The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S12E08

Episode Date: February 3, 2019

It's episode 08 of Season 12. On this week's show we have tales about those things which seem so innocent but in fact are pure malevolence. "Luminescence"‡ written by Taylor Allgood and performed by Jeff Clement & Atticus Jackson & Tanja Milojevic. (Story starts around 00:05:00) "Locked In"¤ written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Nichole Goodnight & Erika Sanderson & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 00:23:45) "Take Me Home"† written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Matthew Bradford & Erika Sanderson & Dan Zappulla & Erin Lillis & Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 01:02:10) "Stories From Lighthouse Keepers"† written by Patrick Brickhouse and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Graham Rowat & Dan Zappulla & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 01:14:40) "Don’t Let the Witch Out"† written by Samuel J. Allen and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson & Mary Murphy & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 01:36:30) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Luminescence" illustration courtesy of Charlie Cody Audio program ©2018-2019 - 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

I never knew how frightening footprints could be until I woke up to find them on my patio with my screened door ajar in an attempted break-in. The worst part is neither me nor my cat who freaks out when anyone approaches heard anything. I felt powerless, violated, scared, but I tried to play it off as a one-time deal, you know, act brave. "'Ah, they didn't get in. I'm fine,' I told myself. "'I guess I thought if I didn't do anything, if I didn't act like the fear was consuming me, it'd be like it never happened. I could pretend I still felt safe, but I didn't. I had nightmares of someone breaking in.

I'd jump at every noise. And then I woke up, and for the second time I found footprints. I was inconsolable. My friend told me. She directed me to simplysafe.com slash no sleep. I had never heard of SimplySafe, but I was convinced immediately. It looked really good. I mean, come on, it's a home security system you can use without a contract.

It's super easy to set up on your own, so you don't have to worry about a price markup from a middleman or installation windows. Who has time for those these days? You get these nifty sticky pads you can install and move super easily without having to deface your walls. I bought the whole shebang. Motion detectors, security camera, entry sensors, everything. Hell, I even got a leak detector since I live at street level and I'm paranoid about spring flood season. It might seem like overkill, but SimplySafe is all about being ready for anything.

What's really awesome about SimplySafe is it'll work even if a storm takes out your power or an intrude or cut your phone line. If they destroy the keypad or siren, simply safe will know and get you the help you need. It's engineered to do one thing brilliantly, protect. And since I installed it, I've been able to relax again. Or at least I was. This morning, I found footprints again.

I had no idea why I didn't get an alert on my phone. Then I looked at the footage from last night's, And, well, around 2 a.m., they started appearing one by one in the snow with nothing there to make them. So get a jump on protecting your home at simplysafe.com slash no sleep. No time like the present, right? That's S-I-M-P-L-I-S-A-F-E dot com slash no sleep to protect your home and family today with SimplySafe. Simplysafe.com slash no sleep. Welcome to our sleepless sanctuary.

You enter at your own risk and choose to be entertained with dark and disturbing horror stories. You have been warned. For the dark hours when you take tales of horror to frighten and disturb in us as the sleepless hours tick. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast Sanctuary. I'm David Cummings. Our service this week features tales about those things which seem so innocent, but in fact are pure malevolence.

Speaking of pure malevolence, I hope all our dear listeners are surviving the weather out there this winter and or summer. Whether you're in Australia suffering the surface of the sun-like temperatures, or you're a victim of the dreaded polar vortex sending frigid winter air down upon you. Oh, and sorry for the cold air from Canada, we hope all of you are keeping well. So whatever the weather, stay in, snuggle up, and enjoy the tales we have for you because it's time for our service to begin. Bow your heads and hear our words.

In our first tale, we meet three friends, seniors in high school, in the waning school days before college. And as explained by author Taylor Allgood, the trio make a trip to see a special type of plankton on the beach. It turns out there's even more to see down there. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Atticester. Jackson and Tanya Malojevic. So enjoy the beauty of nature. Just beware of the luminescence. Connor winced away another slug of whiskey, trying to keep up with me. We were two of about a dozen people scattered around a lousily dug campfire on the beach. I grinned as he passed me in the bottle, slurred voices cheering me on. I glugged a couple of times, pumping bubbles into the fifth of

Jack Daniels. I was only lightly sipping, really, but I gave the illusion that I was chugging. Connor shook his head and looked like he was ready to heave. I didn't blame him. He'd consumed easily three times as much as me, but thought he was just keeping up. I'd been playing this trick on him since we were 13, and we'd first ventured into his parents' liquor cabinet. Somehow, he had never caught on. All it would take. would be a comparison of how much he'd emptied after his attempt versus mine. Connor, for all his intelligence, was never very observant, though. It was the last day of school, senior year.

