body, tracing over my stomach, down my crotch and my legs. I woke up with a start. My skin tingled where she touched me in the dream. I pressed my hand to her heart. Pulse. Pulse. Her heartbeat twitched again as I stroked her belly. The beats fluctuating rapidly in response to my touch.

I fell back to sleep without even realizing it. The next day my brother's room was silent. I hadn't heard him leave. In the afternoon, I'm... not to see if he wanted to order pizza that night. No answer. I tried his door, even though I knew he'd lose his shit if he found out I'd gone into his room. It was locked. Shrugging, I went about my day. That evening, I played my video game again and got angry at a player who kept targeting me. I lashed out at the air in frustration, accidentally knocked Hanikawa to the ground. Apologizing,

I leaned over the bed. She was lying on her back, looking up at me, her naked body stirring feelings in mine. I reached for the base of the pillow to pull her up. That's when I noticed it. The cheap, shitty stitching was starting to fray. Loose white stuffing was bulging out. I froze, wondering what to do.

Was this part of the transformation? Or was this just some byproduct of the crappy production value? Should I sew it back up? I decided I should. It was the equivalent of an open wound for Hanikawa. The problem was, I had no idea how to sew. Instead, I settled for taking my stapler and fastening the fabric back together. I gave it a quick tug.

It did hold. Besides, it wouldn't matter for long. Hanikawa was becoming real. Her eyes gleamed gratefully at me after I finished the makeshift repair. I kissed her lips. Her heart was erratic that night, beating fast, frequently, pulsing under my fingers. I stroked the fabric back and forth, imagining how it would feel once it was her real human skin I was touching. Her heart responded. Was she excited or scared? I didn't know. I'm going to look after you, I promise. Her heart slowed then, falling into its natural rhythm.

The next day my brother still wasn't home. He'd been supposed to stick around as much as possible my parents had said to keep an eye on me as if I needed it. I didn't mind he wasn't there, but he did have the pizza money, and I really wanted a pizza. I wonder if he'd left it in his room. Not one of my brightest ideas, but I decided to try and pick the lock to his own.

his bedroom door. I found one of mom's hairpins and went to town. Of course, I had no luck whatsoever. I was a teenage nerd loser, not some high-class thief. Giving up on the idea of getting in, I dug into my own meager savings, figuring my brother could reimburse me later. I ordered the pizza, quickly showered, and ran down in a towel just in time to snatch the steaming pie from the delivery girl. Upstairs, I sat on the bed and, next to Hanikawa. We were watching her show. It was strange seeing her there on the screen and lying beside me.

I had the impression that she liked it. Her eyes seemed especially bright. She was looking at the pizza, too. Jokingly, I held up a slice to her mouth. Spot of sauce brushed against the fabric. I cursed my idiocy trying to rub it away with the edge of my sleeve. That only served to smear it deeper. into the pink pigment of her printed lips.

Great. Now she'd think I was a pig. I kissed her and she tasted of tomatoes. I cuddled up to her. Any cow's heart was beating fast tonight. I could feel the fabric straining under my fingers. The print on her chest was beginning to fade. The material was thinning,

becoming threadbare where I'd stroked her over and over. I decided I had to be more careful. I didn't want to have to staple her chest up before she became human. I turned out the light. Even with my hand gently held to her, I could feel her heartbeat. I moved my fingers down her chest, her belly, down to her printed crotch. I began to massage, working the material with two of my fingers, wishing I could feel her heat. Hanikawa's hips bucked, just slightly, but I felt it. I pressed my leg into her. You like that,

huh? I imagined her replying, her voice sounding real in my mind. I continued to stroke. She was moving under my fingers gently, like she was pushing back, encouraging me to tease her body. I could imagine her moaning and pleasure at my touch, unbearable. I need. I need. I need. I. I need. I. I I needed her. I needed her so badly. I needed her to be able to touch me, to reach out and put her hands on me, to lean over and kiss me. I needed her stuffed body to become flesh.

My hand needed myself. I needed her for myself. I needed and stroked and wished I was done. I could no longer feel movement at her crotch. She was satisfied too, I figured. I moved my hand back up to her chest. I toyed with a thin fabric over her heart, almost worn through. I felt it beat.

I felt her heart twitch. I could imagine blood beginning to flow through her veins, oxygenating her lungs, giving her life. I began to massage harder, my fingertips pressing into the material. Henikawa, please, please. My chest seized with longing. I needed her. Not in this current state, half alive and half artificial. I needed her beside me, human, warm.

My mind drifted away. Stroking her heart, I became lost in the fantasy that would be our future together. All the while, her heart beat to my touch, thumping with the promises of love untold. In my mind, I was kissing her when I heard a dreadful ripping sound. I felt my fingers punched through the fabric of the pillow. The movement stopped. I froze, mortified. Had I killed her?

I killed her, hadn't I? I reached out, panicking, my mouth dry. I flipped the bedside light on. Leaning over, I looked at the small hole in her chest. Stuffing poked out. Cold fear gripped me. I tried to push the stuffing back inside. I tried to make it right.

My fingers touched something solid, something that twitched against my skin. I'd been wrong. So, so wrong. The pillow wasn't forming into Hanikawa. Hanikawa was growing inside the pillow. She was in there. She was already. in there, and now all I had to do was get her out.

From somewhere inside the pillow, Hanikawa led out a chirping, rustling noise. It sounded strange, I didn't care. I tore at the fabric, I couldn't wait any longer. I had to have her. Hanikawa's printed body ripped as I straddled her, tearing as gently as I could. Beneath her material skin, the stuffing stirred. I could see something in there, something living. something beautiful.

