The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S12E11

Episode Date: February 24, 2019

It's episode 11 of Season 12. On this week's show we have tales about the jobs and hobbies which seem to invite chaos into our lives. "Callback"† written by Charlie Hughes and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson & Andy Cresswell. (Story starts around 00:02:25) "The Earworm"† written by Jake Lam and performed by Kyle Akers & Matthew Bradford & Elie Hirschman & Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:12:30) "Twist of Damnation"‡ written by P. F. McGrail and performed by Jeff Clement & Mick Wingert & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:37:45) "Rolling Meadows"† written by Brad Tucker and performed by Atticus Jackson & Dan Zappulla & Jessica McEvoy & Kyle Akers. (Story starts around 01:07:00) "Life in Retail"¤ written by Charles Davenport and performed by Graham Rowat & Mick Wingert & Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 01:32:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to purchase "50 Shades of Purple" By P.F. McGrail   Click here to learn more about P. F. McGrail   Click here to learn more about Charlie Hughes   Click here to learn more about Charles Davenport   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Life in Retail" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke 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

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 dare not clueled. Tales of horror to frighten and disturb 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 the jobs and hobbies which seem to invite chaos into our lives. It's always a pleasure to be able to recommend an author's book to our listeners. And for our third tale this week, we have a story from author P.F. McGrail, and he has recently released his book called 50 Shades of Purple and Other Horror Stories. It's a collection of 57 short stories that range from delightfully demented to grotesquely fascinating. Innocent beginnings have salacious twists, and the supernatural monsters are just as likely to seduce you as they are to rip you limb from limb.

No one ever said a bit of explicit sex and horror don't go well together, right? So check the show notes for where you can find 50 shades of purple for your library. But I believe it's time to open our own good book now, one with five tales for you. So now it's time for our service to begin. Bow your heads and hear our words. In our first tale, we meet a man enduring one of the most stressful, agonizing nightmares imaginable. a job interview. But as we learn from author Charlie Hughes, the man has been brought in for a second interview,

so that's a good sign, right? I guess he must have found a way to convince the people that he's worth having around. Performing this tale are David Alt, Erica Sanderson, and Andy Cresswell. So if you're looking for a job, let's hope that you get a callback. I've got all the signs.

Sweaty palms, heavy breathing, the sound of my heartbeat throbbing around my ears. Worst of all is this nagging suspicion that I shouldn't be here at all, that I've made some awful mistake. A year with no money coming in has reduced me to this. My wife, Alison, understanding at first, then gradually allowing resentment to get the better of her. Even Jenny, our five-year-old, has been asking questions. Why does Daddy stay at home?

Why can't we go on holiday? Why can't I have new shoes? It's deathly quiet here. Instead of the London offices they used for the first interview, we're at some kind of warehouse? Maybe they want a back-to-the-shop floor feel to proceedings. I'm sat on a plastic chair, staring at the door of a side office waiting to be called in. There's a dark red mark on the cream door just above the handle. I focus on it, slowing my breathing, trying in vain to clear my mind.

Allison tells me I become nervous for all the wrong reasons, that I'm caught in a negative feedback loop. My wife is a grade-a bitch. Beyond the door, I can hear the low hum of their chatter, they're preparing questions, refining a strategy. Just once, let me relax. and be the person I know I can be, likable, focused, determined. None of this should phase me.

I had 13 years as the sales director for a mid-sized firm. I joined from school and worked my way up, got to a salary which makes people sit up and take notice. Let's face it, Alison wouldn't have given me the time of day if I hadn't been pulling in six figures. I loved that job. I love the people, I love the firm, and love the kudos. My mom would tell her friends at the hairdressers how well her Mikey was doing. Thank God she can't see me now. I memorized their names before the first interview,

determined to connect with that crucial first handshake. Debbie Hibbert, the HR partner, sharpsuited and full of management speak bullshit. Steve Scott, director of sales, my kind of guy, the badge on his lapel, giving him away as a rugby man. And then the Big Cahuna, Anthony Lincoln, founder and CEO of Lincoln Construction. A 50-year-old, so epically lacking in self-awareness, that he's retained the goatee, ponytail and sports jacket. What have you come as today, Tony? A wanker from 1992?

