The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S11E20

Episode Date: October 14, 2018

It's episode 20 of Season 11. On this week's show we have five tales about searching; for the missing, for the meaning, and for the murderer. "Flight 347 Came Back"‡ written by Mr. Michael Squid and performed by Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:02:50) "Curse of the Gilded Echo Part 3: The Queen in Ivory"† written by Olivia White and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Dan Harmon & Atticus Jackson & C.K. Walker & Tanja Milojevic & Mick Wingert & Peter Lewis & Andy Cresswell. (Story starts around 00:15:15) "An App Called “How Will You Die?”"† written by Blair Daniels and performed by Tanja Milojevic & Kyle Akers & Nichole Goodnight & Atticus Jackson & Erin Lillis & Elie Hirschman & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:59:10) "Remy"† written by Justin Solaiman and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Addison Peacock & Graham Rowat. (Story starts around 01:20:45) "Blackwood Holler"¤ written by Stephen P. Lindsey and performed by Graham Rowat & Jesse Cornett & Nikolle Doolin & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 01:42:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Mr. Michael Squid   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about Blair Daniels   Click here to learn more about Justin Solaiman   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Queen in Ivory" illustration courtesy of Krys Hookuh 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 searching,

for the missing, for the meaning, and for the murderer. If you find yourself immersed in the world of horror during this Halloween month, you might be considering picking up one or more of our season passes. If so, you'll want to wait a little bit and be sure to follow all our social media accounts, because we're soon going to be announcing some flash sales of various season passes and bundles, including special ones never before offered. They'll be popping up for a limited time the week before Halloween. So just look for At No Sleep Podcast on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram for all the details, and when you can get a lot of horror for a lot less money.

And I hope by now all of you are watching the exciting and terrifying new series on Netflix, called The Haunting of Hill House. This series has been created by many people who we are proud to call friends. Director, creator, Mike Flanagan, co-star, Kate Siegel, and series writer C.K. Walker all helped craft this critically acclaimed horror series. It's the perfect time of year to experience this genuinely haunting tale. That's The Haunting of Hillhouse, available now on Netflix. Some houses aren't meant to be lived in.

And now, we also have friends of the show who have made this episode possible, so it's time to begin. The tape is in the machine. The stories are ready, so let's press play. In our first tale, we meet a man experiencing a nightmare we can only hope we never have to endure. Hearing that the plane your loved one is on has gone missing. But as we learn from Mr. Michael Squid, the man's sister, and all the other passengers are presumed lost, until, to their shock and joy, the plane returns with all the passengers alive.

Performing this tale is Jeff Clement. So be glad when you hear the news that Flight 347 came back. I watched the somber faces of families, huddled and sniffling as they waited eagerly for news. about their loved ones. It was a standard daily flight from Detroit to LGA in New York, but the storm had caused delays. As the reports came in from air traffic control that the flight crew was not responding,

the rumors spread throughout the airport and before long the situation unfolded into panic as wailing mothers, sobbing fiancés, and praying grandmothers filled the gate with a dismal chill. My eyes watered and nose streamed as the rumors of a problem spread. My sister, Sam, was on board that plane. With each passing hour, it became more apparent that a tragedy was unfolding. I offered some tissues to a whimpering mother who wouldn't stop saying my baby over and over again.

As the hours ticked slowly by, the realization that we were dealing with a devastating, stating loss of lives became more real and more upsetting. Families began to trickle out to find hotels for the evening. As the evening sank into the full night, more and more left. But I waited for my sister, eventually falling asleep on the vinyl seating of the gates waiting area. The next day, I awoke to a mess of people demanding answers. and they had none.

When the pilots had been in contact, nothing out of the ordinary was mentioned, and no flights had gone down anywhere along the flight path. An irate, balding man awaiting the arrival of his wife and daughters was screaming at airport officials. The mob grew angry, but it soon became clear

the uniform woman behind the counter knew nothing. We didn't already. The patient woman shared each communication, as did the customer service managers, and we had no option but to wait for more news. By the end of the day, most families had stumbled out of the airport defeated, realizing their loved ones were likely dead in a crash. For the first few days, I scoured the news feeds daily, refreshing for any developments.

There was nothing of note, aside from the news of the missing plane with every detail we already knew, and soon the media began covering the plane's disappearance as a disaster, stating it as the largest missing commercial flight since Flight 370. It became clear my sister was dead, and I began drinking a bit more. lashing out of my friends and co-workers, unable to truly process my grief. Sam, Sam had been my best friend, my entire life. A tomboy rocker with a comedian's wit and a heart of gold. It all felt so unfair.