Most of us would be going to college soon. Those few who didn't would likely get a job with their parents, or an uncle or something, and all were appropriately hammered as they celebrated the new lives they'd soon be entering. everyone would be fine. I remembered having that thought as I looked at the stumbling, giggly people around the campfire. I didn't have it in my heart to resent them for their privilege. They were my friends, and they were kids.

College wasn't in the cards for me, nor a cushy job at a family-owned business. I'd be bagging at our shoreline town's grocery store until I figured a way out of it. Mom did what she could, but at a certain point you break through the bottom of the bottle and keep on plummeting. Planky shit! I snapped out of my self-pity and looked at Rosie, the source of that nonsense word. What? Rosie put a hand to her forehead. She was an A-minus student on her worst day.

She knew the term. The peach schnapps in her hand. was behind this forgetfulness. Plankton. Yeah. Plankton... I urged her on with a smile. Rosie scrunched up her nose

as she tried to remember what she was talking about. She always looked the most beautiful when she was concentrating on something. The kind that can glow. Connor nearly knocked someone over as he sprang up from his prone position. Fio Plinkton! Connor's triumphant exclamation of that $10 word inspired an excursion.

The three of us ventured away from the crowd, as was our habit. Rosie was determined and Connor was drunk. I was just trying to enjoy one of the last nights I'd have with them before fall arrived. We took a stammering path down the beach, trying to put as much distance between ourselves and the street lights as possible. For all its shortcomings, our little town had one major tourist attraction, bioluminescent phytoplankton. Our beach glows at night. It's not because of neon or any other man-made enterprise.

The plankton of these shores absorbs the rays of the sun and display their work at night. Not to say our patch of sand Perpetually glittered blue under the stars It was an interactive experience, you could say The only way to witness the small natural miracle Was to get away from all artificial light And step foot on the sand The plankton would wash ashore

And by low tide, they'd be hidden under a layer of silt. The layer was thin, though. all you had to do was step your foot into it and apply the slightest pressure. Then, as if by magic, it would glow. It's like some spirit tracing your footsteps, a little angel, noting your path. At least, that's how I used to think of it. Rosie laughed with childish delight. Her bare feet made sucking noises as she patted through.

the wet sand. I'd always had a weird hatred for that sucking sensation that stepping on wet earth creates. So I'd elected to keep my shoes on. Rosie had no such qualms. Each footstep was answered with a blue-green display of biological light. I just stood, taking her in. Dark brown hair swinging in the moonlight. Graceful jumps and steps.

each accompanied with a seemingly magical glow from the ground under her feet. A smile that shone bright even in darkness. Musical laughter that made my heart swell. I committed every detail to memory. She'd be leaving for Stanford in a couple of months. I had to create a mental picture to hold on to when she moved on to a life that was out of my reach. That pristine image of the girl I loved is still vivid. Too vivid.

I wish I could find the spot in my brain where it's stored and rip it out with a pair of pliers. It's a pretty picture, but it just makes me relive that night. Connor stumbled barefoot through the sand, kicking at it to make the plankton glow. He couldn't quite match Rosie's live movements, but I was largely to blame for that. What with a whiskey and all? What the hell is...

Connor was cut short as he tripped, face-planting into the muck. The plankton made a border of blue light around his body, like a whimsical chalk outline of a dead body. He ignored the laughs from Rosie and me as he spat out sand and stood. He pointed to something down the beach. What the hell is that? The light of the stars and moon provided a faint outline of a large, round object that seemingly had washed ashore. The angled protrusions coming out of it suggested something man-made. Let's go find out!

Rosie was ten steps ahead of us, skipping through the glowing sand. We all stopped dead in our tracks once we were close enough to see what the thing was. Holy shit. It was a one-man submersible. The kind used for deep sea exploration. The angled protrusions, I'd notice, were robotic arms. Their claws likely used to extract samples from the ocean floor. I didn't know James Camer was in town.

Rosie and I weren't laughing, though. Guys, what happened to the driver? The glass bubble that comprised the cockpit's front had been shattered. Its shards littering the shoreline. Inside, the cockpit was empty. Its single seat without an occupant. Maybe he busted out through the glass. Maybe something was jammed and he couldn't open the hatch.

How? That glass is made for like crazy, insane water pressure. Always some guy just kicked his way through it. Rosie pulled that scrunched up a concentrated expression I loved so much. What if someone found him and they used, I don't know, a rock or something to get him out? If that happened, why would it still be sitting here? They would have called in a cleanup crew. Or at least cops would have sectioned it off until one got here, right?

Connor moved in for a closer inspection. He placed a hand on the craft's hull and leaned into the cockpit. After a moment, his eyes grew wide. He staggered back, apparently sobered by whatever he'd seen. Fuck my ass. What is it? He shook his head, seemingly unable to find the words. He just pointed a trembling hand at the cockpit.

Whatever it was, Rosie and I would have to see for ourselves. We tentatively made our way forward, only daring to get close enough to see what had shaken Connor so much. Rosie gasped. covered her mouth and turned away. I just stared in stunned silence. Between the seat and the control console lay a severed human hand.

