The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E19

Episode Date: October 7, 2018

It's episode 19 of Season 11. On this week's show we have five tales about dire disappearances, dreadful dreams, and deadly deliveries. "Lost"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Addison Peacock & Jessica McEvoy & Erin Lillis & Mike DelGaudio & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:03:10) "Curse of the Gilded Echo Part 2: The Body Lies"† written by Olivia White and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Dan Harmon & C.K. Walker & Mick Wingert & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 00:21:15) "Zero Consequences"† written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Erin Lillis & Erika Sanderson & Mick Wingert & Armen Taylor. (Story starts around 00:54:30) "My Worst Pizza Delivery"‡ written by Vinny Cervone and performed by Atticus Jackson & Armen Taylor. (Story starts around 01:14:45) "Fear of Flying "¤ written by Maggie Todorova and performed by David Ault & Armen Taylor & Addison Peacock & Erika Sanderson & Jesse Cornett & Dan Zappulla. (Story starts around 01:35:35) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to listen to Harmontown with David Cummings   Click here to learn more about Darkest Night   Click here to learn more about The Hidden Frequencies   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Click here to learn more about Maggie Todorova   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "My Worst Pizza Delivery" 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 left us into your mind at your own risk. The sunlight fades to darkness. The frightful tales creep into your mind. It's time to give you to your fear because tonight there will be... Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On the show this week, we have five tales about dire

disappearances, dreadful dreams, and deadly deliveries. As October rolls on, I have lots of treats to share with you in the form of new audio for you to listen to. The first one is the start of Season 3 of Darkest Night. I know many of you got the first episode in your feed this week. Make sure rejoin this creepy binoral audio experience for season three, featuring an all-star cast with many recognizable voices. The second is a brand new podcast featuring some familiar names. The Hidden Frequencies is a new audio anthology created by our very own Mick Winger. The Hidden Frequencies is a science fiction horror anthology show that recalls the classics like The Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits.

featuring some of the top voice actors in LA and great writers, you won't want to miss the hidden frequencies. Its first episode is available now. And speaking of L.A., I hope you'll listen to the latest episode of Harmontown. I had the pleasure of being on the show this week, episode 305. I had an absolute blast and shared a fun script written by fan favorite, C.K. Walker. The links for all three of these shows are in the show notes, so be sure to check them out. And finally, speaking of Dan Harmon and C.K. Walker.

Before the taping of Harman Town on Monday, the three of us dropped by Capital Studios in L.A. where Dan and C.K. recorded roles for this week's episode. We're thrilled they could join us as we feature Part 2 of The Curse of the Gilded Echo. So, three shows to listen to, two special guests, and one more thing to say to start the show. The tape is in the machine. The stories are ready, so let's press play. In our first tale, we meet a family with a rebellious teenage daughter.

And as explained by author S.H. Cooper, after a particularly nasty family fight, the girl disappears, triggering a large hunt to find her, a hunt that went on for days and days. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Jessica McAvoy, Aaron Lillis, Mike Delgado, and Atticus Jackson. So never stop looking, even when all hope is lost. We'd been eating quietly, a rare thing in our house, when she'd asked to borrow the car to go to a party later in the week. Mom said no.

Miriam was already grounded for sneaking out and coming home smelling like booze. The quiet was gone. Marion was shouting, so was mom. Dad was trying to play peacemaker. I just sat with my head down and pushed my piece around my plate. It was always better to stay invisible when Marion was having a meltdown. The argument went the same as it always did. Of course not. You're 16.

Okay, okay. Let's all calm down. Marion went too far that night, though. After mom had snapped at her for being a spoiled brat, she'd reached over and slapped our mother across the face. Dad went from passive to apoplectic faster than I'd thought possible. He had Marion by the wrist and yanked her out of her chair. How dare you treat your mother like that? You vile, reprehensible girl!

She was as shocked as I was, I think, and stayed, sprawled across the dining room floor for a long. long, tense moments. When she found her voice again and tried to turn her anger on dad, he drowned her out with furious shouting. I don't want to hear it. Whatever petty, childish excuses you're going to come up with. Enough, Marion.

I'm sick to the back teeth of your brady attitude. Neil, deep breaths. Come on, honey. It was mom's turn to try and cool things down. Marion wasn't backing off, though. Her pride was at stake. Being treated like a kid Maybe I wouldn't act like a brat

If you didn't try to force me to be one You're fucking pathetic Both of you Marion, language Oh fuck off Enough While you're living under our roof You show some respect god damn it

I will when you start showing me respect We respect you We just can't allow you to go Oh save it with the sanctimony mother You wouldn't even know what it's like to have a social life I have slightly more aspirations than being a boring, dumpy housewife. Jesus Christ, you're pathetic. That's it. Get to your room.