Yet still I tried to come to terms with her loss. I began talking to my parents in Michigan. every day, reliving memories of childhood, graduation, and holiday blunders. After a week of talking with my parents on the phone, they began discussing funeral arrangements, and reality slapped me hard once more. I was ready to accept it this time, however, and agreed to fly back home to help them with the planning. I'd booked a flight online and cabbed to LaGuardia after work that Friday, a bit uneasy about flying, but far more concerned about having to say goodbye to my sister via an empty grave. When I arrived at the airport and saw the news vans parked outside, I pushed through and began to overhear

earfuls of gossip and rumors that floated about in growing confusion. I strained to piece the news together about what had caused the commotion. Flight 347. I listened to the gray-haired man with rolled-up sleeves yelled to the gathered crowd as he explained everything he knew. The plane just popped up on the radar and was cleared to land. He said no damage had occurred, and as far as he knew, everyone was likely on board and accounted for. I listened. In disbelief.

There was no way that flight would have enough fuel to stay. aloft for such an extensive period of time. And what had it possibly been doing, circling for a straight week? Mostly, however, I was overwhelmed with the possibility that Sam was actually alive. More information came in pieces, and soon the family's eye had waited alongside that first dreadful night showed up, eager to be reunited with their loved ones. I saw familiar tear-streamed faces and heard many use the words

Miracle, Impossible, and Guardian Angel. I smiled and thought of there being some kind of higher power that somehow brought our families back and soon we received news that the missing flight 347 was to be deborded. The crowd erupted in celebratory cheers.

I canceled my flight and excitedly relayed the news as it occurred to my parents who cried with joy at the unexpected miracle. I accepted a plastic cup of wine from the mother I'd shared tissues with. It felt surreal, almost like a dream. And in reality, I knew it was like a dream. These things simply don't happen. People don't just come back from a week missing from their flight pattern. Still, I cheered and hugged those eager to see our beloved missing families. We clapped and cried as the plane arrived without a hitch

and waited by the doors as the passenger boarding bridge was brought out. The first of the arrival crew headed to greet them in excitement built. But then, we are... to scream. Minutes slowed as we waited until finally the staggering arrival crew member, holding herself up with the wall, came into view. She was pale and wide-eyed, a thousand-yard stare frozen on her freckled, previously smiling face. A help desk employee tried to assist her, but she seemed vacant and attached. And soon a security officer joined the side of the help desk employee

as they headed into the skyway to the plane that came back. After a few long minutes, they too returned. Pale, sweaty, uniform stained with fresh vomit. The woman from the desk was rocking and shaking her head and soon began scratching her eyes until the security officer physically restrained her arms to prevent her from blinding herself. We all stood by and gawked with growing concern

when the passengers finally began to emerge from the skyway. Screaming and crying echoed through the gate as my eyes fought to adjust to what I was looking at exactly. They came back, every passenger on that flight, and they all came back wrong. My mind tried to understand the sickening sight of legs that folded too many times and hands that festered with rot. Decay. Malformed limbs dragged misplaced bones and entrails, none of which belonged where they now resided,

streaking the carpet black. The disturbing collages that once were humans now spilled into that gate, staining the minds of each one of us as sanity teetered and crashed into fragments at the horrors of what had become of them. I bit my finger until I bled, stumbling backwards, as one by one they approached, each somehow more ghastly than the last. I collapsed to the carpeted floor. when I saw the hideous thing whose clothing I recognized as sands it dragged

its torso now more of a clumped bone-filled mess behind a warped nightmarish head that howled a sickening bone There was only one collective thought.

All the waiting family members shared now that flight three, four, seven came back. All wished more than anything that it. Previously, on the curse of the Gilded Echo. Five college students are dead. One of them, Lily Amber, died in police custody, torn in half and attached to a two-way mirror. Detective Rob Chambers is on the trail of the killer. With it becoming increasingly more obvious that supernatural forces are at work,

Chambers heads to Amber Rapids University to interview Head of Security Steve Borden, who, along with his sidekick Rodney, rules the campus with an allegedly iron fist. The only clue Chambers has is a note taunting him. him, signed by the mysterious Arlith Winters. Is Steve Borden Chambers man? Does Daya Lavina, the poisoned lover of one of the victims, know more about the crimes than she's letting on? Or is Arlith Winters, whoever she may be, the only culprit? Chambers faces down Steve Borden, ready for answers, but before he can question him too far, he's frozen by a shocking sight, the reflection of an ethereal, ghostly woman staring.

right at him. Performing this tale are Mike Delgadoio, Atticus Jackson, C.K. Walker, Dan Harmon, Tanya Mologevich, Mick Wingert, Peter Lewis, and Andy Cresswell. Will Chambers survive his dice with death? Find out in the third and final part of the curse of the gilded echo. I jolted, hoping Steve Borden hadn't noticed my sudden alarm at the appearance of the ghostly girl. She had already disappeared from the picture frame, leaving only my own surprised, fearful expression. So I take it from your silence that there's been no progress? I felt like a new recruit, pinned by the withering gaze of a chief. Orden was looking at me like the lack of arrest was my own personal failing.