No, not severed. More like eaten. It hadn't been separated from its owner with a clean slice. It was gnarled and chewed like some animal had gnashed at it. What's more, patches of the hands seemed desiccated, like the flesh had rotted away.

But that wasn't right either, because the intact parts of the hand looked completely healthy. Well, as healthy as a severed hand can. This wasn't decay. Something had eaten those holes into it, exposing tendon and bone. Rosie vomited while I continued to examine the gruesome display. Connor just paced back and forth repeating the mantra of profanity.

The hand wasn't alone. It was clutching something, a canister. It was about the size of a thermos made of transparent plastic or glass, sealed with a steel cap. A jagged crack ran down one side of it. It looked like the kind of thing a scientist could place a biological sample in, but whatever it had held, it was long gone. I finally pulled myself away from the grisly scene and pulled out my phone.

Okay, we got to call the cops. I know we don't want to get MIPs, but this is some serious shit. So toss any weed you have, Connor, and try to act sober. My eyes were on my phone, so I hadn't noticed yet. Only the long silence after I spoke compelled me to look up. I should have realized it when Connor stopped muttering, fuck. I should have realized it when Rosie had stopped puking and crying. They had been silent as my back was turned.

Now I saw why. Both of my friends were glowing. Their heads were upturned, their eyes rolled back. They both quaked as if having twin seizures. The plankton in the sand beneath their feet was glowing brighter than I had thought possible. And the light was moving up into their bodies. I watched as the glow climbed up their legs, illuminating their veins and viscera through the skin,

like some kind of macabre Chinese lantern. I watched as they shook and gurgled, the light spreading through their flesh and bright tentacles. I could see Rosie's pounding heart, the glow exposing her insides as it ate its way through her. That's what the light was doing, consuming them. Connor's jugular glowed when the light reached it. Then it exploded.

Instead of blood, spats of luminescent bile burst out of him. Next were his eyes. They shone bright as spotlights before they popped like crushed grapes. He collapsed into the sand, causing a riot of color as his body melted away into the glowing phytoplankton. All I could do was stare, tears in my eyes as my best friend, disintegrated before me. And then there was Rosie. Oh, God, Rosie! The neon substance was leaking from her every piece.

poor. It oozed from her cuticles, her eyes, her nose, like some kind of brilliant pus. She managed to pull her eyes from their rolled back position and lock her gaze with me. I wished she hadn't. There was pleading in that look. I sobbed. My way of telling her, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to say. I didn't know how to save her. Then her eyes were gone, melting from their sockets and dripping down her illuminated face. Face, the one I'd loved to see smile. The face I'd fallen in love with the first time I glanced at it in third grade.

It was gone now, too, dispersing into droplets of light that blew into the breeze, like grotesque fireflies. Her body collapsed into a heap of glowing muck. She was gone. I ran. Through sobs and tears, I ran. My sneakers slapped against the sand. Their thin rubber soles,

the only reason I hadn't exploded into neon gore like my barefoot friends. I reached the street away from the death-spattered beach. I dropped to my knees and threw up. The two people I loved most in the world were gone, and I couldn't do anything to stop it. Some curious asshole had dug something up in the dark ocean depths and brought it to the surface.

It did something. that plankton. It filled it with the urge and the means to consume mercilessly. Whatever it was, it was meant to stay buried under miles of seawater. But it's here now with us. Needless to say, I strongly urge you to stay away from the beach. dealing with and fleeing from an abusive domestic situation is a nightmarish ordeal. But as we learn from author C. M. Scandrith, when a woman breaks free from her situation, she finds that sometimes even the most helpful people can carry their own dangerous ways with them. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Nicole Goodnight, Erica Sanderson, and Jesse Cornett.

So when it's time to break free, make sure you're not locked in. Shut up for one nag, nag, nag. I'm going to get a beer and relax. Have you ever tried breaking free from an abusive relationship when the abuser lives in your house? Yeah, that's it, and that's the answer. Cry some more. I've done it, and it's rough. Every step can falter.

Every step carries a risk. even once you finally admitted to yourself what you need to do following it through takes all the resolve and persistence that has been stolen from you worn away along with your self-worth I started out as bravely and simply as I could and just asked him to leave he laughed in my face and got another beer from the fridge this is as much my house as it is you

at that point if the damage is too great many victims give up. If you're like me, you become even more desperate, dangerously brave now, and give your torment or an ultimatum. There are a few ways this can go. In my case, he stared at me like I was an irritating fly, then ignored me and just kept on drinking,

turning up the TV so it blared over my voice. At the start, you still want to be fair because he has property in the house. His pool table, his piles of shit in the garage, his beer fridge, his gaming consoles, and his couch.

You're a reasonable woman, and even though he hurt you, you still believe the man is a human being. He doesn't have the right to control you like he thought he did, but he does have some rights to his actual property.