At the first interview, I wanted to say that to him. I really did. Instead, I shook his hand and said what he wanted to hear. and here I am. Debbie Hibbert is upset about something. She came across as superior last time, enjoying the power of the situation a little too much. I recall stumbling over my words at one point, mispronouncing paradigm and seeing her suppress a laugh.

I've been waiting an hour now, and they said I was the first one up. I stand, walk over, and turn my ear to the door. My fingers brush the handle, and I look down. Some of the redness has transferred to the tip of my index finger. I bring it up and take a closer look.

Paint? Why have they brought me here? One day you'll poke that nose somewhere and it'll get chopped off. Mom used to say that all the time. She died last week, a stroke. The same day they rang about the interview. Not quite a come-in, but something, certainly.

I open up and look in. They're all sat there. Debbie, Steve, and Anthony. Is it time? Steve nods, I think. So I walk into the room and close the door. I take my seat. We're separated only by a plastic table,

the kind of thing you see in a work shed. None of them say a word. Thirty seconds go by. Good to see you all again? I look to Steve again. he seems to be in charge of proceedings. He looks a mess. Those same red marks on the door have made it onto his white shirt.

His hair and head and neck look all wrong, like when Mum put my action man through the washing machine. Nobody's going to say anything. Oh, maybe this will help. I stand up, lean over the table, not very professional maybe, but needs must, and tear the tape from Steve's lips. At last he speaks.

No more. Even with the tape gone, it's difficult to hear what he's saying, the words gargling up from his throat. This is not quite the professional approach I was expecting. Stop. You asked me here, remember? I lean back and take them in. All three are sitting in their chairs,

their arms locked rigid by their sides. It's not right, calling me in like this, making me come all this way and treating me so shabbily. Next to Steve, Debbie, looks like she's just rolled out of bed. Hair all over the place, mascara smeared down her face. The red stuff has got onto her, too, all over her face and arms. Worst of all is Tony. He slumped on the chair, head rocked back.

The tapes slipped from one corner of his mouth and his tongue lulls atop it, all fat and wet and pink. Drul makes his chin glisten. Is he asleep? Jesus. My confidence has come soaring back. I beam my finest go-getter smile. We should get started, shouldn't we?

Tony doesn't seem interested, so why don't we get going with you two? I lean over again and rip off Debbie's tape this time. Really are, Mike. Steve's nodding away, imploring me to believe him. We've decided we were wrong. Haven't we, Ibs? Debbie is nodding her head in tiny, sharp movements, a manic smile spreading across her face.

I want to give you the job. To joy. Finally back where I belong. Thank you. So you can put it down then? I lift my left hand and see I'm holding a hammer. I don't recall picking it up, but it must be the...

there for a reason? I tilt my head, letting some of it come back to me, finding them in their homes, bringing them here, using the hammer. I walk around the table. Debbie is trying to pull away, stretching her neck backwards and moving her chair a few inches by shifting her weight. Steve is staring at me eyes wide, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Both of them have their arms and legs tied to the chairs with thick white cord. I turned to Debbie. It was her who made the call. What was it, you said?

I might struggle with the pressure. I should consider lower tear rolls. I lean in close and whisper in her ear. Michael, we can work this. I'm in his face. I raise the hammer above my head. Their screams Fill out of the room.

Have you ever heard that song, Baby Shark? How about that commercial jingle for Cars for Kids? If so, you can curse at me for putting those songs in your head because you'll be humming them for the next few hours. That's what author Jake Lamb is talking about in his tale. You see, there's a song out there which is driving people crazy because while everyone knows it, they just don't know what it's called. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Matthew Bradford, Ellie Hirschman, Peter Lewis, and Nicole Doolin.