Now! You do not treat your mother like that. Go on, get out. I'm sick of the sight of you. Fucking fine! I was surprised she listened. We sat in silence around the table, while the sounds of her strop echoed through the house.

You okay, Lorraine? Mom nodded and looked at me with a rueful smile. Marion's handprint burned red on her cheek. Stay ten, Lexie. I'll become a teenager. It was hard to smile back. Just as we were finishing up, Marion reappeared long enough to tell our parents to go fuck themselves again

and stormed out of the house. Dad moved to follow, but mom stopped him. We all assumed she'd go off to Christie's or Lynette's to cool off and come home at some late hour after the rest of us had gone to bed. It was her usual, dramatic, MO. Let's just give her some space. I'm not sure I have the energy for another tussle. I agreed.

The less Marian was home, the more peaceful it was. Sometimes I wished she'd stay gone. The next morning, I woke up to find mom pacing the living room. She had the cordless phone clutched in one hand. What's wrong, Mom? She stopped abruptly and tried to make her expression reassuring. It just made the newly formed knot in my stomach tighten. No, nothing, sweetheart, everything's fine.

Where's Dad? He, uh, he went out. Marion didn't come home. I'm sure she's fine. Daddy's just looking for her. I'm waiting for them. I sat on the couch and waited with her. She made calls to all of Marion's friends that she knew of.

Dad returned about an hour later. Marion wasn't with him. The police were called. A couple of them came to our house to get a description, a photo, and any information we might have had about where she usually spent time when she wasn't at home. Mom started to cry when she handed over Marion's most recent school picture. Dad quietly wiped his eyes when he thought Nolan was looking. I clung to his waist, scared that my sister was going to be in. trouble with the cops and upset that she was causing even more trouble than ever.

Marion was labeled a runaway. I heard terms like at-risk youth and rebellious teen, but I didn't know what they meant. I also didn't know why my parents were taking turns blaming themselves and then each other for her leaving, only to hug and cry immediately after. I wasn't allowed to answer the phone or go out to play. I was told to stay in my room. and entertained myself quietly. Dad took the van and disappeared for hours. When I found the courage to ask where he'd gone, Mom said he was looking for Marion.

The first day was a blur of confusion and worry, of anger and fear. The next morning, after we'd received no news from Marion or the police, my parents organized a search party. It started out as just us. my grandparents, and the Zalwinsky's from next door. But by that afternoon, half the neighborhood had joined us.

We went down every street, up to every door, asked everyone we came across. But there was no sign of Marion. It went on like that for days. Hot and humid summer mornings gave way to stormy afternoons. We continued to look for her, even in the downpours. The police helped a little, but since she was a runaway, their interest in her case dwindled quickly. Still, our personal search widened more and more.

Schoolyards, parks, downtown, a volunteer dive team combed the lake. Dad and mom had never clung so tightly to each other as they did on that water's edge. My annoyance with Marion had turned to concern and then to fear. She'd never been gone so long. She'd never just vanished. I didn't want her to stay on anymore. I started to sleep on the floor of my parents' room. I knew something bad had happened to Marion,

and a part of me thought that maybe it would happen to me too. Maybe a monster had gotten her, or one of those kidnappers that we were always warned about. I was afraid for her and for myself, and for my parents who were starting to crumble bit by bit, A week after Marion disappeared, a group of hunters that mom and dad had reached out to met us on the edge of some woodlands. We'd searched some of it already, but it was dense and covered a large area. It was the last place in town we hadn't thoroughly searched, but we needed help.

The hunters had driven hours and hours to get to us. They had brought their bloodhounds with them. With all that rainfall, I don't know what kind of trail they'll pick up. but we'll help how we can. Mom gave them one of Marion's shirts she'd taken out of her hamper. The dogs took turns giving it a good sniff and almost immediately began tugging at their leashes. We followed them for ages.

They circled a lot, a signal they'd lost the scent, and we slowly inched our way into the woods. Southern scrubland is thick and difficult to traverse. Thorny bushes and stinging nettles scratched at our lives, The sun beat down on us, even through the treetops. We pushed our way in, deeper and deeper. Insects surrounded us in a deafening buzz. I swatted endlessly at flies and mosquitoes.