But he takes advantage of that too. It drags on and on. And one day it just gets too much. You serve him with a trespass notice. And when he doesn't leave? You think you can just make me leave? You call the cops. You know him well. He didn't really think you'd do it. After he's gone, you put everything he owns on the lawn and tell him to come and collect it before it rains. At that invitation he comes back, and of course he tries his key in the door. But you've changed the locks. He rages. He paces.

His face is dark red, and you finally, finally can no longer see any hint of the person you once cared about. He tries a window, but you had screens and deadbolts installed on those. Eventually he sits on the stoop. and bangs the back of his head against the door, calling out your name and your daughter's name every once in a while. It stops hurting somewhere around the 30th time, just before the cops come and tell him to leave. When he gets into a clumsy fistfight with them

and finally gets cuffed and thrown in the back of the cop's car, you let the curtains fall back and let seven years' worth of tears come. You followed through, You walked to the end, and he's finally gone. And you won't let yourself be trapped. Not ever again. The small office safe embodied Hayden's final act of petty abuse.

He changed the combination right after I'd served him the trespass notice. Inside it was my passport, most of my savings, and my heirloom wedding ring. At least I suspected the ring was still in there, since I could hear the box slide and bump into the wall when I tilted the safe. But whether the money or the passport were still inside, I had no way of knowing. After trying every combination I could think of, I resigned myself to the fact I'd need to pay some exorbitant amount for a locksmith to open the thing. Probably more than the savings I would retrieve as a result.

In frustration I posted to Facebook, asking if anyone I knew, could recommend someone who could open a safe easily and cheaply. And to my surprise, one of my old friends messaged me about a contact and said to call her for details if I was interested. It's really good. She can basically open anything from a locked iPhone to a bank vault. You name it. What does it cost?

You'll ask you to home-cook a meal for her and treat her like family for an evening. Usually she wants a big fancy pot roast with all the trimmings, Then you watch shitty sitcoms with her for a few hours until she gets tired and leaves. You're right. That's pretty weird. Does she have mom issues or something? Mom's been in prison since before she was born. Jesus. Poor girl.

Yeah, pretty much a prison family since forever. Fairly sure her mom was born in jail and her mom's mom before that. Dakota seems to be the only one that's managed to stay out of the joint in the last few generations. Can I trust her? Christend, don't be so judgy. Like I said, she's managed to stay out of jail. She's weird, but harmless. Okay, fine.

Hook me up, then. I need the money from the safe of the lawyer. Done. Sending her details to you now. Dakota Callahan was five-foot-nothing, and nothing like I'd expected. A walking rainbow with perkins. brown pig tails.

Sunburst bobbles adorned, said pigtails, and dozens of colorful badges had been pinned or sewn to her sleeveless denim jacket. I knew before she opened her mouth that she was going to be chewing gum. And when she grinned at me, slightly bucked teeth fenced in a brilliant pink wad, everything about her screamed intensity in youth. But when she smiled, the tell-tale wrinkling of her. Crow's feet betrayed that she was much older than her affectation suggested. Got a safe you can't open, huh?

I do, yeah. Come on in. Would you like a drink? Sure. Got any soda? I think I do. Let me check. Graper orange. In the can with a straw.

She gave what might have been a winning smile without the sickly waft of bubble gum. If you please, ma'am. The safe sat on the kitchen table, a couple of silvery scuff marks in the painted surface, where I'd futilely tried to smash it open with a hammer. Dakota gestured at the black cube. This the job? That's the one.

My ex changed the combination, and I haven't got a clue what it is. Right, cool. While I rummaged in the cupboard, for a pack of straws. Dakota took a seat and pulled the safe over to her. Quick, deft fingers immediately began probing the lock as I cracked open a can of soda and poked the straw into it.

Put the straw through the pool tab. That's how they designed. Stop the straw floating from the carbonation. I didn't know that. I adjusted the straw accordingly. An unceremonious click from the safe punctuated my comment. Done. dumbfounded I stared into the open safe at my passport, a ringbox, and a ripped brown envelope.

I'd expected it to be harder. Most people aren't as good as me. There isn't anything I can't open. She squinted at the torn empty envelope. So I'm guessing that was your savings? Yeah. Was being the operative word. Bad luck.

So anyways, what's for dinner? Mmm, mm, do I smell something good? Dinner with Dakota seemed harmless enough. My daughter, Vicky, was enamored with the idiosyncratic safecracker, and they joked and giggled all through dinner, then played together while I washed up. Replete with two helpings of pot roast and a massive bowl of strawberry ice cream, Dakota sat back on the couch.

Vicky sprawled at her feet, playing with the rainbow laces of Dakota's sneakers while we watched the old sitcom our guest had picked. Full house. You know, you really look a lot like Becky. Dakota jabbed her small, agile fingers at the woman on the screen, then leaned forward to scrutinize my facial features. Same nose, same kind of hair, same smile.