So don't ever try to sing along to the earworm. I've got a song stuck in my head, and I can't figure out what it is. It started about a week ago. I was in my car, angry at something. I can't remember what. My memory hasn't been reliable. Maybe I was angry at my shitty job. Maybe it was the political climate.

Maybe it was the busted heat in my car. I couldn't tell you. All I remember for sure, because I've thought about it, every day, every hour, and every minute since, is that to keep myself warm from driving, I switched on the radio. That's when I first heard the song. I wasn't really listening at the time, still fuming over whatever the hell it was. And by the time my attention was on the song, it was over. I'd only really registered like four or five bars of the bridge,

and I remember exactly what I thought back then. Huh, that sounded good. What song was that? That moment comes back to me a lot. That melody kept recurring randomly. As I was scanning people's receipts for returns at my job, I started humming the tune to myself. It seemed so familiar to me,

something like the bridge of a queen song, or maybe David Bowie. It sounded retro. 80s, maybe even 70s, or maybe 90s. Or maybe it was a modern song emulating the 80s. I would stop my work at the register and look up wistfully at the ceiling, trying to come up with the song's name. I knew I had heard it before the car ride, but I didn't know where.

I thought about this song all day. In the bathroom, on my smoke break, on the car ride home, I returned to my shitty apartment hell-bent on finding out what this song was. I started by going to the radio station website, looking for a playlist of the songs they had aired. I found the time slot I must have heard the song, but when I listened to all the songs that were there, none of them fit. After listening to an hour's worth of music, I came up with nothing.

Determined, I began sifting through my bookmarks, thinking it was something I had heard on YouTube a while ago and saved. Of course, I've saved several hundred songs in Chrome, not to mention all the favorites I had from when I used Firefox. I spent another solid hour listening to old music I had forgotten about before I put the song out of my mind and moved on with my life. That was a simpler time, back when the song didn't control me. God, I miss those days.

The next day was a lot like the last. I hummed the tune going to work, at work, and going back home. I spent two hours listening to every song in my library, even the slow ones that didn't even have the same tempo, or the songs that didn't even have guitars in them. It was that day I told my roommates about the song. We were all musical people, which was kind of a big reason we moved in together in the first place.

My time was wasted at the computer when I had a variety of other musicians to bounce ideas off. They were hanging out in the living room watching a baseball game when I came in and asked if they knew the song, followed it by whistling the only part I knew. Every one of them took their attention from the game to me. None of them knew what the song was,

They all had heard it. Andre was the first to respond. It's the Beatles. It has to be. Like a B-side from a hard day's night. James was having none of that. Are you deaf? That's straight up dead mouse.

Or maybe like really obscure a daft punk from the 90s. Or something Jason Derulo sampled on a bad day. Vern shook his head disinterestedly. Jason Durulo only has bad days. Anyway, it's some pop garbage. Ellie Goulding or something. Who cares? We spent some time

looking up songs on our phones. Convinced it was one song, only to be disappointed when the tune never came up when we played it on YouTube. After a while, the others went back to their game, and I did a quick Google search for a couple of ideas I'd had. That night, I dreamt of it. It was like pushing through fog in all directions,

like moving around completely blind, with only the fragment of the song to move me forward. I prayed I was getting closer, and I was re-chained. screaming soundlessly as I struggled to remember the song, the band, a lyric, anything.

I woke up more tired than when I went to sleep. Life was more of the same at work, the song becoming more and more present in my life. I tried to keep it out of my head, replace it with other songs, but the only thing I could think of for the next two days was that stupid tune. It suffocated me, smothered me.

It kept me up at night and woke me up early every day. The next day, something terrible and wonderful happened. I swear to you, I swear on my mother's grave, I heard it on the store radio at work. I swear to God. I reached straight to the manager and asked where the music was coming from. She told me it was a playlist from corporate, the same playlist every store gets. I sent an email to the district manager, making up an excuse that I was really enjoying the playlist at work and wanted to get some of the songs.

