The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E02

Episode Date: June 10, 2018

It's episode 02 of Season 11. On this week's show we have four tales about dangerous darkness and cunning consumption. "Not Your Standard Phobia"† written by Johnny Stitches and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Addison Peacock & Nikolle Doolin & Dan Zappulla. (Story starts around 00:02:40) "Bed Rest"† written by Dan Fields and performed by Kyle Akers & Mick Wingert & Erin Lillis & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 00:20:30) "The Name Eater"‡ written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by David Ault & James Cleveland. (Story starts around 00:39:30) "Black Sand"¤ written by Gemma Amor and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Armen Taylor & Erin Lillis & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 01:07:45) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper's novel "From Twisted Roots"   Click here to learn more about Johnny Stitches   Click here to learn more about Dan Fields   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   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¤ "The Name Eater" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke 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

This audio program presents horror which is frightening and disturbing. You let us into your mind at your own. The sunlight fades to darkness. The frightful tales creep into your mind. It's time to give it to because tonight... Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us.

On the show this week we have four tales about dangerous darkness and cunning consumption. The No Sleep Horror Writing community on Reddit lost a friend and writer earlier this month. Kyle Alexander, who wrote under the Reddit handle of The Big Spook, died suddenly in a tragic accident. While Kyle's work never appeared on this podcast, his stories were featured in a number of anthology collections. Kyle was a popular writer and a welcome contributor. We mourn his loss with the no-sleep community. There are plans to publish a collection of stories which will honor Kyle, and the proceeds from its sale will go to Kyle's family.

I'll be sure to let you know when the book is released and where you can find it. And on a happier note of books being published, I'm happy to announce that one of our regular authors has recently published her second collection of short stories. S.H. Cooper's book is titled From Twisted Roots. From those roots comes poisoned fruit because even the most wholesome families

have their dark secrets. Check the show notes for where you can get your own copy of the tales from a very talented writer. And we have four talented writers who are sharing their nightmares with us on episode two. The tape is in the machine.

The stories are really. ready, so let's press play. In our first tale, we meet a woman with a nagging, persistent fear. But as author Johnny Stitches explains, it's an uncommon condition and one with a rather unorthodox treatment. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Addison Peacock, Nicole Doolin, and Dan Zabula. So remember, some people fear common things, while others endure. Not your standard phobia. Hi. What can I get for you?

Yeah, I want a medium-iced macchiato, but can you add- Oh, hey, hey, hey, do you mind if I take this? I'm so sorry, but it's just that... No, of course. Go ahead. Hey, babe. What? No shit, you got the part?

Wow, I'm so happy for you. Yeah, no, yeah, sorry, sorry, happy for us. Oh, anyway, I'll call you back on my break, okay? I have a customer at the counter and another just walked in, and I'll call you as soon as I can. Okay, I love you. Bye. I am so sorry, ma'am. I usually never keep my phone on me during work. What was it you wanted in iced latte?

No, it was a medium iced caramel macchiato, and you don't have to apologize. It sounds like you got some exciting news. I just wanted a small pump of extra vanilla in it. Yes, ma'am. It was some amazing news. My girlfriend was cast to be in a horror movie that's being filmed in Georgia. I can't believe it. Anyway, again, I'm sorry.

So that's one medium ice caramel macchiato with a small pump of extra vanilla in it, right? Is that going to be it? Yes. Hey, stop apologizing. You should be happy. And you don't have to call me ma'am. I don't look that old, do I? No, no, not at all. It's a habit. That'll be 447.

Is debit okay? Yes, ma'am. Sure thing, miss. It's a chip reader. Please go ahead and insert it. What's that noise mean? Your card failed to read. Failed? I failed? No, not you. Your card. Swipe it this time. That chip reader's always messing up. No, no, I have money in that account.

Why is it saying that I'm failing? Ma'am, it's not you, okay? Let me see the card. See, there we go. I told you it wasn't you. All's good now. I tell you, I miss our old credit card machine. The owner was sold by this company.

It's only because you touched it. I fail at everything. Everything. Fiona! Sorry, I'm late. Hey, I'll take a small iced, sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk and just bring hers to the table. with mine. Thanks.

Ma'am, there was another gentleman waiting in front of you behind this lady. Oh, it's okay. Look, he doesn't mind. Do you? See? Plus, this is my sister, Fiona. She was just holding my place. Fine. Take a seat, you two, and I'll have these out to you shortly. Fabulous. Keep the change, honey. But, ma'am, this is ten. Gracie. I can't even order coffee without messing it up. Fiona, it'll pass. It's just depression.

I'm here for you now, but I need you to be honest with me, okay? Are you off the pills again? Is that why you called me here? It's amazing that you grabbing my hand like that still calms me down. Grace, I wish I had your ability. My ability? What are you talking about? Fee, what happened to you?

You have no problem achieving your dreams. You never fail at anything you touch. But I... Well, I ruin everything that I do. These last few years, I can't commit to anything because I know I'll just fail. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. Fee, let me in more. You can't keep doing this to yourself.

I really thought you were doing all right. You said on the phone earlier that you wanted to take me to someone. Did you meet a guy? I'm really confused here, Fiona. I am. He's a doctor. Okay, ladies. Here is the small iced sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk, and here is your medium-iced caramel macchiato

with the small pump of extra vanilla in it. Um... Is everything okay with you, too? Something else I can get for y'all? No, sir, we're good. Sorry about earlier. No worries. I'm used to the rush. Anyway, y'all ladies let me know if you need anything else.