Twigs snapped all around, and the bushes and palm fronds rustled with wildlife that watched us pass from the shadows. I held tight to my dad's hand, despite how hot and the hot. sweaty it was. I was scared of those woods. As the morning started to give way to afternoon and dark clouds started to build predictably overhead, one of the dogs stopped and lifted its head. Its nose pointed up, its nostrils flared. We all rose and held our breath. The hound bade once. It was followed by a tiny, pathetic mule from somewhere up ahead. sounded almost like someone crying for help. Mom tore past the hunters and their dogs.

Dad immediately on her heels. I don't think he realized he was still dragging me along. I could barely keep up. Dad and I came skidding to a halt immediately behind her. We were standing at the top of a steep embankment that cut sharply downward. The hunters and their dogs weren't far behind. All of the hounds were howling. A weak, rasping sob, drifted up from somewhere below.

As quickly as we could, we picked our way down the embankment towards the sound. I was the one who spotted the black boot sticking out from behind a tree. Over there! It was my turn to Drag Dad. The smell hid us before we saw her. Human waste. Vomit. Iron.

There was something else. Something. sickly sweet and more nauseating than the other odors. I don't know what it was, but it made me gag. Mom sprinted past me and rounded the tree first. Bring Lexi! I almost didn't recognize the girl propped up against the tree trunk as Marion. She was red and swollen from sunburn and insect bites.

Deep gouges lined her face where she'd raked her nails under her stuble. skin. Fat, brown lumps like oversized moles, dotted her chin and cheeks and forehead. There was even one blocking her left nostril. When she parted her cracked lips and attempt to speak, I saw more on her tongue, ticks, dozens of them all over her, gorging on her blood. Her front was street with vomit and her clothing had been ripped, revealing torn flesh. She was sitting in a puddle of her own urine and feces. Flies circled her, landed, circled again. Her flesh was bulbous, stretched tight, infected pus and blood,

oozed from the many cuts and scrapes she'd received. Masses of white wriggled in some of the wounds. Lie eggs had hatched into maggots that now feasted on her wounds. Fire ants from a nearby mound had found her most recently. They'd started to creep up the lower half, biting and biting and biting as they crawled over her. The fish nets she was wearing strained against her puffy, distended legs. She was too weak to even slap at them.

From the look of her, She'd been too weak for a long time. The ants swarmed especially around the jagged edge of broken bone that poked through her calf. So sharp I let out an audible wince. Marian attempted to lift a hand towards us, tears streaming down what was left of her face. She made a dry, gargled sound, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she slumped against the tree. And I started to scream. Marion almost died from her wounds.

The doctors said if she'd been out there even another day, she most certainly wouldn't have survived. Her recovery was a slow and painful one. And it wasn't until towards the end that she was able to tell us what had happened to her. After leaving the house, I hitched a ride to the woods with some trucker. I planned to spend the night at a shack, me and my friends had erected earlier in the summer to get drunken, but I got lost and ended up wandering into an unfamiliar area. I hadn't even seen the embankment until I was falling down it.

My leg snapped when I landed on top of it. Unable to walk, I screamed for help for hours. No one came except the bucks. I could feel that. them skittering across my body, could feel the sting of their bites. Over and over and over, and over, they crawled into my ears and mouth and nose. They crawled in everywhere. They covered me. At first, I tried to get them off, but they kept coming. Mosquitoes, flies, ants, spiders. They crawled and they bit and they burrowed into my flesh, into me, inside me. At night I could hear them surrounding me.

In the dark, all I felt was pain and thousands of tiny legs. They never stopped moving. The maggots were the worst. The longer I was out there, and the more cuts I got as I dragged myself across the ground, the more they came. I survived on rainwater and the same insects that were feeding on me until you found me. By then, I hadn't had the strength to move for almost three days. I didn't expect you to come. I thought I'd die there, but not alone.

I wasn't alone. My sister was never really okay again. She developed a phobia of woods and bugs. She was obsessed with them, haunted by them. At night, she'd thrash around claiming that she could feel ants crawling over her. She drank water constantly to try and wash away the tickle of spider legs in the back of her throat. Anytime she cut herself enough to bleed, she'd wrap it in half a dozen bandages, no matter how small it was. Have to keep the maggots out.