I've checked my emails every five minutes for an answer for a long time. It was on my way back to customer support. I tripped and landed hard on my shoulder. As the pain rippled through my body, I heard something. Something way in the back of my head, like a faint memory, a shape in the darkness. I heard the song. I heard more of the song. It was only a note more, but it was more.

More of the thing that was beginning to engulf my every waking hour. More of this song that I heard in my sleep. It was so faint, but so powerful, like a small fire in the icy wilderness. And as I lay on the ground, dazed in the glow of this revelation, I realized there were people around me asking if I was okay, and I hadn't been responding. I let them know I was. I brushed my ego off and moved back to the register, warmed by the comfort of a single note, which felt better than the sight of a rescue boat to a drowning man.

When I returned home, I was excited for the weekend, not because I was excited for the weekend, I was sick of work, but because nothing could stop me from figuring out this goddamn song. I know that sounds extreme, but that's not even the tip of the iceberg. I kept myself isolated from my roommates, spending the rest of the day listening to music, unable to find anything close to the tune I was looking for. The next day, I tried to get my mind off the song by going to the gym. I hit the treadmill with my earbuds in, hoping that some Judas priest would make me forget that song. For a while, it worked.

Then I heard the last few notes of the mystery song playing from the speakers in the gym. I ripped the earbuds out, desperate to find out what the song was, and it was gone. They were already starting to play another song. I sprinted frantically over to the nearest trainer I could find, a woman in her late 30s who was training someone on the leg press. Her name tag said she was Jane. What song was that? What song? There was a song.

It was just playing. What was it? She looked up and listened to the music. This is Sugar by Robin Schultz. No, not this song. The one before it, it was playing right before this one. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down. Jane stood her ground against me.

A small voice in my brain broke through the noise that was pounding in my head. I could barely hear her between the music playing over the speakers and the song on an endless loop in my head. I'm... Look, I'm sorry. That song has been stuck in my head for days now, and I just heard it on the radio there. Could you please just tell me what it is?

If you promise not to interrupt our staff or members anymore. Jane confidently stepped forward to meet me. It became incredibly obvious how many eyes were watching me. I'll leave right after this. I'm sorry. Jane narrowed her eyes and told the man on the leg pressed to wait for her. She purposefully walked slowly to the back room, just to see me sweat.

I couldn't blame her, but the song was ripping me up. heart inside. The music on the speakers cut off abruptly as she pulled her phone from the dock. She spitefully scrolled through her phone, taking her sweet time. The song that played before was... She dragged out her words slowly, and I squirmed with anticipation. The same notes were replaying in my head, roaring louder and louder with every passing second as I prayed for her to say the song name. I don't like it, I love it.

Flo Ryda. No, no. I know that damn song. That isn't it. What was the song before it? Jane blinked at me condescendingly. The song was still screaming in my ears. Please.

Uh, electric feel, MGMT. The one before that? Birthday, Katie Perry. I furiously typed the song into my phone. Listening to the chorus, I knew I had never heard this song before. It felt like blood might gush out of my ears. I don't It can't be any of these

Well I don't know what to tell you kid Those were the songs that were played in the last ten minutes The notes looped endlessly in my head I was being pulled apart from the inside But as my brain was trying to kill me I felt an idea peek through the noise She was keeping it from me Jane was keeping it from me

I could see it on her face There was no doubt I was at best annoying the hell out of her. She knew what the song was. She knew, and she was keeping it from me, to watch me suffer. She could see how much this was hurting me, and she was loving it, loved watching me rive. She knew. She must know. She knew.

I could have just ripped the phone out of her hands. It would be so easy. This was bigger than her petty bullshit. This was my sanity that she was holding in the palm of her hands. Then I noticed I'd been standing there. seething at her for a long time. Sir? Hey, sir? Thank you. I'm leaving.