Okay, thanks. I think this will do us. A doctor? What the hell are you doing? Aunt Helen is our doctor. Aunt Helen can't help me. Not with this. Her pills just hide it. They don't get rid of anything.

So you have stopped your meds. Medicine doesn't fix it. You don't understand. You see, you're already being failed by me right now. The disappointment and embarrassment is filling your eyes. but I'm trying, okay? Until now, this morning was a good one. Almost normal.

Almost. I just want the success you have. What everyone else has, because they are not like me, they are not afraid to try. Their tears, V. Not disappointment or embarrassment. God damn tears. I'm worried.

worried about you. Everything I have, you can have too. You just need to stay on your pills and apply yourself to the real world. Easy for you to say. You have a law degree, and I didn't finish my second semester for my associates. Thomas loves you, and I can't even get a second date. And the coffee server guy's girlfriend is going to Georgia to be in a horror movie. But not me. I can't complete anything I start. Nothing is good enough. All failures. Fiona,

your singing and your painting skills are so amazing. You're like a prodigy only with two talents. I can't hold a note and I can barely draw a stick figure. Hey, you're a good person that has dated a few losers, but they are not you, V. You're burning bright. There you go again. It's always making things better. I love you, Gracie.

I love you, too. You're my little sister, Fee. And I want to help you any way I can. But you need to open up to me before it gets to this point, okay? So, will you go with me to meet this doctor then? Fine. When's the appointment? 11.15. Shit, Fee, that's in like 30 minutes.

No, Gracie. At 11.15 p.m. tonight. What kind of doctor sets appointments that late? One that practices nocturnal medicine. Now that we're all nice and comfy, could we get to the point? I mean, we got here before 1115, and then you had us wait in that cold-ass lounge area for another 50 damn minutes. For heaven's sake, it's after midnight already.

I apologize, Ms. Fry. I wanted to make sure that I was very positive of my first. findings before I took any form of payment. After all, that is why you're here, right? To help your sister with that? Yes. Fine. Go ahead. Tell us what you found so we can get the hell out of here. I still need to drive all the way over to my side of town after I drop her off. Thank you for your understanding. I can see you are a very caring sister. Okay, so what is it, Dr. Finster? Do you think that I can be cured of this without medicine. I...

I don't want to be on any more meds. Well, let's start with the results of the test you took online, and then we will go from there. I believe you're suffering from cacorephiophobia. And no, I did not just make

that up. Though it is not your standard phobia, it is very real and very hard to live with. But we have a tested method to remove it. And no, you will not need medication after this procedure. Okay, cut the crap. She may be buying this ship, but I'm not. Let's go, Fee. Ms. Fry, please have a seat. We don't need to add any more stress to your sister's situation.

Grace, please don't be like this. Please. Jeez, Fee. Okay, so, Dr. Finster. If you don't need medicine to treat Fiona, then I'm assuming your fix is surgical. Yes, Grace, that is correct. Oh, no. I don't have the money to cover my insurance deductible for an operation like that. Please, Grace, you've got to help. I need this, whatever it is.

I can't keep living like this anymore. Fee, I don't trust these two people. I think we should get a second opinion before you do anything else. Why? This is the answer, Gracie. I know it is. Aunt Helen can't help me, okay? God damn it, Fiona.

It's my money we'll be using here, not yours. So if you want to use this doctor, then I want Aunt Helen to meet him before I spend a single cent. I don't even see a degree on any of these walls. Okay. Doctor, I guess I'll go with option B. Option B?

Wait, how come that lady only types on that loud old thing when Fiona is talking and not you or me? Because Fiona Fry is the patient in our study, not us. Please, Grace, I brought you here to support me, not make this harder. Fee, don't you get it? This is a scam. They're just going to take the money and run. I mean, think about this for a minute.

Meeting us this late in an old building with no computers, no other nurses or doctors, it's all just wrong. Let's get out of here. Doctor, may I speak to Fiona's sister? You may. Grace, I grasp that you and most people just brush off phobias, and that is in part due to the fact that you don't understand their nature. To you, it's just an irrational fear.

Something Fiona and ones like her should just be able to get over. However, I'm sure you have one too. You just don't have to deal with it on a daily basis. Four to five percent of the U.S. population is clinically diagnosed every year, but most of them don't seek help because of people like you. You are hurting your sister by supporting the blind, comatose ambitions of the pharmaceutically controlled society we live in. She doesn't wish to be drugged. She longs to be free. Very well put, Ms. Friday. You may continue with the documentation of Fiona's case now. As you can tell, Ms. Anna Friday here is very passionate about the work we're doing.

She is not that fond of uneducated skeptics when it comes to the subjects we have based our life's work around. Uneducated. I'll have you know that I... Grace! Stop! Why don't you go ahead and wait for me in the lobby? I have to discuss the other payment for the procedure. Please leave. Fiona, please listen to me. This whole thing is nuts. You need to leave with me now.

Please leave, or I will have to have you removed from the room. Fiona, don't stay, please! Grace, leave. I'll be fine. You go wait in the lobby, okay? They will meet you there. They? What are you talking about?

Why is she talking like that? What did you do to her? Ms. Friday, call them. Turn around. Something's happening. Happening fee. Look, goddammit! Entering the room, they're touching me! They needed payment. I wasn't sure I could do it. Option B. But you forced my hand. Now you'll know fear and what it feels like when it grips into you.