Throw you in a 90s outfit and you'd be a dead ringer. I leaned back a little. Really? Yeah, totally. She was a babe, and you are too. Well, um, thank you. Her eyes were wide, shiny as a doll's. I don't mention it. I call it like a see it. Say, can I get another soda? Sure thing. The rest of the evening was uneventful. I put a reluctant Vicky to bed,

and Dakota stayed to chat until after 10 p.m. longer than I'd expected. When she eventually left, I felt like all the air had been let out of. an over-inflated balloon, one that I'd been expecting to burst all evening. But realistically, some shitty sitcoms, a few cans of soda, and a roast dinner were a small price to pay for the services rendered. And Dakota wasn't that bad. She was just intense, in a particularly weird kind of way. And now that I'd changed the combination back on the safe, I'd never have to see her again. A week later, Dakota appeared on my doorstep with a package in her hands.

Hi, Dakota. How can I help you? Hey, Mrs. C. Do you mind if I call you that? It suits you better than Anne. There was something about her that kept you off guard. Like being blinded by a sudden glare. I frowned, but found myself nodding.

Well, I guess I am still married. The divorce won't come through for a while. Well, so sure. Awesome, sweet. Oh, hey, I got you a gift. Hope you don't mind. I saw it, and I immediately thought of you. The package in her hands crinkled as she squeezed it,

and my gaze was drawn to the turquoise wrapping paper. My favorite color. That's very nice of you, Dakota, but you shouldn't have. Oh, don't worry. It costs me next to nothing, but you just have to have it. Come on in then. I'm baking, so I'll open it in the kitchen. Thanks, Mrs.

Can I get a soda while you're at it? Sure. Come to think of it. I bought grape. The gift, it turned out, was a dress. In fact, the exact same dress we'd seen the character of Becky wearing in full house a week earlier. Dakota, where on earth did you find this? She twirled a string of bubble gum around her index finger and smiled like a cat.

I got my contacts, but you got to try it all. I bet you'll look exactly like Becky. Oh, hell, I'm flattered on all, but I shouldn't. This is a bit much. Oh, come on, just try it on. You wouldn't believe the effort I went to get that dress. Don't let me down, Mrs. C. There was some intangible but familiar quality to her voice.

Behind the peculiar intensity of her stare that warned me I shouldn't deny this request, no matter how odd it seemed. but other alarms were sounding too. This odd woman seemed enamored with me in a way that went beyond plain friendship, with a particular possessiveness that reminded me far too much of my ex for comfort. My resolve gathered itself and I let it steady me. Sorry, Dakota, this just isn't appropriate.

I'm extremely flattered that you went to all this effort. But I'm going to have to say, know. Oh, come on, Mrs. C. I just want to see you in that dress. Then I'll leave you alone. Promise. I took a step back. Maybe if I knew you better, but we're practically strangers to Coda. She sucked up the last of her soda with a rattling gurgle that echoed in the can, then pushed her chair back from the kitchen table and stood up. She draped the dress over the chair back. Her sticky fingers thoughtfully smoothed. the fabric. Keep it. If you change your mind, take a pick for me. I just wanted to see what it looked like on you.

Her pout was exaggerated, like I'd wounded her. Before we could exchange parting pleasantries, Dakota was gone, and without her colorful presence distending it, the room seemed to deflate to normal size again. As though taking my statement about being strangers completely literally, Dakota persistently messaged me, trying to spark up. a friendship to get to know me better. It was like dealing with a puppy or a child who just doesn't understand the word no, no matter how politely or firmly you phrase it. In the end, I just couldn't be bothered anymore and I gave in.

I tried on the damn dress and sent her a picture, foolishly hoping that would put an end to our awkward online exchanges. Ironically, it did, but not in the way I'd explain. expected. The next day I came home from work, Vicky heavy on one hip and a bag of groceries on the other, to find Dakota seated in my kitchen, patiently waiting. Cans of soda tumbled to the floor as Vicky crowed and reached for the colorful intruder, twisting out of my arms. Dakota, fucking hell, what are you doing in here? Frowning, she covered my child's ears. Yo, Mrs. C, not cool language in front of the kid, okay?

My temper flaring, I stabbed a finger in the direction of the door. I'll say what I like in my own home, lady. Now get out. You know, your Becky outfit was even better than I thought. Stunning, babelicious, perfection. Her sneakers stopped a rolling can, but she wrinkled her nose when she realized it was strawberry and kicked it towards the living room.

Hey kid, fetch. Vicki toddled after it obligingly, and Dakota smiled, then leaned in towards me half-whispering. But somehow, it brought out the mom and you as well. I could see it shining like a rosy light from every curve of your body. You're perfect, Mrs. C. So, so perfect. She paced toward me steadily, hands extended, tears welling in her eyes. I want you to be the one, Mrs. C, the one to look after me, to be my mom. Vicky and me can be sisters.