I stomped off to the locker room, got my gym bag, it headed out. I sped home like my car was running on anger instead of gas. To keep myself level, I ran around my building a few times, just to keep my blood from boiling over. For the first time in years, I took a bite out of my nails, a habit I kicked from high school. My anger cooling, I took a few deep breaths before heading inside. All I wanted to do was sit down and watch some Netflix.

Maybe this stupid song would allow me that after making sure I could never go back to the gym again. I met Andre first, as I almost always did. Andre needed both openness and privacy. And the hallway window just outside our door was his favorite spot to curl up with his computer. Far enough from the rest of us to get some work done, but close enough to still use the Wi-Fi. We nodded to each other as I fumbled with my keys, still kind of twitchy with rage. Homework? I wish. Hey, you remember that song you told us about the other day?

I stopped leaving my key in the door. Yeah. Did you find it? No dice. I've transposed it onto a music sheet, though. I posted it on a forum asking real music buffs if they could place it. It's canning some traction. Watch this. He turned the screen to me, and I saw the music notes at the top of the forum. He began scrolling through dozens upon dozens of comments. Jesus. Yeah, Jesus. And nobody has any idea what song this is. is? Nobody. God, it's like itching me. Like, like it's right at the tip of my tongue. Like, I know it, but I'm going outside for a bit. I stood alone with my key in the door. It was the first time in

hours I hadn't heard the song ringing in my head. I thought it was gone, that it was over, and I was alone. But when you try not to think about it, the louder it gets. James was sitting on the living room couch, blasting music through his headphones. He ripped them off when he saw me. His Bloodshot. Fuck you, Riley. What? Fuck you! That damn song you were telling us about?

It's been in my head for days now. You've been thinking about it too? I couldn't believe it. Sure, I thought I might be wasting my life on this song. I've got nothing better to waste it on. But both Andre and James and a dozen people on the internet? Yeah, and I've listened to every song on my iPod twice. I've spent all day on Spotify.

I hear you, man. I blew up at the gym ten minutes ago. Don't want to hear it. Just figure out what this damn song is and tell me when you do. And with the final word, he placed his headphones back on and returned to blasting his music. Vern was taking it the worst. He was pacing in his and André's room, conducting with his hands, vigorously shaking his head, scratching it himself at his face, his arms. His skin was reddening. Hey, Vern, are you all right? He rambled, muttering something I didn't understand. So I left him to himself.

Looking back, I should have tried harder to talk to him about this. But what good would it have done? My night was spent again rooting through the internet, looking for the song. When I tried to sleep, I could only replay it again and again and again. The only thing I could think to do was stare at the ceiling, praying for it to stop. I went to work without sleeping and moved through it like a zombie. Every minute I spent in the store, I thought I could hear the song playing. Then I found a wet floor sign.

The floor had recently been washed, still glimmering in the fluorescent lights. An impulse crossed my mind. I carelessly stepped on it and deliberately slipped. Unfortunately, I didn't control my fall well enough and smashed my head hard into the ground. Two more notes. I heard two more notes of the chorus. My vision was blurry and my head was spinning, but I heard two whole notes, brand new and fresh. Some people stopped and stared at me.

An older guy asked if I was okay. But I was better than okay. I was great. The loop had finally become something different. I returned to work the happiest I'd been in days. And that feeling faded pretty quickly. The tune was getting faster and faster. It was overlapping itself, blending in with customers' words.