As the ancient ones process your payment, Fiona, please note that this transaction cannot be reversed or voided. Do you want us to continue? Yes. you may take her. Fantastic. Now that the payment is processed and accepted, we can begin. Do you have any questions? Yes, a few.

Should I already be feeling different? What happens to Gracie? Where did she go? And lastly, what if I fail and don't make it through the operation? Of course I don't mind those very founded questions. That's why I offer. This is kind of an unorthodox clinic after all. So those first two questions are one and the same.

I will, in the next hour, have granted what you asked for on your application. To have the power to overcome your fears and live a life very close to that of one Ms. Grace Fry. Unfortunately, for your sister, that meant her. Let's call it her essence has been absorbed, but the parts you wanted are already fusing themselves to your soul. It doesn't have to make sense. This time tomorrow you'll be a new you. You will not fail in that, and you will not have to ever fear failing ever again. Making a mistake will be as easy as breathing.

Now, come. There are a few physical adjustments, I have. have to make before your transformation is complete. Hey, welcome back. What can I get for you? Wait, wait, wait, wait. Let me see if I can remember. Okay, it was a smaller medium iced, sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk.

Am I right? I remember that $10 bill. Nope. Nice try, though. That was my little sister's order. Mine was a medium-iced caramel macchiata with a small pump of extra vivant. vanilla in it, just to sweeten it up a bit. Yeah, well, I tried, right?

So what was she so upset about yesterday? I remember her being crazily scared after her card messed up or something? Yeah, she had some changes coming up in her life and was moving on. Scared of those changes, scared of failing. I'm Grace, by the way. Oh, yeah. Change can be scary, but it can also do you good, as they say. That's how the song goes. Tell me, Coffee, Man, what scares you?

Nothing, darling. I don't fear anything. How about that? Do go on. The idea of a child being in the hospital isn't a very cheery thought. But fortunately for the young man in this tale from author Dan Fields, he's only there for a routine appendectomy. Strange that his doctors won't let him go home. Even stranger is why he's not in the children's wing of the hospital. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Mick Wingert, Aaron Lillis, and Nicole Goodnight. So remember, after surgery, it's important you get plenty of bed rest.

I've been saying my prayers at night. I promised Mom I would. Mainly I pray that the man in the bed across the room would hurry up and die. I don't know much about hospitals, except that I hate them and I don't belong here. If I can't get some sleep soon, Dr. Madigan will make them keep me here another night. She's tall, with white hair and a crackly voice like a bird. And when she says something, the nurses and other hospital helpers do it. Like moving me into the big room with this awful little man. How can I sleep with him here?

No matter how hard I try to shut my eyes and rest, I can't help but looking over because I know I'll see his wrinkled old bald head with his face turned towards me. The shadows in the room are so deep at night that I can't see anything but two black holes like in a skull. I can't say for sure if his eyes are open or if he even has eyes. But even if he's asleep,

I know some part of him is watching me. I should be in the children's wing. I know because last year, Tim Felton had his appendix out, just like me. And he told me all about the recovery ward with music and bright painted walls and ice cream and other kids to talk to.

Instead, my roommate sits in bed and rots, the way everyone on this floor seems to be doing. When one of them wheels by my door, they watch me too. The old people and sick people look at me like they're starving, and I'm the ice cream. Or like they hate me for keeping a secret I don't know anything about. Dr. Madigan says the children's wing is crowded tight, and she bets I can manage here until something opens up. And while she's around, maybe we'd better run another blood test. I can barely think straight or talk anymore, so what can I do to stop it?

Mom listens to her, too. I wish Mom would listen to me instead of the doctor, but every time I try to tell her, the words are a mess in my mouth. They're giving me things to keep me dizzy and fuzzy in my head. Mom just watches me kind of sad-looking. And Dr. Madigan says it's nothing serious, but sometimes recovery takes a little longer. She calls it a complication. I'm recovered. I'm fine.

at least enough to go home, but Dr. Madigan thinks it would be best if, that's what she's always telling me. It thinks it would be best if they brought me dinner an hour later, or best if we try a higher dosage tomorrow, and now mom repeats it to me when she hears the doctor say it. Maybe the doctor gave her something, too, to make her dizzy. And then it's time for another blood test. I can't have much blood left the way they keep taking it out to test it.

I don't mind the needles anymore, but I've started passing out in the middle of the day. and I can't eat much because I think that's one of the way they keep me dopey. Anyway, it's the same gross food they serve the old people. I would do anything for a cheeseburger, even if it was totally raw. Even if someone found it outside, I chow down. After a few nights, I think I finally got some shut-eye because I'm getting too weak to do much else. But after what happened two nights ago, I'm almost sure it was too. I don't think I can stand sleeping or being awake in this place.

I dreamed I was a painting on a wall somewhere. I could think and see, but not move and talk. All the patience from my floor came and put their shrunken faces up close to me so that I could smell their sick, hot breath in my face. And the old man from my room kept tapping my picture with his fingers like fat, nasty, earthworms. I tried to yell out, but my voice wasn't just sloppy in the dream. It was too quiet for anyone here but me. And in the middle of the floor, there was a huge sign that said no talking.

but the old man could hear me. I knew he could. And beneath his black eye holes, he curl his no lips into a smile. I opened my eyes and there was the same grinning face in real life, breathing down disease an inch away from me. The tapping and shoving was coming from outside the dream. The old man was sitting or kneeling on the floor next to my bed.