My parents put her in therapy and got her medication and did everything they could to try and help her. None of it was enough, though. We'd found Marion in time to save her body. but the insects never stopped eating away at her mind. Previously, on the curse of the gilded echo. In the safety of a police interrogation room, Lily Amber reflects back on the events which turned her world upside down. Previously, all she had to worry about was the purvey Steve Borden,

who, along with his sidekick Rodney, run security at Amber Rapids University. But then on one fateful night, her friend, Andrew was murdered. His body hollowed out to serve as a human birdcage. Someone poisoned her friend Dia, too, and that was on top of trying to dodge the advances of her awkward friend Chesney. But while the students were hashing out their personal issues, Andrew's girlfriend Maggie was being hurled off the roof. Her corpse decorated to look like a beautiful white dove. With the story recounted, Lily delivered the final shocking twist. She is the kill. killer. But as another body is found and Detective Rob Chambers goes to investigate,

Lily is joined in the interview room by a mysterious entity, the true villain behind the killings. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, C.K. Walker, Mick Wingert, Atticus Jackson, and Dan Harmon. Will Lily survive her encounter? Will Detective Chambers get closer to the truth? Will the killer's identity be uncovered. Find out in part two of the curse of the gilded echo. Five kids are dead, Chambers. Three of them died here. One of them died in our custody. Do you have any idea what the press is going to do to me when that gets out? With all due respect, sir. I know, I know. this isn't a normal case, so you keep saying. But tell me this. Why do you always seem to get wrapped up in this crap.

I wish I knew, sir. Always was perhaps a little unfair. As I left the chief's office, my mind drifted back to the most recent case of this sort. A strange, unpleasant murder perpetrated by a young woman with a fascination for unsolved crimes. Allison Slater, the host of the middlingly popular true crime podcast called Frozen Cases,

one day Allison snapped and murdered another young woman, Annalise Booth, with seemingly no rights. crime or reason. When I'd interviewed Miss Slater, she'd spun a tale of decades-long conspiracies and mysterious figures who'd impossibly framed her for the crime, a machination years in the making. Of course, as the investigating officer, this had earned me a reputation for dealing with the weird crimes, never mind the fact that this was kind of the only one until now. The thing is, it wasn't just intra-department. I'd known Ms. Slater before her sudden murder. turn. I'd made an ill-advised and much regretted appearance on her podcast, encouraged by the chief to do so

for public relations. It hadn't been anything much, just a bit of fluff about cold cases and how we as a police force go about keeping them open. But for some reason, my appearance on this show had led to me developing a, frankly, ridiculous fan base amongst 20-something crime aficionados. So, of course, when Ms. Slater turned killer, this only heightened the reputation I'd somehow acquired as some kind of hard-boiled tragic detective with a connection to femme fatals. The reason this was all relevant was because of the body we found in the parking lot during the love-struck killer case. Press came up with it after the fact. Still, as I headed to Amber Rapids College to interview Steve Borden, my mind drifted. back to the terrible and awe-inspiring scene in the station parking lot the Friday before,

and the subsequent grisly discovery when I'd returned to Lily Amber's interview room. I gotta warn you, Chambers. It's a bad one. I gave Officer Rick Phillips a skeptical look. He said something similar every time the pair of us were at a murder scene. Look, as a homicide detective, everybody I had to view was a bad one. To the point I'd started thinking nothing of decapitation and dismemberment and disemboweling. Despite the man's age over me, Officer Phillips, he still regularly puked up his lunch at the sight of his stabbing. I caught myself hoping he'd never change, never find himself as jaded and desensitized as I was.

No, I'm serious. I've never seen anything like it. I tell you, the people in this town are fucked up. I strode along the corridor towards the parking lot. Officer Phillips is skittering being. behind me as if he was hesitant to return to the scene of the crime. Speaking of. Do we think the murder occurred here?

No, not a chance. This is one of them, uh, what's it, uh, tabloes. It's been put here for us. Well, you. Me? Yeah. You'll see. I didn't like surprises, but Phillips knew this,

which meant that if he was keeping details under wraps, it was likely because he could. couldn't handle spilling them. I kept quiet. When I pushed open the double doors leading to the station parking lot, the hubbub I'd heard from the corridor immediately fell silent. A dozen pair of eyes turned to look at me. Instantly, I felt uncharacteristically self-conscious.

A handful of uniformed officers milled around, the chief in the center of them. The rustling of paper garments alerted me to Dr. Chavez and her two assistants. I gave the doctor a wry nod. Cecilia? Robert. She strode over to me, thrusting a pair of white shoe coverings into my hands. These were followed by some rubber gloves and finally a head covering. Can't have you contaminating the crime scene.