I reached down, grabbed a handful of polyester and pulled it away, ready to see my love. There, inside the pillow, Hanny Cowah's beating heart lay, a riving black mass of heart, twitching and shivering. Tiny tendrils wave from my love's chest cavity, cradled in the white stuffing. My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't what I expected. Shown, tentatively prodding at Hanikawa's heart. Hanikawa's heart exploded into a thousand tiny pieces.

My mouth opened in a silent scream. For a moment, the shards of the heart quivered, not longer solid but still held in place. And then they began to spread. Hundreds of tiny black bodies spewed out from the stuffing, legs unfurling as they skittered and capered, an insectoid tidal wave bursting forth, spilling over Hanykawa, over my bed, flowing fast and black and erratic.

I sat there, open mouth for a second, not understanding what I was seeing. The clarity gripped my mind. Sudden crushing reality flew up to hit me in the face. Buried in her chest, nestled. where my beloved's heart should be, was a nest of spiders. The spiders continued to flow. Would I take into be just stuffing, stretched and warped, cobweb frays mixing with a polyester, tracing outwards as the young spiders emerged into the world. There, beneath this writhing mass of arachnid children, beady eyes stared out at me. Two front legs reached into the air,

pulling forth a large carapace and six more strong hairy limbs. The beast seemed to stare at me. Two wicked-looking fangs protruded from its head. It, she, waved her front legs towards me, even as more and more of her offspring flowed out of my pillow, down the side of my mattress, off into my room. Already I could see black specks climbing the wall, the headboard, even on the ceiling.

They float around me as if my presence parted the tides. All I could do was sit there, frozen, staring at the horror that emerged from the one I'd so loved. The horror I'd slept beside every night. The horror I'd stroked through the fabric. The horror I'd felt against my hand. The heartbeat. The spider.

Thousands and thousands of spiders. Filling Henny Cowah's body. Ready now to emerge. forth into the world. The huge mother spider stared at me. Then, darting forward, she lunged. Her fang sunk into my thigh. The pain snapped me out of my fear-induced days. He screamed, loud enough to wake the dead. I swatted downward trying to hit the spider, trying to get it off of me. Sharp agony pierced my palm. I felt the spider's strong legs scuttling over my skin, another bite on my other thigh just above my knee. My head began to pound.

I could already feel my flesh beginning to swell. I threw myself backwards off the bed. I scrabbled for the door. Baby spiders swarmed me. I slapped away at them, feeling their bodies break and pop under my blows. Screaming, I ran out into the hallway. I bashed on my brother's door, begging him to open up. Pain flared in my chest.

The venom was making my head spin. I screamed and cried and called for him. The door stayed firmly shut. 9-1-1. I had to call 911. I turned running for the stairs. Spiders filled the hallway, crunching under my bare feet as I ran. I hit the top of the stairs with a thud, the jolt sending excruciating agony through my swollen thighs. My damaged hand hit the banister, and I let out a yell of horror at the explosion of pain. My fingers spasmed. My feet slipped on the carpeted stairs. I plunged forward, head-first, into the darkness. I heard a little. I heard. something snap in my back, just a sudden thundering stop. In the hospital, the beeps of the life support machine rhythmic and quiet. The lights were dim. I could hear the heavy breathing of nearby patients.

An oxygen mask sat against my face. It took me a moment through morphine-induced haze to remember how I got there. I tried to sit up. Exquisite agony pulsed through my back. I couldn't feel my limbs. I couldn't feel anything. I passed out again. Two days later, when I was up to it, the nurse told me the whole story.

A day after my fall, my parents had returned home. They found me there, broken and almost dead. The whole house cobweb strewn and infested with arachnids. Sydney Funnel WebSpiders A pregnant female must have been inside the pillow And got shipped all the way from Australia The spiders had thrived there Kept warm by your body heat and the polyester stuffing

Then they had gone forth I listened in horror as the nurse continued his explanation Funnel web spider venom is toxic If it's not treated in time it can kill You were very very lucky my back was broken from the fall. The break was so bad that I'd never walk again. Not that I'd be walking again easily regardless.

My left leg had been amputated above the knee. My right just below the knee. The hand the spider had bitten had been dissected vertically. My thumb, index, and middle finger removed due to necrosis. But still, I was lucky. I'd survived. That has to count for something, right? It was worse for my brother.

You see, apparently the funnel spider hadn't restricted herself to staying in the pillow. She'd made the occasional jaunt into the house, emerging from the frayed base of the pillow, leaving her babies back in the nest. And at some point, two days before my accident, the autopsy say, the mother spider had made her way into my brother. The mother's locked bedroom while he was sleeping. You can work out the rest.

My parents have never forgiven me. It was my fault, they say. I brought those things into the house. I brought this down on myself. I brought this down on my brother. The company I bought the pillow from has disappeared without a trace. I'm told that happens a lot with these knock-off merchandising firms. I still watch Hany Cowisho sometimes.

It wasn't the anime's fault what happened. It wasn't Hany Kawas either. I don't want to watch it very often. It makes my skin crawl if I think about it too hard. My skin crawls. And then I can feel those spiders all over me, all over the limbs I no longer have. There's no way to get them off. No way to stop the sensation.

I just have to wait it out. and I do wait it out. I don't mind anymore. And then it does stop, and I miss it, because then I'm alone. Totally. Love is about connections. Love is about sharing. Love is about sacrifice.

In the end, it wasn't Hanikawa's heart beating to my touch, but it was something, something besides. me, something living. For those few blissful nights, I had something else to share my life with and something else that shared its life with me. 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 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 show. 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.