I guess in some ways he was right. Of course, he didn't know about the deaths of Chesney, Guy, Guy, and Lily. Or at least, officially, he didn't know. based on what Lily had told me, I was keen to look deeper into Borden, establish an alibi for the night before, at the very least. I'd checked out his record in the subsequent weeks, unerably discharged from the army after serving 20 years, two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan,

left in 2008 and immediately got a job as head of security at Amber Rapids U. A couple of DUIs in his teens, one case of aggravated assault in the 90s which had been subsequently dropped, a bar fight seemingly. Nothing stood out. Nothing that could point to Borden suddenly snapping and killing a bunch of college students. And nothing to suggest

the kind of sexual deviancy Lily had accused him of. Had that been part of her story to buy time? It seemed cruel and uncharacteristic if so. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but there have been three more killings. Borden's eyes widened. What?

Who? I explained. keeping the details as vague as I could. Ideally, I would have brought him to the station for this kind of questioning, but with the station itself being an active crime scene, I decided that speaking to Borden in situ was the easier option, for now. That's Jesus H. Christ. What is this world coming to?

How did they die, detective? I'm afraid I can't give out details just now. Borden nodded. Right. Good. Keep the cranks from giving false confessions. I get it. Something like that.

So how can I help you, detective? I'm familiar with those students, of course. I make it my business to familiarize myself with as many of my charges as possible. But in this case, as you know, I was present at the unfortunate scene with Andrew Harris. All of those people were there. Hard to believe they're all dead now. Not all. Dia's safe. After the murders the night before, we'd instantly dispatched a uniform patrol to her house.

Dia had been all too happy to have the protection. We hadn't yet informed her about exactly what had happened. She was still frail and fragile from her sickness the week before, and the news of Lily's death was sure to wreck her. She must have known something bad had happened, though. You don't suddenly get police protection for no reason. Borden nodded. You think she might be the next target?

I thought about it. Did I? Was the killer specifically targeting this group of friends? I had a feeling Dia might be safe. My theory that the killer was targeting couples, or at least romantic connections, meant that Dia's boyfriend Guy had already been associated with and killed in connection to Lily. Unless Dia had a second lover, or my theory was wrong. I wasn't sure how she could fit into the pattern.

But still, it was only a theory, so the protection was absolutely necessary. I can't comment on that at this time. Understood. So how can I help you, a detective? The way Borden kept calling me detective was beginning to great. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it felt like he was emphasizing the word, judging me for my failure to catch the killer, or perhaps taunting me. I tried to imagine Borden meddling with forces beyond our understanding.

It was hard to picture him engaging in seances or performing blood rituals or whatever it was these people did to try and contact the other side. But then I wasn't exactly. an expert in who engaged in these things. I'd always pictured people like that to be pale, waif-like, strikingly beautiful goth girls with red streaks in their hair and a grudge against the world. Donnelly, the possessed drug dealer, had certainly shattered that image. I realized we were both standing there. Looking around, I tried to assess if there was a way for both of us to sit in the small office that wouldn't seem supremely awkward. There wasn't. This is a somewhat

sensitive subject, but before she died, Lily made some rather unpleasant claims about you. Borden frowned. She said you have a reputation for standing in a certain spot on campus. He frowned harder. I have no idea what you're talking about. I felt like I'd been scolded. The feeling hardened me, pushing me to simply blurt it out. You've been accused of standing under a certain set of stairs leading into one of the buildings, stairs with open gaps in them. Apparently, you have a reputation amongst the student body for, well, looking up from under these stairs in a position where you'd be able to see up student skirts. Borden opened his mouth as if to speak, his face contorting with anger.

I watched, braced as he took a moment to compose himself. That goddamn crap again? Again? You know about the accusations? Listen, detective. It's not my... my nature to be the kind of guy who whines and complains about people having an out for me. But yes, some students did begin spreading that rumor a couple years ago.

I wasn't aware it had persisted to the current crop of kids, but apparently I was naive. I take it you're claiming there's no truth to these rumors then. Absolutely not. Before I could respond, Borden reached for the Wachie-Talke on his belt. Rodgers, can you come to the office? I wasn't done with Borden yet, but apparently Borden. had other ideas, and Rodney would be joining us. While we waited for him, I looked at the security head quizzically.

I want to take you to those stairs, detective. Show you just how bullshit these rumors are. I wondered how far Rodney was from the office. Before that, Mr. Borden, there's something else. Oh? I was told about an unusual, well, mirror. A two-way mirror looking into the girl's locker room? Do you know anything about that?