I held up my hands as I straightened from pulling the coverings over my shoes. As if I would? Get those gloves on. Yes, ma'am. Dr. Cecilia Chavez, the closest thing I'd had to a love life in the last five years. Although the height of our romance Was the occasional exhausted fuck In one of the station's overnight rooms

When work had been grinding us both down So much we needed release Outside of those times It was all business Which suited us both just fine Mostly Maybe I'd like to have a little something more With Cecilia but

To work Well, that I could see something Just beyond the throng of body of which the chief was the nucleus. I strode over, leaving Officer Phillips behind at the entrance. Chambers, about damn time.

Sorry, Chief. I was with a... Well, God damn. Lily Amber? She confessed. Claims she killed Andrew and Maggie. But I don't buy it. There's something... Well, unless she managed to dump a body in the parking garage while you were interviewing her,

I'm pretty sure she's not our man. Bodies, Chief. I looked over my... my shoulder. Officer Phillips, now decked in his sterile gear, had joined us. Bodies? I stepped around the uniformed officers and finally took in what they'd all been staring at. The scene had been staged, much like the initial killing of Andrew Harris. Like Andrew, the body in front of me had been strung up crucifixion style, although whereas Andrew's body had been on a vertical cross, this one was on a diagonal one. There was something wrong, though. Something more than

the fact that I was looking at a dead body. It was... Holy shit. This is Guy Maldonado and Chesney Rogers. This is both of them. One body? Phillips was right. Now I took in the scene, truly looked. I could see what the killer had done. Although the skill with which they'd done it was still beyond me. The two boys had been carved into pieces. Based on muscle and skin tone, I could just about identify the the grisly jigsaw in front of me. Guy's right leg, Chesney's left. Guy's left arm, Chesney's right. The torso had been carved into four quarter pieces, each expertly stitched together, so you almost couldn't tell that they'd come from two guys with two different body types.

Chesney's pale, thin chest with his pink nipple next to Guy's muscular peck looked obscene. The stomach had the look of collapsing in on itself, six-pack abs. Sacks'estepak abs next to a a thin, pasty flesh. My own stomach lurched as my eyes traveled over mismatched hips to the groin. A thick, tanned penis hung flaccid over much paler testicles. Guy's dick, Chesney's balls. I forced down the bile that rose in my throat. It's incredible. I knew what Chavez meant. The pieces of the body hadn't been stitched together. There was no ragged threadwork in sight. It looked like they'd be.

been blended somehow. The flesh having the impression of being knitted together and healed. It reminded me as something made in a digital art program, where one animal's head had been blended onto another's body. Looking at it made me feel a sense of vertigo. Like, if I focused too hard on it, I'd fall into an abyss of unreality. The effect was only compounded when I eventually stared in horror at the boy's faces. One half of the head, the Chesney half, looked like it was drooping as if our victim had had a stroke. The two heads had been cleaved almost perfectly down the center. The joint descended from the forehead, down the bridge of the nose, between the lips. The mismatched mouth gave the impression of a lopsided grin. Guy's lips were turned up in one corner. Naturally, I remembered for my

interviews with the boy, while Chesneys were thin and pursed. Their skins seemed to merge into one another, and I was reminded of the Batman villain Two-Face, although the effect in real life here was somehow less contrasted than in fiction. Guy's close-cropped hair suddenly sprung out in a shock of Auburn where the two scalps have been joined. To complete the effect, the killer had placed Chesney's glasses on the face with Wait, is the glass present on Guy's side of the face but missing on Chesneys?

For a moment I didn't understand it. It was Chesney who wore glasses, not Guy. The eyes have been switched. I turned to Chavez, then back to the body. Rogers has blue eyes. Maldonado has brown. Chavez handed me two photos

of the victims. They were sealed in plastic evidence bags. These with the body? Chavez nodded. I guess our killer wanted us to be certain of who we were looking at. Or didn't want any of their attention to detail to go overlooked. Hmm. I studied the photos.

Sure enough, Chesney Rogers had blue eyes, wet looking, almost pathetic. Guy Maldenados in contrast were deep-set, browned, and confident-looking. I peered at the body. A blue eye stared at me from Guy's side of the face, while on Chesney's side, a brown eye rested. loosely in the socket. I turned away from the body, the horrific puzzle of flesh distracting me

from something that was, something that was nagging in the back of my mind. Sullivan was a bird. Harris was the cage. Rogers and Maldonado have been stitched together. Like they were both... Lily! I took off, running.