I don't know if he was trying to pull me out of the bed or clawing my at my sheets with some kind of terrible excitement. All I know is that's when I woke up completely for a head. half a minute. I let out a scream that sent the face away, sailing into the dark. After that came some running sound. I can't tell what happened exactly because I fell faint almost right away. What I saw was somewhere between my dream and the real hospital. I saw the old man again, still in the museum, but far away across the room, rasping away in bed with his black sockets turned to the ceiling. Dr. Madigan loomed over him, holding the no-talking sign and whispering to him like

an angry librarian. There were other people gathered around his bed too. Not nurses, but people dressed normally, like they were his family come to visit. That made no sense because it was still the middle of the night. They were very serious and quiet, listening carefully to what the doctor told the old man. Without meaning to, I moaned something in my sleep,

and all of a sudden the doctor drew a curtain around the bed. In my dream, I turned my painted face to the wall, where I was pretty sure no one could see me or hear me. and that's when I remembered my prayers. I prayed for what felt like a long time that I would be let go in the morning, and more importantly that the old man would die, die, die and be wheeled away for good.

I woke up sometime after with nurses around my bed. Except instead of sunlight peeking through the curtains, I could see it was still dark, maybe about dawn. Dr. Madigan had ordered another blood test, but they hadn't bothered to wake me up first. I was pretty mad about that. and scared about what else might be going on while I slept.

The nurses were not using the big syringe with a test tube. Hanging from one of those metal tree things was it looked like a whole bag of blood. I could see it fill up like a huge tick. I must have been dizzy because for a second I thought and saw another full bag or two hanging next to it. Almost done, dear. One of the nurses leaned down over me

with breath like maple syrup, but still too much like the old man's. Her makeup was flaky and specks of it sprinkled down on my face when she chuckled. I groaned, fought for words harder than usual. You're talking too much. Later on, Dr. Madigan came by to say, I seem to be turning a corner, whatever that means. I'm either getting better or going crazy, I guess.

The doctor likes neat little phrases like that. They're really starting to get on my nerves. She hoped another night would do it and, again, do what? And even though I don't trust her, I hope she meant it. I asked if I could be moved, but since she was so sure I would improve in the next 24 hours, she thought it would be best if I simply say, put, please. I cried real tears before I knew they were coming. He goes around at night, and I can't sleep.

The doctor looked a little angry. No, embarrassed. Well, yes, one of the nurses found them sleepwalking last night. We thought you were asleep the whole time. I am sorry, but please try to be understood. I feel he may not be with us for very long. Now, try and rest. You need your strength.

Then she was gone, and I did not have the energy to call out after her. She was right. I'd eaten my strength to get up out of this room, or to shove a pillow over that horrible old skull of a face. Won't be with us much longer. What a laugh. I'd only been half awake,

but I knew that old man found the strength to creep around on his own. even though the day I'd first seen him he couldn't so much as blink his eyes. I don't know what they'd want my blood for, but I found myself starting to wish they would take what I had left and be done with it. I now believe the only reason to go into a hospital is to die there. And the very worst part is how long it takes. I've caught myself wondering whether I did something wrong and don't remember because I'm starting to understand what hell must be like.

For me, it's a room in a hospital. this room in this hospital. I should mention mom. I know she's been around in between all these times, but always when I'm half asleep and at my weakest. The doctor is good at planning her tests around visiting hours. I've noticed that whenever mom is here, the old man has been taken someplace,

for tests or x-rays or whatever, or the curtain is drawn on his bed and the heart machines are switched off. Nobody would be able to tell whether he's in there or not. I think sometimes he is, but mom takes no notice. She asks how I'm feeling, and all I can say is, fine. Because if I tried to tell her the truth, I'd only wear myself out and faint again.

And when I came to, she'd be gone. Once as I drifted off, I saw her holding Dr. Madigan by the hand and crying. She's a pretty great mom, but she'll be no help to me here. Every time she leaves, I pray that the old man will stay gone for good, but he always shows up sooner or later. After the doctor did such a great job of bucking me up, I slept through most of yesterday, but late last night I snapped wide awake. I think they've finally given me so many drugs that they're not working too well anymore.

Something was going on in the room. I didn't dare move or make a sound, keeping my eyes mostly shut, and turning my head about an inch every minute. I saw lights behind the John Curtain of the old man's bed. There were two or three nurses, a long thin shadow that had to be Dr. Madigan, and quite a few of those long metal trees for hanging fluid bags on. I noticed the pink glow of one bag as it swung back and forth, as if somebody was tugging on it. I was confused and scared, but I hoped in my deepest heart that this was the end for the old man.

One of the first things I can remember ever is being taken to a hospital like this once, and seeing a dying thing in a bed. The room was dark, smelling too much like soap and band-aids. And when the mummy reached out for me and hissed its tomb breath in my face, I shrank away crying and hid my face against the wall. Later, over ice cream cones my uncle Peter reminded me that it had been Grandma, and we had been there to say goodbye. I was only about four then, and I had trouble understanding that.

What I had seen was not Grandma. Nothing I could recognize or remember about my grandma before that day fit together with what I saw in that bed. I still feel that way, and even though he and Mom were nice at the time about how I'd acted, I almost wish they'd never tried explaining it to me. I said goodbye to Grandma later. in my own way, at her funeral. Mom says I picked a little flower,

clover or something from outside, and asked her to lift me up so I could put it on top of her coffin in the church. I don't remember that, but I do remember how grandma looked then. I didn't scream or cry that time. Her face was painted all weird and pink like a puppet, but not scary. In a way, seeing her liso still was a relief. She was waxy and fake-looking,

but there was something there I could imagine had once been Grandma, even though a regular picture of her would have been nicer. I said something about it to Uncle Peter afterwards, and he laughed and called me a bright kid. I don't think Mom said anything. She gets really serious about church things. I must have gotten back to sleep because before long I was not just thinking about my grandma in her coffin.