Hell yes, I do. It was the strangest deal. thing. I'd been in that supply closet every damn day, never noticed anything up. Then one day I went in and noticed the mirror had been changed. Different frame, an older one. No idea why anyone would have replaced it. So I peered at it a bit. Next week, someone sends me a photograph of myself looking into the damn thing with a demand I fix it or whatever it was. Of course, I looked into it and realized someone had been playing stupid with two-way mirrors. Took that crap down, fixed up the hole, and reported it to the college. The records will still be there.

So you're saying you're not responsible for the installation of the mirror for the purpose of spying on the girls' locker room? Fordn looked like he was about to explode. Of course I'm not. What do you take me for, detective? I'm not some pervert. I've got far better things to do than Agil at the damn vapid girls in this place. Christ, it was probably the creepy janitor we had a couple semesters ago. He got fired for pleasuring himself on the job. Besides, the hole only opened into Arlie's old locker. I don't think you could see into the room by looking through it anyway. I was told there was a peephole in the door that would allow one to do this.

Well, it's news to me, but you're welcome to check it out later. I'll have to supervise, though. Can't be letting a male go roaming around the girl's locker room, after all. Something Borden had said had triggered my attention, and I went to ask him about it when the door opened and Rodney stepped in. Rodgers, we're going to the stairs. When we arrived at the stairs leading up to one of the classroom blocks, a crowd of students was milling about the quad. The noise began to give me a headache. The understairs location in question was a small bush-filled area in the shade of the metal steps leading up to one of the education suites.

Steve led the way, following a clearly well-traveled path to the Heidi hole. Once inside, the three of us were forced to crowd together to fit there. Look up at the stairs, detective. I did so unthinkingly. Only realizing students were walking over our heads as I saw their feet through the gaps. But that was all I could see. There was no feasible way, unless one were to stick their head right through the gap and stare upwards, that this location could be used for unseemly purposes.

Okay, I understand. Just a nasty rumor. Oh, geez, not the steps thing again. I looked at Rodney. My kids here kind of have it out for Steve. He's a good guy. Makes me damn sad. I'm a detective. Real sad. Rodney looked genuinely perplexed. My eyes flicked to Steve, who puffed his chest out in what appeared to be pride. I felt claustrophobic in this small space with these two men.

Quickly, I stepped out of the bushes and back into the quad, leading Steve and Rodney to a quiet corner, away from prying eyes and ears. I have to ask, where were you between the hours of nine and one last night? Steve frowned. A look of insecurity flashed across. crossed his eyes. We went to a bar, remember? We were at that bar on Fifth in Maine until about midnight, and took a walk along the river. I left you near 1 a.m. Steve stared at Rodney, then back at me.

Yep, that was it. Went drinking with rotters here. I didn't buy the alibi, not one bit. Rodney was lying. Steve Borden obviously commanded a loyalty in him that would cause him to leap to his defense, whether he needed it or not. The question I had to answer was whether this fake alibi was masking anything sinister,

or whether Steve had simply been alone with nobody to vouch for his whereabouts. He seemed like the type of guy who spent his evenings by himself. Well, okay. If you remember anything else, please let me know, even if it seems unimportant. We'll do. Not every day we get a celebrity detective around these parts. I'd had enough of the pair for one day. Maybe putting them in a more official situation would cause them to be more.

forthcoming. I decided there and then that I'd call them both to the station the next day, once the crime scene hubbub had died down. You're leaving, detective? For now, yes. Don't you want to see the locker? Of course, the locker. Might as well take a look while I was here. As the pair led me inside and to the gym complex, my phone buzzed. It was Officer Phillips. I excused myself from Borden and Rodney and ducked into an alcove, shielding my other ear from the din of college life. Phillips, what's up? We got a hit on Arlith Withers, sir. Oh?

Bad news is, I don't think she can have sent that letter. She's, uh, dead. Died in the 80s. At Amber Rapids University, no less. Hmm. Bit of a mysterious one, in fact. Unsolved case. I sent the info over to your phone,

but short version, she was found dead on campus. Likely homicide. Nobody ever caught for it. Nineteenade two. I thought back to something I'd heard yesterday, an offhand remark from Lily regarding the locker I was on the way to see. There was a hole where the lock should be, but you could never open it. There was this whole urban legend behind it, about how it belonged to a girl who died there in the 70s and her belongings were still in there. Bullshit, of course.

Winters had died in the early 80s, but could that be the same instance Lily had been referring to? with some details having changed in the retelling over the years. Given the apparent significance of the locker to the case, it seemed highly likely. How did she die exactly? As Phillips talked, my eyes widened. This couldn't be coincidence. Too many themes and locations were recurring, and they all pointed to Steve Borden.