When I reached the interview room, breathless and worried, I was relieved to see the door remained shut. interview room's doors only stay closed in our station when someone's inside. That meant Lily hadn't left, which she could have, since I was the only one privy to her confession, and as far as anyone else knew, she was there of her own volition. I knew she couldn't possibly have killed Guy Maldonado and Chesney Rogers, or if she had, then someone else had planted the body outside for us to find.

But then, I suspected she hadn't killed anyone. Call it instinct. Call it a decade of learning to cut through people's bullshit. Lily Amber had been scared. Coerced, I suspected. She'd spun out her story long enough to ensure I was still in the building when the parking lot body was discovered. Someone had coerced her into confessing, a confession that would never hold up. So clearly the intent wasn't to frame her for the crime.

It was simply to distract me long enough for the machinations to fall into place. And if my theory was correct regarding the killings, that each set of murders were about what I thought they were about, then Lily Amber was in danger. And the only way she could stay out of that danger was remaining in police custody. Officer Phillips appeared at my shoulder as I slid my key into the interview room lock and opened the door. So, uh, Lily, we had a... Holy fuck! Holy fuck! Someone called the paramedics! Somebody get me the paramedics! Now! I didn't know who I was shouting to.

There was nobody around but me and Phillips. Oh, fuck! Unlike Phillips, I was frozen in utter, horrified shock. Cold fear crept up my spine and I gave an involuntary shiver. The room was absolutely trenched in blood. The table, the chairs, the tape recorder, all of it soaked in crimson. Copper stench filled my nostrils. The blood glistened in the overhead lights, spray-coated the walls.

This wasn't murder. It was butchery. With this much blood, I knew Lily must be dead. But from my position in the doorway, I couldn't see her, and I wasn't going to take that chance. So, ignoring the potential contamination, I stepped into the room. It took me a moment to see her. I scanned the room and caught sight of movement over my left shoulder. I turned, only to come face to face with myself in the two-way mirror. But there, there was Lily, or at least part of her.

Lily was emerging from the mirror. She'd been stripped naked, blood covered the entirety of her body. Her one visible leg was positioned as if she was stepping out of the mirror. Her arm was angled as if she was angled as if she was. if she was reaching forward or being pulled back. From what I could tell, the mirror wasn't broken. Somehow, her body was suspended against the glass. One leg, one arm, one shoulder, one hip, all of her head.

Immediately, I could tell, Lily Amber had been torn in half, down the center, as if her legs had been tied to two wild horses who'd been sent running in opposite directions. My eyes averted from the horrifying scene. I stared at my own reflection in the glass, and instantly, with dawning horror, I realized where the other half of Lily's body would be. Moments later, the interview room and adjoining observation room had been cordoned off, both active crime scenes.

While half the investigators worked to secure Guy and Chesney's bodies, the other half went about processing Lily's crime scene. I sat on the bench, my head in my hands, and nursed the coffee that a sickly-looking officer Phillips had brought me. Dear boss, dear celebrity detective. You like cold cases? I heard you on that podcast talking about how tirelessly you cops investigate unsolved crimes. Well, maybe you can solve this one. Keep digging, Detective Chambers.

Maybe justice will finally be served. Arlith Winters. The letter had been found in an envelope addressed to me, alongside the photos of Chesney and Guy at the feet of the parking lot body. In my haste to get to Lily, I hadn't seen it. But eventually Chavez brought it to me, and now I was racking my brains, trying to make sense of it. The tape recorder in the interview room had been left running. I'd persuaded Officer Donnelly in evidence to make me a copy, and now a USB stick waited in my pocket. I hadn't listened to the tape yet, but the other detectives had ensured me that I'd want to.

I've never heard of an Arlith Winters. Well, they've clearly heard of you, Robert. Chavez dropped down beside me, onto the overnight room caught. I wanted to reach out and touch her. But at the same time, I felt like if I felt any kind of human comfort right now, I'd break down. Chavez seemed to understand this and kept a respectable distance. I'll go through the files, check the database, see if this winters has a record. Yeah, you will.

But tomorrow morning. You're burned out, Robert. Let the rest of us take it tonight. I looked at Chavez through eyes blurry with tiredness. My eyeballs burned. I'd been awake for 36 hours. It's not your fault. You know that, right?

She died in our custody, in the most horrific way. How the fuck does something like that happen? How the fuck did the killer just stroll in there and tear her apart without anyone noticing? You need to listen to that recording. It's illuminating. I don't know what we're dealing with here. I rose already reaching into my pocket for the USB stick. Chavez held out one hand to stop me.