You'll never need a babysitter again and you can have whatever you want. And I can get you anything you want. No lock can stop me. You know what? There's no door that can't be opened. Something inside me gave way then, unleashing the rage and frustration I'd wanted to take. out on all six feet and five inches of Hayden, but never could. Instead, this five-foot-nothing

woman in front of me wore at all, purely because I thought she couldn't possibly pose a physical threat. Get the fuck out of my house, you fucking psycho. What the hell is wrong with you? You stay away from me and from my daughter. And if you ever break into my house again, I'll call the fucking cops. You'll end up in prison with the rest of your family, right where you belong. Do you understand? No. Her hand darted out to touch my solar plexus, faster than I could react. No, it's you who doesn't understand, Mrs. C. I tried to reply, but I couldn't. My voice was suddenly gone, as though she'd torn it out of my body. Instinctively. I tried to lift my hand to my throat, but it wouldn't move. Oh God, nothing would move. Not my arms,

my legs, my fingers, my toes. I'd been completely locked in. My eyes were blurred with tears of utter panic, and it took me several minutes to realize they were the only thing I still controlled. Most people know I can unlock pretty much anything, but the reverse is also true. I can lock anything as well. Dakota gently brushed a stray bang away from my frozen forehead. I flinched fiercely inside as she tapped her index finger once, hard between my brows. Including you. She casually snagged another can from where it had come to rest by my foot.

Now, if you don't mind, me and Vicky are going to drink our sodas and watch some Scooby-Doo for a while. And maybe some Webster after. Man, I love that kid. She popped the tab, and warm, sugary fizz splattered my face. And next time? Make sure you get the grape. As I watched her leave helpless, I couldn't help but wonder which kid she meant. My daughter, or the character from the TV show. She kept me like that for hours.

Flies drank from the corners of my cracking lips. but she left me there until my bladder screamed until my calves trembled and tore their own fibers from holding me so still when she eventually touched me just below the breastbone and unlocked my body I collapsed in a weeping heap my body spasming uncontrollably damn Mrs. C, real sorry to put you through all of that

but you gotta understand that this is a good gig yeah you get to wear pretty dresses and just be the best mommy all day long and I'll get you anything you want. Still need money for your divorce? I can get it right out of an ATM for you. Easy as pie. She squatted beside me. Her deft, clever, uncanny hands working over my limbs

and smoothing out all the spasms, unlocking all the cramped tissues, soothing my hurts even while I tried to control my body enough to roll clear. Her index finger finally traced the curve of my teeth. cheek, releasing the painful tick beneath my eye. So, what do you say? It took a moment of croaking to find my lost voice.

But once I did, I managed to choke out four words. Please, don't hurt Vicky. The glass of her eyes flashed with shock, theatrical. When I dream of it, Mrs. C, she's my face. sister after all. Now how about you whip us up another one of your delicious home-cooked meals? I think everyone's hungry and could do with some wholesome food, yeah? Not knowing what else to do, I wobbled to my feet and steadied myself against the counter. My skull was made of lead and it nodded itself. She handed me my apron.

Great. Now don't you try any funny business. You're a lady of your word. That's all a good woman really has in this world. these days. You know, a mommy never breaks her promises, right? But if you do, you'll find out just what I can and can't lock. I got ready for work the next day. But Dakota stood over me while I phoned in my resignation, worded to her exact specifications. You don't need a dumb job. You're a full-time mom now. Ain't that great? I'll take care of the money stuff. I have things at work I need to collect. No problem, oh, I can get those for you. My phone still sat on the kitchen table, a temptation, a beacon of hope. Dakota followed my line of sight before I could look away,

and her ungroomed brows caterpillared into a frown. You're not like that, Mrs. C, you're better than that. And I know you remember what will happen if you try anything stupid, yeah? I knew, but I couldn't help wondering how far Dakota's power reached. One phone call to the cops would be all it would take. One quick message to a friend to call them on my behalf. But Dakota was always there. Even when she was watching cartoons with Vicky in her lap, she had one eye on me.

Possessed of a predator's awareness that was almost inhuman. Often she'd be waiting when I came out of the bathroom. Her impish grin and infectious pepiness, growing more sense. sinister every time I opened the door and found her there. But she never made a move on me, despite her lavish compliments about my looks. And even though I was plagued by nightmares where she locked me into my own skin, then used my body however she pleased. In real life, she never once abused her abilities in that particular way.

Small comfort, because that didn't change the fact that I was completely trapped. I was once again a prisoner in my own home and far more literally than the first time around. The first time I tried to contact help, Dakota locked me inside myself for ten hours. I was sat in an armchair in the living room, frozen in front of endless reruns of the worst sitcoms of the 80s and 90s. Of course, this time she seized even my eyelids to prevent me from closing my eyes.