Phillips finished detailing what we knew, and I hung up. When I rejoined Borden and Rodney outside the locker rooms, the halls were quiet. The school day was nearly over. Steve wrapped on the door to the girl's locker room. He didn't wait for an answer. Nobody in there this time of day. Before I go in, I'd like to ask.

Lily mentioned a specific locker. The locker in question, I believe, as being permanently sealed. She said it belonged to a girl who died maybe in the 70s or 80s. I saw Borden flinch. Earlier, you mentioned that the locker belonged to someone called Arley. Are you referring to Ms. Arlith Winters? Gordon nodded slowly. Yes.

Terrible, terrible tragedy it was. Never caught the guy who did it. Arly. Arlith and I were, well, we were friends. Close friends. Orden ran his hand through his mustache, pulling it down over his lip. It was clear the memories were painful to him. Rodney looked at him, apparently never having heard this story before.

When I'm done, we'll talk about this. Borden nodded again. Sure. Leaving the pair there, I entered the locker room. Inside, it was cold. Too cold. I began shivering almost immediately. I was reminded of a meat locker from a past case,

hiding out behind the frozen, solid flesh of hanging pigs as a killer stalks the butcher's shop I'd been investigating for selling human meat in their pies. My head snapped around. I thought I heard a sound coming from the ship. shower area, and my alertness at the possibility of being stalked was replaced by a deeper fear. That Borden hadn't checked the room was clear, and I'd walked in on a college student showering.

Hello? Fuck, that familiar whispering voice from the tape. I whirled around. I could easily tell which locker had been Arliths. The lock was missing, a gaping circular hole leading to blackness within. According to legend, the locker would never open, although, man. Maggie and Andrew had gotten it open with their enthusiastic love-making. I walked over, hooked my finger in the hole, and pulled.

The door swung open easily, no resistance. At the back of the locker, I could see chipboard, clearly placed on the wall in the adjoining supply closet to cover the hole. But the chipboard wasn't bare. Instead, words had been written there, dark crimson and dripping. Fresh. Too fresh. I read them aloud, my voice a whisper. Hello, celebrity detective.

Why do some cold cases get solved and others stay hidden? It seems unfair to me. Guess I've done your job, Arlith Winters. It was immediately apparent to what the message referred. Below the words, sitting there like a misshapen bloody lump, was a human head. I didn't recognize the face, but I could see the anguished pain in his expression. I'd barely had time to study it, barely had time to take the features in when I heard that infernal sound again. Then, a sharp pain in my head, and like the words of Borden's song, my whole world went black.

I awoke to my body being battered by freezing winds. My hands were shaking. My whole body was trembling. My teeth chattered. I tried to open my eyes. The lids stuck, and for a moment I'd feared I'd gone blind. Then the ice holding them shut released, and I could see. The remains of the locker room stood around me, crumbled and frozen like Eon's old ruins.

Beyond them stretched a vast snowfield, white so bright it hurt my eyes. And on the edge, at the horizon, towers of obsidian black shimmered, barrage-like. I'd seen this place. I'd seen it before. Twice. For a split second each time. Once when I'd put the cuffs on Donnelly, the allegedly possessed drug dealer, and again when I'd shaken hands with Allison Slater the first time I'd met her

in that coffee shop where she'd interviewed me for her podcast. Both times I'd dismissed it as strange mental blips, despite the nagging feeling that these flashes of landscape were important somehow. But now, I was here, in that place. I could feel the cold seeping into my bones. I could hear the arcane whispering that permeated the very air of this otherworldly location. Somehow, I'd been pulled to the other side, a place where no mortal man should dare tread. In the back of my mind, I could hear voices.

Borden and Rodney? They sounded so distant, impossibly far away, almost drowned out by the whispering. I pulled myself to my feet, unsteady and aching. Pain throbbed in the back of my head. I looked around at the Identicit landscape, every direction leading to those blasphemous, impossible towers. As a figure emerged from the swirling snow, I braced myself for attack.

She stepped forward. I had never seen this woman before, and yet instantly I knew who she was. Arlith Winters. Did you appreciate her? my gift? Who was he? Winters waved her hand as if it didn't matter.