I was there, except it wasn't just her face. It was the face of all the sick people and the old people and the dead people. I wasn't afraid exactly, but I knew I shouldn't stay. I didn't belong there any more than I belonged between stale hospital blankets, waiting for the last of me to be drained away through the blood needle. Just lie still, the dead face before my eyes kept telling me. And it won't be much longer. I must have started kicking in my sleep, wriggling against the hold that my dream was taking on me.

It was like diving deep in a pool without enough air. Every time I thought my head would pop free, there was just more water. I kept swimming for the light. The faster I kicked, the quicker the painted face of gun. death floated up alongside me. I turned my eyes upward and forced them open. The world flooded in. I kicked off my blankets, feeling strong for the first time in days, and I saw the painted face of death looking down from above me. It was the old man, watching me again. Now he had eyes, and he breathed without the hitch that sounded like gravel on a playground slide. His mouth didn't

gape open like a murder victim's. He had the coffin look, too shiny, too rosy in the cheeks to be completely real. But he was alive and awake and standing on his feet. I couldn't believe how tall he was, as tall as Dr. Madigan, at least. Anyone who saw me tremble and hunched back against my pillow like a startled cat in a corner would have thought I was crazy. He was a wrinkled old bald man, but in his cardigan and nice shoes and tight-lipped smile, he could be somebody's grandfather. I wanted to tell you how much your company has meant to me. A young spirit, you will. A young spirit, the old. He held out his hand.

I guess to shake mine? I said nothing and did nothing. This was real all right, but it had to be a trick. Speak to him and die, I thought, without knowing where the thought came from. I breathed through my nose, trying to control my shaking. I didn't do a very good job. What I wanted to do was pee the bed and scream. If this man had his eyes on me, he knew what the doctor and nurses had done to me.

He saw the fainting spells and the blood tests in the middle of the night. He never said a word. Just lay in his bed watching it happen, waiting for it to happen. Something like a cold claw pushed down on my chest. Where had this new life come from? This old bat who must have been 110 and looked like a bowl of moldy fruit when I first saw him? What right did he have to break the rule? You get old, you get sick, you go to the hospital, and something invisible called death eats you from the inside.

What kind of doctor was it that gave life back to the dying and bled the life out of children? I stayed quiet, but started to shake so much the nurse could hear my bed rattle from out in the hall. She came in to see, but wasn't too concerned. The old man didn't look worried either. He put his withered hand back in a sweater pocket. I hope you feel it. He turned and strode out of the room, quiet as a well-dressed ghost. The nurse was calmly taking my temperature and pulse.

flex if her makeup falling on my knees like dandruff. I looked past her large whiteness to see the old man in the hallway. He was shaking hands with Dr. Madigan, and he leaned in close to say something in her ear. They both laughed, and I swear, before he moved away, they both gave me a look. My doctor, remembering that look, I understand what he had taken from me, has somehow given to him, and I bet he paid well for it.

How close did I come to giving up my whole life to nurse that rancid body back from death? How many healthy young kids like me go in for an appendix or a tonsil or a bee allergy and slip away from complications? This happens every day, doesn't it? How can I know for sure which kids make it and which kids don't? Because I'm a lucky one? I survived. I have so far anyway.

Should I feel lucky? Mom is here now, and I'm not ready to swim or ride bikes yet, but if I lean on her a little I can walk without dizziness. It takes time, says Dr. Madigan, but I should be in fighting shape soon. It would be best for me to take it easy for a while. She tells mom to get some iron pills from the drugstore, and I suppose I'll take them because they won't come from here.

As long as the drugstore doesn't try to make any pills out of me, it's busy around the elevators and we have to wait. The old man is gone, and I didn't see him leave, but I bet he had a nicely dressed to him. family gathered around him. The kind I remember from the nightmare that I know in my heart was no dream. The doors hiss open and a pair of blue gnarled feet nearly sail into my forehead. They're bringing up another wrecked old thing. Someone's grandma or grandpa come to waste away. Or maybe not. As the body floats past the face and shut eyes are turned to the ceiling. Lalls out across the

lips, close enough for me to poke with my finger if I wanted. I feel like throwing up. I'm straining to see where they wheel the body. Are they taking it to my old room? Are they taking it somewhere to leave to die? Or will it patiently wait until nightfall, streaming of blood? The doors are closing. I crane my neck. The wheels are turning.

Are they? In the last half second, I throw my eyes down the sliver of crowded hallway to see if I've been replaced. I look for a little kid like me who's sick or in pain, brought up here by mistake and forgotten for a while. there are so many to keep track of. I think I saw her there, a girl with red hair. I believe I did. But who could I tell, and what would I say?

I'd give anything to stay another minute, to creep back into my old room and know for sure what was going on. I'd like a heavy pillow or a bottle of poison or a book of matches to take in with me. But I'd settle for a good strong voice, to cry out for help and hope someone hears me this time. Usually, when stories begin with once upon a time, we know we're in for a fantastical bedtime tale. And in this story from author C. M. Scandrith, the darkness of bedtime is appropriate when we meet an unusual servant who finds himself in the thrall of a terrifying monster from folklore.