Not tonight. Jesus. Christ, I should know better than to suggest anything to you. Other kaiser on it. Get some rest, Robert. Seriously. I wanted to rebel. I wanted to just push through and keep going. I wanted to hear what was on that tape. But before I knew it, I'd sank back down into the cot, unable to resist Chavez's insistence, even if I wanted to. As I lay back on the hard mattress and closed my eyes, I thought I felt the feather-light touch of lips against my forehead.

And then the warmth of a body sliding next to mine on the cot. When I awoke later, the room was in total darkness, and I was alone. My first port of call the next day, after being half-heartedly chewed out by the chief, was to head to Amber Rapids University to interview Steve Borden. Certain information had come to light from Lily, and while her entire story was now cast into doubt, I had a feeling that most of it was true. There had been details in her retelling that we hadn't been privy to during the previous investigations,

and now with five victims, it was imperative that I went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. As I drove, I listened to the recording from the interview room on repeat. I'd already heard it dozens of times that morning, but couldn't shake the feeling I was missing something. Like there was a hidden message there or a clue. You stay right there. You stay good. I'm locking the door. I'll be back. Watching. I didn't believe you. I did what you said.

I did everything you said. I kept him here till midnight. I don't understand why you wanted this. He doesn't believe my bullshit confession. But I did it. I did it anyway. You didn't say he had to believe me. Just, please, please don't hurt us.

Please. You promised. Please. Detective Chambers, I'm so sorry I didn't meet. I'm sorry, I thought. Wait, why are you here? How did you even get in here? Like a...

Look at... Lily, we had a... Holy fuck! Holy fuck! Someone called the paramedics! Somebody get me the paramedics! Now! urban landscape of Amber Rapids was making way for the countryside as I headed outside the city.

Soon I was passing through Sycamore Creek, the small village adjacent to the university. I listened to that recording on repeat over and over. As I pulled into the parking lot of Amber Rapids You, the loop was coming to an end again. So, uh, Lily, we had a... Holy fuck! Holy fuck! Someone called the paramedics! Somebody get a... Get me the paramedics. Now! It hit me. It hit me like a ton of goddamn bricks traveling at 100 miles an hour. Fuck!

I started the recording again. Sitting there in the parking lot, I listened to it over and over. Needles pierced the back of my head in cold terror. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be. And yet, I'd known somehow. From the beginning, I'd known this case, was different, that it would change my life in nebulous ways I couldn't put my finger on.

That was me leaving the interview room. That was the assailant entering the interview room. And that was me returning to the interview room. I locked the door, the assailant opened the door without unlocking it. And then the next recorded sound of the door was myself unlocking and reopening it. Holy shit. Holy shit. According to the recording, not only had the assailant opened a locked door, but they had then never closed it behind them. And yet, when I'd returned, the door had been shut and locked.

There was no other door leading into the interview room. This was the only one. Perhaps another detective would have convinced themselves there had to be a rational explanation. Perhaps someone else who wasn't me would have assumed the recording had simply not picked up certain actions. But I knew that was less than unlikely. It was impossible. Perhaps someone who hadn't seen the things I've seen throughout my life wouldn't have jumped to the conclusion I did. Something otherworldly was going on.

It would explain the difficulty they were having with the bodies, how they were struggling to work out just how the killer had managed to fuse Andrew Harris' body, with straw or merge Chesney and Guy together. It would go some way to explain the physical feat required to hoist Maggie Sullivan off the roof in full dove regalia. Yet, despite my growing belief that a supernatural force was involved here, I still had the sense that our killer was distinctly, definitely human. The taunting letter, the passion and the crimes.

There was something more behind this. Once, when I was a uniformed officer, I investigated a case in a crack house where a number of junkies had been pulled apart, seemingly by bare hands. The culprit had been the dealer, a guy by the name of Donnelly. Yeah, he'd been buff, sure, a big, shaven-headed white guy, but he hadn't been capable of doing it. I'd had him alone, cuffed in a room while my partner, or my superior, radioed in the detectives. And Donnelly had said something to me then. He said with bitterness that he'd been abandoned, that the power he'd been granted had left him,

that he had left him to face the consequences. I'd never worked out what all that was about. In the end, the conclusion had been that Donnelly had been dipping into his own supply, which had given him the strength to tear men apart with his bare hands. Bullshit. I'd always suspected there was something more to it. This, more than anything, had led to my open-mindedness, about the fact that forces we don't understand might be present in this world.