Oh, that was Professor Colson. Well, I suppose he's not a professor anymore. Runs the bookshop in Sycamore Creek after he retired. He was a professor at the college when I was here, though. And you're killer, I assume. My lover, then my killer. I know, I know. Naive student has an affair with her,

Tudor. He promises to leave his wife for her. Kills her instead. I'm sure you've seen it a lot. Sadly, she was right. I really did love him. It's a poison, you know, detective. A cage. It traps us. It traps women, especially. Colson trapped me. I loved him so much that I thought of nothing else. I thought of nothing else. I thought of nothing but him when I begged him not to end things with me. I didn't think of

anything but our love when he grabbed my shoulders at the top of those stairs. The stairs under which Steve Borden was famous for standing, Arlith Winters had been found at the bottom, her neck broken. Yes,

that's why he goes there. I didn't know it until after I died, but Steve was there then. night. He followed me, wanted to know whom I was meeting, nothing bad, nothing jealous. He cared about me deeply as a friend, loved me so purely. He saw me fall, but he didn't see who pushed me. And so as soon as he could, he got a job here and spent far too long under those stairs, trying to remember something, anything that could give him a clue as to to who killed me.

It's tragic, really. For so long, I wanted to reach out to him, to tell him to move on, get on with his life. I tried. I tried to reach out to him so hard. And eventually you managed it? Not quite, detective. Someone saw my efforts. Something.

Someone on this side. They showed me I had it all wrong. Move on. Where's the justice in that? No. Instead, they showed me how I can save girls like me. It was beginning to dawn on me. Arlith Winter's horrible, misguided motive.

So you were trying to set them free, the people you killed? Oh, no, no, no. Only Maggie and Lily. Andrew, Chesney, and Guy, they're caged. They were the ones caging the women. I marked them. They're not here. Anyway, Lily and Maggie are here.

I freed them. They're uncaged, powerful, like me. He'll be back like I am once they find their anchor. Anchor? Well, you can't just cross over Willie Nuss. Nilly, can you? It'd be chaos. You need an anchor. He showed me that, too.

You need an anchor who's driven in the same way that you are, who has the same motivation, someone wild, undisciplined, someone who is not afraid to relinquish control. So in your case, that anchor was Steve. Both of you wanted revenge on your killer. Arlith smirked. If you say so, detective, the relationship between one of us and one of you, well, it's a two-way thing.

Like those mirrors you so love, they give us a foothold. We give them untold power. This all made sense with what Donnelly had rambled about those years back. It made sense with how the killer, Orden, it seemed, had committed acts that would seem humanly impot. possible. It's why I've brought you here, detective. Hmm? My anchor is adequate. People trust security guards, even Lily, poor soul.

When I first reached out to her through the host, she thought it was for the greater good. It was only when I started demanding she do things like, say, poison her best friend's coffee, that she started to see the truth. At least the truth is she believed it. She understands now. Now she's like me. So what does this have to do with me? Well, as I say, people trust security guards, but they trust detectives even more.

Think of all the places I could go, all the people that I could reach if I were anchored to you. And think of what you could do. You're already tired. touched by us. I could show you the truth about Allison Slater, for one thing. She was innocent, by the way, set up by a foul individual who my mentor would love to see taking down a peg or two. You and I, we could cleanse the world and cage the innocent, like Allison. Lock up the evildoers. It'll be glorious.

I fixed Arlith Winters with a sympathetic stare. Arlith, I'm deeply, truly sorry about what happened to you. But if you think I'm going to have any part in you torturing and killing people for this insane, misguided theory you have about love and relationships, then you're deluded. And you're dead. You belong here, not meddling in the real world. You need to remove your anchor on Steve so he can face,

justice for his part in this. You leave Steve out of the... Before my eyes, Arlith Winters began to change. She shifted from the short, pretty girl she must have once been into an elongated, spindly shadow. Her features changed, contorted, grew longer. Her neck shifted to one side, accompanied by a horrifying crack of bone. She loomed over me, leaning in so close her fetid breath warmed my face despite the cold.

A distant rumble echoed from the horizon, as if in response to Arlith's rage. Rending stone and earth, followed by booming footsteps from a being of impossible size. A shadow descended upon the world, and I stared down at the snow, refusing to look up at whatever Arlith had awoken, knowing instinctively that if I laid eyes on it, I'd never return from the madness it brought upon me. When the being spoke, its voice was unlike anything I'd been expecting. Deep, erudite, human, but not quite. What is this folly that awakens me from my slumber? Sire, my chosen anchor is being resistant. This, detective, the other.

He's served his purpose. With chambers, I shall be able to do so much more of your work. I bade you anchor to the other for a reason, child. My will is absolute. This bickering disturbs me. I could sense, then, from the shifting of the air and the sudden warmth that the thing above me had peered down to run. regard me. It took all my willpower not to look up.

Besides, this one is marked. The chaos has marked him. And you bring him to this place, to my domain. Do you know what dangers this one could bring down upon us? Sire, I... In a flurry of movement, I thought I caught a glimpse of an impossibly large, impossibly amorphous, appendage swooping down. Thunder struck all around me. The ground began to crack. I held firm, cowering, dropping to my knees.