Performing this tale are David Alt and James Cleveland. So guard yourself and beware the name, Upon a time, there lived a mighty prince of the fairfolk, whose power was almost unmatched amongst his people. But like all who wield great power, it could be taken from him by any who learned his true name, be that person the greatest sorcerer or the meanest peasant. Thus he strode to keep his name a secret from the world. He burned any book that mentioned him, and he tore the memories from the skulls of those who knew him. But names are a vital part of all intelligent creatures

and cannot be destroyed that easily. It came to pass that a wizard unravelled the name of the prince with magic and enslaved him for an age, leaching away his power. When the fairy prince eventually broke free, he slew the wizard and vowed he would never again become slave to another being, not to beast, man, nor fay. And so he did something that had never been done before, a thing with consequences that none could possibly fathom.

He ate his own name, erasing it from the world. That should have been the end of him. The other fair folk knew this should be so, and indeed he vanished from the known realms of reality and unreality. The memory of him faded, until no creature remembered the prince who had eaten. his name. But he was not gone. He had simply changed. And freed from the laws that bound his kind, he became far more monstrously powerful. He ate the names of all he desired, until even the

old gods and the new coward from the unremembered thing that stalked and devoured them with not even a thought. I can no longer remember how I came to be eaten. Once your name has been consumed, your memories begin to fade. Soon nothing is left, only echoing whispers and meaningless, disjointed images. Perhaps I was a poet or an artist great enough to attract the eater's attention, my name spreading across the land until he tasted it on the wind and came for me. Or mayhap, I was a despot, ruling over some pre-fudal kingdom with sword and flame, my name used to terrify children into doing their parents' bidding. The eaters' tastes have grown more refined over the ages.

He has become a true connoisseur of names. Sometimes he will start with an entree of bawdy partygoers, popping them into his scribbly more like a greedy child with a trove of candied chestnuts. then he'll move on to the main course, perhaps a foreign dignitary, their name fat with deeds, richly marinated in anecdotes and accolades. Having savoured every last syllable of that name, he will seek out some sweet, innocent, spun toffee thing for dessert. He may even reveal to the child his true form so that her essence is drizzled with fear. Terror is delicious to him, a sharp and salty,

counterpoint to the sugary confection of a young soul. But the eater doesn't always finish his meals. Sometimes he leaves the barest morsel uneaten and takes it back with him to his lair. There he may consume it later as a snack or bind it to his service to tend to his sprawling domain. My fate was the latter. There were some three dozen of us living within his private one. world, all hollow creatures clinging to the final fragments of ourselves. We toiled at various menial tasks, trimming the wicked, thorny hedges of the garden maze, or polishing the strangely filigreed silver rails of the staircase that led up and down the mad towers of the Eater's castle. When you have no name, no memories, it's easy to be put to work. Lacking even the most

basic instincts about who you are, you simply cling to any purpose you are given. And so when the Eater's Chamberlain told me that my destiny was to scrub the tiled floors of the great empty ballrooms, I eagerly accepted the role and threw myself into the work. As time ground on and I became aware of the others, I sought out their company. Their presence was a gentle breath across the ember of curiosity deep inside. me, still faintly glowing. When I passed the gardeners, I would pause to exchange a few words before moving on to my next task. Upon the stairs, I would speak softly to the woman polishing the sharp and delicate barbs of the silver balustrades, not yet aware enough to wonder

whom or what she had been. I knew I shouldn't be doing such things, but the flake of my name the eater hadn't consumed swelled rebellious and inquisitive. I wonder now if the crumb he had left of me was not quite small enough to steal all that I had been. As unnameable swathes of time inexorably passed in the eater's domain, I grew more certain of myself and began to explore the giddy corridors of the twisted castle, finding things that sounded echoes of recollection. The Chamberlain discovered me on one such excursion, and scolded me for straying, flaying me with razor words. A tall man with silvered hair and an ageless face,

he dressed like a medieval footman, but snapped orders like a general, expecting to be instantly obeyed. But with my waxing awareness, I beheld a grey aura of loneliness that gloved him like a second skin, and I wondered just how long he had been there. We met more often after that,

as I engineered excuses, for our paths to cross. With painfully slow, tenacity, empathy won him over, and he became the closest thing I had to a friend. As our connection grew, it was he who told me the dreadful origins of our master. Come with me. This occurred after what seemed like eons into my service.

He led the way into an unknown part of the Eater's keep, until we stood before a vast set of iron doors. They were wrought of all the letters of every alphabet, jumbled together into chaotic amalgam layers. Our master requires a new larder, and you are best suited for this task. What is a larder? It is a place where one stores and eating food. Why would he need such a thing? Licking his thin lips nervously, my companion gliding his thin lips nervously, my companion

glanced at the massive doors. Sometimes when the master dines, he sees something he wishes to eat later. When he desires this, he places those names inside his larder. I don't understand. Soon you will. With a complicated gesture from his long fingers, the heavy doors open soundlessly. All you need to do is follow him. Nothing else.