But something I'd come to learn in all my years of research and investigation was this. We humans are always the driving force behind these incidents. Whether or not they've been touched by something from the other side is irrelevant. Ultimately, there's always a culprit, always a flesh and blood person to point the finger at. At least I hoped this was true. As open-minded as I was, my brain wasn't quite ready to consider the possibility of pursuing some Eldridge horror from beyond space and time. I had to believe that no matter what might be influencing our killer, there'd ultimately be someone I could put a stop to. Believe that.

When I knocked on the door to Steve Borden's office, I received no reply. Loud rock music was blaring from within, something by the stones. Steve Borden sat at his desk, air drumming along to Charlie Watts' beats. I stood watching him for a moment. The enthusiastic disconnect between this odd scene and the horrific murders I was investigating momentarily dragged me to a strange, emotionless limbo. As such, I stood there, watching Borden for perhaps too long. Notting his head violently, he caught sight of my reflection in the glass.

of a picture on his desk. I saw the man visibly jumped, then whirl around in his swivel seat. Quickly, he stood up and said something, which I couldn't hear over the blaring sound of Mick Jagger's vocals. I raised a hand to my ear. Borden's eyes widened, then he reached out and shut off the stereo. An old portable CD player, I noted, with a pang of nostalgia. When he turned back to me, the head of security's face was burning red. And for a moment, I thought he was going to respond angrily. Didn't see you there, detective. I waved it away.

Hey, if a man can't let loose and rock out to the stones in times of unspeakable tragedy, what's the point of living? Orden studied my face, as if trying to work out whether I was sincere or if my remark had been barbed. I wasn't entirely sure myself. I confess, I felt a pang of envy for the man who, despite being at the center of a murder investigation,

and frankly our only primary person of interest right now could let go in such a visceral manner. Eventually, Borden gave me a tight-lipped smile. Quite. You a fan, detective? I nodded. I saw them in 81. Best gig of my life really opened my eyes to music.

When you were in the army? I couldn't recall exactly how old Borden was. I'd pegged him in his 40s, but a Stone's concert in 81 suggested he was maybe older. Borden shook his head. Nah, that was before all that. Back when I was a pacifist. Nah, I was a student at the time.

Here, in fact. He gestured around the room, as if his college education had taken place entirely in the security office at Amber Rapids'U. It was more of a closet than an office, really. And I was reminded of the storeroom Lily had reported Maggie and Andrew finding the two-way mirror in. A small boxy room with a handful of monitors, several finely cabinets. desk. I glanced over my shoulder and almost jumped an alarm. Orden and I weren't alone. A tall, skinny, red-headed boy sat slumped in a chair in the corner, previously hidden from sight by the door I'd

entered through. His legs stretched out, impossibly long and skinny. He gave me a little smile and a sheepish wave. Hey, detective. This must be Rodney, I figured. I hadn't interviewed him myself. He hadn't particularly come up in the investigation until the night before, when Lily had revealed his role in allowing them into the gym. This was information we'd frustratingly been unable to acquire previously, with Maggie only being vague about unlocked doors when we asked her, before she took her tumble off the hospital roof. Rodney stood up and sauntered over to his superior. Rodney Markham, yeah? The red-headed boy nodded. Yep, that's me, boss.

A sprinkling of acne decorated Rodney's forehead. He didn't meet my eyes. I thought about how he must have been sitting there watching Steve headbang. Hmm. Strange dynamic. Wouldn't mind to chat with you later. But are you okay to make yourself scarce for now, though? I need to talk to the big man. Rodney looked to Steve for confirmation, and in that moment I thought I could picture the whole dynamic of their relationship. Steve, the gruff and maligned chief, Rodney, his sycophantic sidekick. eager to please and impress.

It's fine, Rodder's. Rodney nodded and scarpered from the office, closing the door gently behind him. I had a brief image of him standing there, long-limbed and hunched over, cupping a hand to the wood to listen to our conversation. I suppressed a smile and turned back to Steve Borden. Then I froze.

So, Detective, any progress on the Harris and Sullivan murders? I wasn't listening to. I wasn't even looking at him. I was looking over his shoulder at the photograph in which he'd caught my reflection. Sitting there on the desk, a young Steve Borden arm in arm with a girl, it looked like they were at a prom. It hadn't been the photograph itself that caught my eye, however. It'd been something else, a movement, a flash of detail. In that moment, I thought I'd seen a young woman hovering over my shoulder, staring at a little. into my eyes in the glass. A face pale, gaunt, and dead,

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