Momentarily, I sensed the shadow above me dissipate. When I looked up, it was alone. All that remained of Arlith Winters was a patch of disturbed snow. I stood there in silence for a moment. I was still stuck here with no idea how to leave or where to go. So what now? What about me? I sensed the reply before I heard it. Then it hit me, a sensation like I was being punched through reality,

so impossibly painful that I was sure the very atoms of my being were being rent apart. Leave! Bun and whirled through formless blackness, barely existing. After a while, I realized my body was no longer moving. I opened my eyes. Chambers? Chavez? Beautiful sight I'd ever seen.

I was in the girl's locker room. My suit was soaked. I was lying on the floor of the shower in a puddle of water. One of the showerheads dripped above me, droplets hitting me above the eyebrow. I sat up. Why? Why are you here?

Borden called. Said one of us had to get down here. Phillips came. I tagged along. I was worried about you. Borden had called? Why on earth would he want more cops here? Had whatever had happened to Arlith caused him to give himself up?

I scrambled to my feet, trying to ignore the discomfort from my wet clothes. Chavez eyed me skeptically. What the hell happened to you? What had happened? Had I received a blow to the head and hallucinated it all? And speaking of heads, I hurried over to Arlith Winter's locker. Vertigo causing me to hold back vomit as I tried to regain my bearings, wincing at having moved too fast. The words were still there, but the head was gone.

There's a bookshop on Sycamore Creek just outside the college. We need to get a unit over there, find the owner, Colson. Chavez looked confused, but radioed it in anyway. I heard confirmation from an officer and breathed a sigh of relief. Where's Borden? I have to get to him. I have to speak to him. I stumbled against the locker.

I was still trying to process everything. Why hadn't that thing, whatever it was, killed me? Why let me go? Was it even real? I didn't need to think about it. I couldn't think about it. There was a flesh and blood human killer out there, Steve Borden. The details, the impossible, supernatural details,

would be explained or covered up like they always were. Whether Arlith and her unspeakable mentor had been real or a figment of my imagination, it didn't matter. There was a killer out there who I could stop. Chavez's hand was on my arm. Robert. Rob, slow down. Borden went off with his sidekick in Phillips. You think he's our man then?

I nodded. I know it. Call it detective's intuition. Now I just got to get a confession. Before an arrest? How very you. chambers. What the fuck?

We ran into the corridor. A group of students were backing away from something. There was someone. I dashed forward. Officer Phillips was dragging himself along one wall. His chest was thick with blood. A crimson bibbed down his uniform. I could see the source.

A nasty wound across his throat. From the flow of blood and the pools he'd left behind, it looked fatal. Phillips stumbled towards me. I caught him, his blood smearing my soaking suit. Sir? Chavez was already on him, rolling him onto his back, removing her jacket, pressing it against the wound. Oh, fuck.

I grabbed my radio from the belt. Fuck! We have an officer down. Repeat, officer down. At the university, my location. Gym building central hallway. Send paramedics and backup. Chavez looked up at me.

I could tell from the grim expression on her face. that things with Phillips weren't looking good. Go. Find them. All I had to do was follow the trail of blood. But I had a suspicion I already knew. If it hadn't been for one of them holding a knife to the other's throat, the two men would have looked almost calm as I approached them at the foot of the stairs. Those stairs where years ago Arlith Winters had fallen,

been pushed to her death. A death that had warped her, twisted her spirit, caused her to take innocent lives in some misguided crusade to free those trapped as she had been by love. I could almost see the scene as it must have been that night. Colson atop the stairs, looking down at Arlith's broken body, and Steve Borden crouched underneath, afraid of emerging but desperate to know who stood above him,

who Arlith's secret lover had been, not out of jealousy, but a desire for justice. Steve's love for Arlith must have been very different. She never targeted him, never felt like he was the one caging her. The way she'd spoken about him was tinged with a kind of admiration and trust, like he was the one ray of hope she still had. I drew my gun and trained it on my quarry. Step forward, put your hands behind your head, drop the knife.

So in your case, that anchor was Steve. If you say so, detective We went to a bar, remember? I left you near 1 a.m. You leave Steve out of... That was it. We're drinking with rotters here. Someone wild, undisciplined,

someone who is not afraid to relinquish control. Fucking reticombs, man. Steve. If you say so, detective, well, as I say, people trust. Trust security guards. Yep.

That's me, boss. Leave Steve! Not every day we get a celebrity detective around these parts. Slowly, Rodney turned, dragging Steve Borden around with him. The younger man had the blade of a bloody exacto knife pressed against Borden's throat. Don't make me do this, Chambers. Don't make me kill him. Arlith wouldn't like that.