Do not try to speak with him, nor touch him. Simply obey without question. And with that, my new service as the eater's larder began. I thought perhaps I would recognize the eater that some scrap of memory would shake loose upon our meeting. This was the creature that had taken all but a crumb of my essence and consumed everything else that I was. In this twisted way, we were won. But when I stepped through those doors and into his private chambers,

nothing was familiar. Twice as tall as the chamberlain and slender as a spider, there he stood, his nightmare shadow stretched across the vaulted roof by the flickering gaslights of his parlour. Two girls darted around him, attendant satellites plying needle and thread, dutifully sewing up numerous rips in his patchwork nobleman's clothes of orange, red and black. Brittle golden hair curled from his elongated skull, ringlets fat and ragged like a tumbled library of ancient parchment scrolls. Behind his terrible head, the broken arials of two pointed ears twisted up and backwards, longer than my arms. Hooked through their waxen flesh were dozens of iron rings, from which

hung the wrought letters of lost languages he had eaten into oblivion with his endless appetite. The metal clashed and jangled as he moved, rows of gnashing symbol teeth always churning. And his face, mercy is yellow as old vellum, it seethed with black characters, a maelstrom of alphabetic chaos. Perhaps those scribbles of insanity drew more dense where eyes and mouth should be, but I cannot truly tell you, Since, staring into his face for any length of time caused my stomach and mind to rebel. With a finger akin to an ink-dipped bone, he beckoned me. Then we passed back through the iron doors and into a different world. I believe my first trip back to the mortal realm must have been during the late 1800s,

because I recall steam trains and top hats are plenty. I don't think people truly perceived me as a person, but neither did they see me as a ghost. Unable to grasp a proper name for me, their minds stuttered and skipped across my presence, like I was no more than an uninteresting piece of furniture. The eater would stand amidst the flow of dense crowds, people instinctively avoiding the space where he was,

even though they couldn't truly see him. Arms hanging at his sides, stained fingers twitching, his chaos scrawled head swayed back, and forth, senting the air for a name to eat. All I had to do was follow him, and so I did, not daring to stray. On some basal level, I knew that to wander would be futile. We were indeed connected, having eaten most of me already, no matter where I went, he would find me, and then he could finish his meal should he so choose. And although it must be difficult for you to comprehend, Even this half-existence was preferable to the colourless unlife that awaited me should he make that choice.

He did not use me on those first few outings. I simply watched as he stalked down his prey, tore their names from them with his greedy spider fingers, and then sucked their essence into the black tangle of his moor. They faded fast after that, those without names. people forgot them and they forgot themselves they turned grey then transparent wondering aimlessly forever wondering who and what they were the first name that the eater put inside me was that of a child a girl of fourteen her short life a miserable grind of poverty why he wanted her i don't know as he pushed her name inside me i knew her life intimately and completely From her wretched, squalling birth, to her equally wretched unmaking at the eater's hands.

To someone whose only memories were of slavery in an alien realm, that poor girl's brief, mean existence was a potent drug. Her experiences seared my mind with heady, unfamiliar spice and color. Yet her some time after we returned to his domain, I missed. her with unrequited intensity when she was gone, a sense of loss so profound that I wept for the first time during my long service. The Chamberlain found me curled in a hedgerow on the edge of the Eater's realm, my cheeks stiff with the salt of tears. I am sorry, my friend. Serving as the Eater's larder is the hardest lot of all. Sometimes I held many names. Sometimes I held none.

During the chaos of the First and Second World Wars, I was bloated as a ripening corpse. The eater was particularly animated with hunger then, seeking out unique flavors that could only be born from such an awesome confluence of human strife. He stalked the beaches of Normandy and the trenches of Chunyuk Bear, stuffing name after name inside me for later consumption. I seethed with the lives of young men, torn from their homes by the promise of glory and high adventure, to see only bullets and blood, dysentery and death. And it was then that I learned the secret histories of the world,

those truths unwritten by the dreadful hunger of the name-eater. You do not know that the instigator of that Second War was not Adolf Hitler. The catalyst was unimaginably darker, a far more terrible figurehead who had already won the First World War, grinding the Allies into the mud of the battlefields and burning all of London to the ground. But once his enormous name was eaten, reality itself adapted, shifting to fill the gaping void left by his erasure. The history you find so unpalatable was a black, and custard to the eater, glutted on violence you cannot even fathom.

Perhaps this idea excites you that the eater saved the world from an even more horrific fate. Perhaps you're even cheering for him now as the anti-hero of my story. Then let me tell you about a young woman, a scientist who discovered a cure for the most common forms of cancer in the 1950s. But the beacon of a mind that brilliant, the whiff of a name that potent, drew the eater like a magnet. She was devoured before she could tell anyone, let alone be presented the accolades she deserved, and banish the specter of that disease forever.

Good and bad, evil and altruistic, he gobbles them all up, changing the shape of your existence with every bite, without you ever knowing a thing. If you ever felt like the world seems strangely stagnant, like mediocrity so often triumphs, you may just have smelled his breath. As omnipotent as he seems, the eater's one great problem has always been that he cannot be everywhere at once.

As such, a great many pecan't dishes have slipped through his spidery fingers. They died before he could reach them, or simply change, curdling before he could taste them as he wanted. In times past, names changed far more slowly, beholden to the speed at which news could travel. But as television and later the internet caused this process to metastasize beyond his control, he added a new duty to my purpose, to seek out desirable names and take them on his behalf. Having even even, in his own name, he could not fully be part of this world, could not navigate its fast-changing

subtleties. He is less a person than an alien force of nature, existing outside the natural laws of our universe. He is therefore as strange to it as it is to him. But I still had a scrap of my name, a grain of my humanity, and so I could comprehend this new world. With that understanding and with the power of new purpose he granted me, I sought out names I knew he would find particularly palatable, then ripped them from their owners. I would hunt out rising YouTube stars and end them at the height of their popularity, diminishing their entire existence to a pallet cleanser between the courses of the elaborate banquets I created for my master.