I can't begin to describe the same. simple torture that is the inability to blink. Once an hour, Dakota slicked drops across my sticky, filming eyeballs, and they burned like acid. By the time she released me, I was nothing but a mess of apologies, groveling for her forgiveness. I tried not to notice that Vicky appeared to be thriving, her personality growing just as fast as mine withered. Dressed in a tiny badge-studded denim jacket. She was becoming a miniature version of Dakota.

She aped the woman's every move, clearly worshipping the fascinating and colorful criminal who had usurped our home. Of course, Dakota's schooling didn't end with fashion. I shuddered when I found them at the kitchen table, playing with an assortment of padlocks. Those sure deft hands got. guiding my daughter's fumbling attempts to manipulate the tumblers. But I eventually discovered a secret, something that Dakota didn't know that I knew.

At a random hour every other night, when she believed I was deeply asleep, she'd slip out and steal groceries and money, whatever we needed to keep the household running. But she didn't factor in my history. Perfectly feigning sleep is a very useful skill when you've lived with an abuse of drunk. She was silent as a cat. The latch on the door, not even making a sound. But all I had to do was wait. Then call the police while she was gone.

Not wanting to risk her going through my phone if there was a delay or should I fail. I waited until she'd left the house. Then pulled on a shapeless coat and walked two blocks down where an old payphone still stood near the corner store. I hadn't prayed since I was a child, but every step I took was accompanied by a plea to any deity listening, but the thing still worked. Feeding my coins in, flinching at how loudly they clanked through the slot, I held the ragged phone book open while I dialed the local police station. The conversation went on for a good 20 minutes, with me describing how Dakota had come into my home, threatened me and my daughter, then forced me to live in subservient. to her. Even to my own ears it sounded deranged, impossible, which is why I had discarded the idea of a

911 call. At least some of the local cops knew me. I think the distress in my voice convinced the officer more than the story itself, and they promised a visit in the morning to investigate. My legs trembled with adrenaline and triumph as I walked home, as brisk and quiet as I could manage. Each breath felt cold in my chest, ragged and shallow, and I held the air in my lungs until it ached. Half convinced Dakota would be able to hear me if I breathed too loud, no matter where she was. When the police arrived the next day,

Dakota's fury showed only as a flare of her pupils, and only when she looked in my direction. After I gave my statement to the uniformed men, she was asked to leave the house and issued with a trespass notice. Her silence and compliance deeply worried me. I'd expected a scene. In fact, I'd half expected her to just lock the men inside their burly bodies, then prop them up in the garage next to the gardening equipment.

In the middle of the night, I'd thought about this possibility. The authorities that represented my only hope slowly wasting away as their organs failed one by one, eventually dying in the grasp of the unnatural rictus Dakota had afflicted them with. But it hadn't happened. It had worked. So why didn't I feel free?

To try and reclaim my sanity, the first thing I did was take the jean jacket off Vicky and throw away the lockpicks Dakota had furnished her with. The second thing was to call the most expensive locksmith I could find, asking for an urgent visit. Part of me knew it was futile. But maybe if I installed enough locks, I could at least slow Dakota down

if she tried to get back into the house. But the part that knew the truth was right. The very next day, Dakota arrived, two officers in tow. Different ones, not the local cops. This house isn't yours, Mrs. Charleston. Miss Callahan here holds the deed and is also an occupier, so you can't trespass her. That's been rescinded, and I'm afraid you're going to have to let her in.

But no, that's not true. I own this house. My dad helped me by it before he passed away. His nod was patronizing, like he knew I was going to say that, like he was humoring someone who had clearly lost touch with reality. Well, that's not what the records say, unfortunately. Miss Callahan owns this property.

Dakota gave a cheery salute, then pushed past me and into the kitchen. Thanks, boys, and sorry for all the misunderstanding. She gave a jolly wave to the officers as they prepared to leave. How? How did you do it? Pff, electronic locks and digital locks aren't any more complex. and the physical ones. Records can be changed, data can be manipulated. I can make an electronic document say practically anything I want, and I own this house now, not you. I'll find another way. I'll prove you're here illegally. How, Mrs. C? How? Anything you say needs to be filed,

needs to be recorded. It can all be changed overnight, or it can simply made to, poof, disappear. get me? But what you're doing to me when you lock me in? You can't prove that. Then I'll just leave. I'll take Vicky and move somewhere you can't find us. Midway through opening a soda can, Dakota paused and looked up. Her hazel eyes nearly gold in the brightly lit kitchen.

Predator's eyes. I will always find you. She locked me in regularly after that. Every time she left the house, any time she needed or wanted to spend time with Vicky. She dressed me up like a life-sized doll, fixing and flexing joints so she could drape different outfits around my frozen limbs, ignoring my pleading fearful eyes. Vicky treated me like a doll now too, like a thing instead of her mother. I was a passive prop in Dakota's fantasy of her ideal family. The pretty perfect mother she'd always wanted.