I wouldn't like that. You don't have to kill anyone else, Rodney. Just let him go. Put the knife down. We'll talk about this. Arlith's gone. She can't make you hurt anyone anymore. Make me? You think Arlith was the one calling the shots? I've been doing this before Arlith showed up. And I'll continue doing it now she's gone. He's a madman. He won't stop talking about Arlith. And he won't stop talking about the women he claims to have killed back before he moved here. Five or six, was it? Practice. No real M.O. Sloppy. Trying things out. They never put the cases together.

Of course, when Arlith reached out to me that day in the mirror, I had to change my approach a little. Tend's all for some moral crusade about setting these poor girls free. Air? Didn't care. Apparently you can hide some things from the dead. I could see a trickle of blood escaping from Borden's skin. I tried to make eye contact urging him to stay calm. He stared back with wild, defiant eyes. Arlith was never like this. Whatever you think you're doing,

whatever madness makes you think you're channeling Arlie, it's just you. You're fucking insane. Borden was wrong, but he didn't need to know that. Perhaps whatever Arlith Winters had become in death was Rodney's doing. Perhaps whatever grand designed that monstrous sire from beyond the, void had for Rodney had involved corrupting Arlith's soul. Gordon believed in her, and that was enough for me.

He'd never have to know the truth. You can't even begin to imagine the machinations going on around you. I always looked up to you, Steve. Genuinely. You were the guy my trash fire father never could be. I don't want to hurt you. Chambers knows. Chambers has seen the signs.

He knows something's coming. And I very much intend to still be around to see... Gordon struggled in his grasp, and I winced as the blade nicked close to his carotid artery. I wondered if Chavez had managed to save Phillips. It seemed unlikely. So, Chambers, I imagine you want to know why. What drives me? Perhaps when I explain, you'll understand.

My mother was a bitch. You have no idea how she treated me. Just the first in a long line of women who put me down. Perhaps the most impactful. When I was six years old, she... Shut the fuck up. Rodney's fingers relaxed around the knife. It dropped to the ground, clattering against the asphalt.

His body followed. His lanky form falling with a thud. Steve Borden stood there, unshaken. He looked at me and nodded. Not a bad shot, detective. Not a bad shot at all. Weeks later, I lay in bed beside Chavez. As I'd suspected, we were able to pin everything on Rodney,

not a trace of the paranormal in our reports, the way it always was. Usually, I could brush it aside, though. Convinced myself that the impossible was simply not worth considering. This time, I'd seen too much. My dreams were haunted by that frozen wasteland and that towering shadow. His booming voice, his words. The chaos has marked him. Had the thing meant by that? Swirls of yellow and gold danced in my nightmares, suffocated by tendrils of black shadow. Most nights, I awoke, screaming. Chavez had been coming by every evening. Keeves had been coming by

every evening, keeping me company, never complaining when I woke or two. I think we were both starting to get used to the arrangement. Norman Colson, the former classics professor at Amber Rapids U, had been found dead in his apartment above the bookshop he owned. When I'd asked if the head had been missing, the other cops had looked at me strangely. Why would I think that? No mention of it in the report. It wasn't a no, though. What they did find, however, was that Colson had kept detailed journals for most of his life. Of course he'd chronicled his affair and subsequent murder of Arlith Winters within the pages. Very convenient. Phillips hadn't made it. His funeral had been a somber affair. I'd delivered his speech. He'd been a great cop. I'd miss him. I understood so little.

But officially, I'd stopped one killer, and really, I knew I'd stopped too. I'd hoped that, I'd hoped that, That somewhere out there, Arlith Winter's soul was at peace. But I had a horrible feeling that wasn't the case. Whatever that thing had done to her, I wasn't sure that eternal rest was on the cards. That night, it wasn't a nightmare that woke me. It was my cell phone. Beside me, Chavez stirred and shifted under the covers.

Tell the chief to piss off. It's not the chief. I didn't recognize the number. International. Despite my tone to Chavez, I felt a faint nod of worry in the pit of my stomach. Hello? Detective Chambers. Die Blach here, Scotland Yard. Sorry to be calling so early. Time zones. How can I help you, Detective Inspector? We have a suspect here in London. Says she has information regarding a case you investigated. Oh? I believe Ms. Allison Slater's behind bars for the crime. But we have a young woman here who claims to have new information about the case.

Says you've got the wrong person. Says she'll only talk to you face to face. I can get you on a flight this morning. Instantly, I was wide awake. And, detective, this young woman kept saying, I've marked him, of course he'll come. Told me to tell you that. It mean anything to you?

It does. Thank you, Detective Inspector. By taking down Rodney Markham, I brought one reign of killings to an end. But I knew that whatever I'd stumbled into, whatever I'd become involved in, it had only just begun. We've run out of tape. It's time to press eject and end the show. We thank you for letting us perform for you. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, Please visit the no sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program.

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