It was me, not the eater, who hastened a whole new wave of mediocrity, hacking down generations of tall poppies, allowing their lesser cousins to flourish in light they had not earned. You will think me a traitor to my own people, to all of you. But I made my mistake in the next. name of a plan, an idea born from the legend of the Eater's origin. I thought that if I crafted a truly toxic dish of names, blended them in some way that would be deadly to him, I could

kill the name Eater. I scoured online middens and real ones, seeking out the most poisonous personalities. I quaffed them down like goblets brimming with Bion. Carrying them inside me made me sick to my core, and as I added more and more of them, I started to lose who I was. That tiny, hardy flake of my original self was in danger of dissolving in the acidic slurry. So to balance the evil I was brewing inside me, I took tiny nibbles from the polar opposites of those toxic souls. I hunted rare herbs, good people, virtuous people who had conquered their human, human hurts and hatreds, and I would snatch a scrap of their syllables to add to myself. When it came time to serve my dish, it was magnificent.

A seething, greasy royal of hate so black with vitriol in spite that it burned as it spewed from me. But my master sucked down every last drop, greedy and eager, his scribbled tongue scouring my heart. I feared he tasted something far different to what my mortal palate had divined. When he was done, I held my breath and ached, that his huge cryptic head swung toward me, nodded once, and his gesture was simple to interpret. More.

Find me more. I had failed. Emptied of the dark. I had fermented inside me for so long, I felt profoundly changed. At first, this worried me. Surely a vessel cannot house that much evil without becoming stained, and I wondered if I had sabotaged myself, that the malevolent ingredients had seeped their dark oils into me and corrupted my very desires, ruining my own recipe. But I could still feel those floating snippets of goodness within me, those honey crumbs of altruism snicked away from the good folk.

Those fragments sought each other out and coalesced like settling syrup, forming something very new and strange. As I slaved and strove to fulfill the desires of my master, I collected more and more bright morsels. They began to fold themselves into something pure and wonderful, the sweet antithesis of my cocktail of loaithing. And when the glossy coating of them began to harden around the fragment of me that fluttered at my core, I felt a profound shock. This new confection was a name. I had not felt joy for what seemed a thousand years, but nor had I felt such terror. For now I truly had something to lose. Nothing in the Eater's world should have a name, and when he returned from his feeding, he would smell this glorious fresh thing upon me instantly.

I stumbled through the twisting halls, shouting for the Chamberlain. When he appeared every line of his body reluctant to approach me, I knew that he already saw my secret. My new name was burned into my being, shone from me like a star. And so it is. Another larder becomes corrupted. His lambent eyes brimmed with resignation. Help me. Help me to escape.

If I were to let you leave, he would eat my name, my unfortunate friend. Can he be killed? Is there a name that will end his existence should he eat it? Whether he was telling the truth or not, I didn't know.

The Chamberlain had been one of the Eater's original retainers, even before the prince descended into madness, and his loyalty was unquestionable. But he had given away a secret of his own, something I had not known until that moment. The Chamberlain's name tore from his flesh, clinging to my hands like a sticky seed as I rented from his body. He whimpered once, and grew oddly still. The colour already beginning to fade from his edges. Inside me, that seed burst out its juices. His vast history oozed across the ages, staining a tapestry of loneliness and terror,

just as much a prisoner of the eater as the rest of us. But there was no time to linger on his story. I needed the keys to the key. With the chamberlain's components suffusing his, knowledge into my being, the shape of the keys came easily to mind, as did many other secrets of the eater's domain. I found myself in front of the iron doors in the blink of an eye, and opening them was so very easy I could not believe I had once thought it complex. As if they had shaped it a hundred times over, my fingers formed the command to ease the vast portal open, and I dived through into

the mortal world, even as I felt the eater pass in the opposite direction. For one horrific instant, I knew with dreadful certainty that he had scented my new name as he passed. He is unquestionably coming for me. My name is deliciously unique, never spoken before in any world, a name forged from the things I have suffered and tempered with that rarest ingredient, pure human goodness. But the eater's power also fizzes in my blood, and that is a gift he cannot take back. It is as much a part of me as the precious syllables of my newly minted soul. With that power, I pull newer names into me, blending them with mine, changing my scent and my flavour to mask my trail, rendering down the dead.

desperate hopelessness of a homeless addict, gargling its bitter oil with the giddy, crisp joy of a new mother. How long I can keep this up, I do not know. The weight of all the names I have taken is beginning to drag me down. Their syllables, whisper, and chatter like accusations in my long ears, accumulating heavy

in the corners of my head. My own name spends ever longer, more complicated with each stolen, gossamer weft woven, into my spirit. It is hard to remember and harder to pronounce, but its power grows with it. If I can just swallow enough names, if I can gather enough of humanity inside me, I may be able to match the power of the eater, perhaps even surpass it. All I must do is stay alive long enough to find all the delicious names that I need, and then I can do the unthinkable.

I will eat the eater. There is a tiny, niggling part of me that insists I have lost who I was, that the purity of my original name is gone, the fragment dissolved. But I won't listen. I can't listen. I cannot take the chance that I am wrong. There are only two conclusions to this tale. Either I become the eater or I become the eaten. when I come for you,

when I take your name in the night and leave all that you were to fade into unbeing, it is for a greater good. Or should I drop a crumb of you from my chin, then perhaps you may be fortunate enough to serve me more directly. I think I'm going to need a much bigger larder. We've run out of tape.

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