As my hopelessness grew, she began locking my face into a permanent sitcom smile. The muscles of my own cheeks betraying me by beaming happily at my torturer and her four-year-old apprentice. My claustrophobia grew daily. The feel of it coalescing into a rising screen. that couldn't be freed, since Dakota had also seized my vocal cords completely to prevent me calling anyone. The silent, smiling mother. I baked and I cleaned, and I waited on my daughters, always dutiful, always immaculately quaffed and groomed. I wanted to die. I the Dakota had never considered that I might contemplate suicide, or she thought she could prevent me if I tried.

In any case, the pills I found at the bottom of the medicine cabinet would probably do the trick if I took enough of them. They were heavy tranquilizers, prescribed at the nadir of my despair when I was with Hayden and couldn't admit the truth to anyone about why I was so miserable. I hadn't been able to bring myself to take them then. Now there was no other way to be free, Or was there? I stood in the bathroom. My fixed smile aching against my teeth. My throat knotted tight with that unborn scream,

and I searched my own eyes in the mirror. They were the only part of my reflection I still recognized, and I realized that there was one other way to be free of Dakota. The pills powdered easily enough and dissolved readily into the can of soda. If I could have, I would have laughed. The pungent sweetness of fake grape would hide any bitterness like a charm. Poking a straw through the tab, I delivered it to the monster in my lounge, giggling as she watched cartoons with Vicky sleeping at her feet. Cheers, Mrs. C. Just what I needed. You're the best.

Twelve minutes ticked away on the clock in the living room as I waited. The familiar throb of my face marked. every second. But now even the pain felt like anticipation. Dakota stirred uncomfortably in her beanbag, then sucked in a shuddering breath and coughed a weak dribble of sticky spit. What? She tried to lift a hand that had gone floppy at the wrist.

Motor control beginning to desert her body. I didn't wait for the pills to steal her consciousness. I wanted her to feel her death. Still beaming beatificly like a perfectly pleasant housewife. I dropped to my knees, wrapped my hands around her throat, and squeezed. Those wonderfully gifted fingers of hers fluttered and battered weakly at my face. A stray touch unlocking half of my smile. But she had no control.

As I pressed the life out of her, the movements of her hands grew more erratic. More desperate. Eventually they stopped altogether, and so did Dakota's struggles. I knew when she was gone, because my own throat unknotted, and the wordless scream it had held for months forced itself from the half of my mouth that moved. But I didn't stop squeezing for a full 30 minutes after that. My hands cramped around the black and swollen flesh of her neck, and I wasn't sure I would ever be able to let go.

But I needed to be sure, and my body was honed to hold unnatural positions for hours at a time. I drove her body as far as I could. Her hands bound with wire, tape, rope, and handcuffs. I buried her deep, so deep that my hands bled freely and openly by the time I'd finished shoveling all the rocks and soil back on top of her. The blood was a catharsis. this pain a welcome relief when I got home I packed everything Vicky and I would need then I drove in the other direction

my half a smile reflected back at me in the driver's window for two weeks we stayed at motels and camping grounds before I finally stopped and let myself rest finally free of the elemental fear that was Dakota we started our new life into fishing town up near the Canadian border. I got a job as a waitress at the local diner where they didn't mind a mute with a half-paralyzed face.

I could make just enough sounds to get by, and Vicky started school and slowly forgot about Dakota. I tried to do the same to close that chapter of our lives forever. I'd even started dating again when the message came through to my phone. I'd expected it to be the usual banter from the guy I was seen. but instead it was a different kind of familiar.

Hey, Mrs. C, long time no C. Get it? In case you hadn't guessed, it's your other daughter here. The one you abandoned, the one you left behind, and oh man, is she pissed. She's pissed because you broke our agreement. She's pissed because you've been a really bad mom. Oh, but don't worry, because I can fix that. I can fix anything now.

I've learned so many new things down there, down in the dark, terrible, terrible things. Anyways, turns out there really isn't anything I can to unlock, even those big black gates to the bad place. So I'll be seeing you real soon, Mrs. C. We'll even fix up that smile of yours so you can go back to being the best mom, just as pretty as you used to be. See you later, Alligator, Dakota. I think I made the wrong choice. If I'd taken the pills myself, Dakota wouldn't have gone to the bad place, and she wouldn't have learned what she knows now.

She wouldn't have discovered how to unlock the doors of death itself. And I'd be free of her. Safe behind a door she never knew existed. Of course, I would have had to take Vicky with me. I have a gun now. It's a small thing. But good enough for at least one homicide and one suicide. and one suicide.

The problem is I don't know if Dakota can follow us to the other side. If she finds us beyond those black gates, I have no doubt that she'll lock our souls inside themselves. Then bring us back. Sometimes there's no first step to escape the trap you're in. Only a final leap. And you might land somewhere even worse. But I guess I'll have to take my chances.

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