I'd made a new discovery, but it hadn't gotten me any closer to the truth. After a dreary and aggravating drive home, I returned to a new, strange, noise. Vince, stop. No, get back. Vince, dude, just chill. My roommates were shouting on the other side of the door. I opened it in a trance. Andre, James, and Vern were all standing in the living room. A table was knocked over and Vern's laptop was on the floor. Verne had a knife to his neck, traced in blood. He looked crazy, panicked. His face red and twisted. Blood was dripping from his bare arms. He had cut himself to

hear more of the song. I knew instantly what was happening, and I knew instantly what was going to happen. Vern, come on, man, this isn't funny, man. Vern's eyes swiveled to look at me. The knife was dragging against his bare throat. No, the song, I know it. Verne? Riley, I know it. I know it. I know. It's, it's... He smashed the butt of the knife against his temple so hard it drew blood. He was unhinged. I'd never seen him like this. I'd never seen anybody like this. Vern, put the knife down.

Please. I can hear it. I can see it, Riley. I know what it is. But every time... He brought the knife right to his throat. Every time, I can't think straight. I know it.

I know it. Vern, fucking, come on. don't do this his breathing slowed a grin spread across his face he drove the knife into his own fucking neck andre knows how to react to these sort of things he ran to verne tearing off his own shirt to wrap around verne's neck i asked him afterwards and he said he knew it wouldn't save him but he knew taking the knife out would only kill him quicker and there wasn't much to be done about a hole in a person's jugular vein james screamed and swore louder than anything i've ever heard it's been the only sound sense that blocked the song from my head. Everyone knew Vern was going to die. We all

watched as the blood seeped through Andre's shirt and end of the carpet. It seemed like it would stain the entire world red. Vern twitched and convulsed. His eyes rolled back into his head, and suddenly snout forward, staring directly at me. He smiled a knowing, relieved smile, overflowing with blood, and then he was gone. And the only thing I could think of was he knew what the song was. James rushed over to Vern, shoving Andre out of the way. What is it? What's the song?

We tried to pull James off, but he was too strong and started swinging at us. He knows! He knows the song! He knows what it is! You saw it! What's the song? Christ, James, stop. Please. James kept shaking Vern's lifeless body and hysterics, soaking himself in blood. What's the song, Vern?

What's the song? Andre called 911, who took an eternity to get here. James smacked and swung Verne's corpse around the whole time, trying to get him back. Blood sprayed on the walls, soaked into the carpet. Andre and I tried to pull him off, only to be beaten with James' monstrous force. Every time he threw a fist at me,

I heard a little bit more of the song in my head. The paramedics had to sedate James, but he didn't make it easy for them. One paramedic had to go back to the ambulance for more, tranquilizers, and the other kept taking punches. Once James was finally unconscious, the paramedics declared Vern dead. He was taken away in a body bag. James was taken away in a police car.

I was biting my nails. A detective sat me down outside our building. Tell me what happened, son. Start from the beginning. I didn't think he would believe me. I know for a fact I wouldn't have. But as soon as I told him about the song, he turned pale. He gripped me by the shoulder, his voice.

grave. Did you say? What song was it, son? Sing a little bit for me. I quickly whistled the only bar I knew, plus a couple of notes I heard when I was in pain. The detective stood up, took a step away from me. You know this song, don't you? I've heard it recently. What song is it? What's it called? He turned to another detective, completely ignoring me. It's another one of these cases about the song? Detective, please, if you know the song, please tell me. Vern just fucking killed himself because of it.

I need to know, please. He turned back to me, grabbing me by the shoulders. All right, son, easy, easy now. Take a deep breath. Look, we don't know what the song is. I don't know. None of us know. I'm sorry.

He seemed like he was telling the truth, but I wanted him to be lying. I wanted him to be hiding it from me, like a huge secret, a government conspiracy driving people insane. These seemed like the more sensible explanations than the truth. But he wasn't lying. He was afraid. This wasn't the first time he'd seen something like this. It wasn't the first time he'd heard the song.

It was probably killing him too. My ears were ringing with that music. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight, son? I think my parents might let me stay for the night. Okay. Sounds like a plan. If you need anything, you give us a call. Here's my card. And if you ever think of the song, please let me know. Everything else felt hazy. The policeman walked to the beat of the song. Every word they spoke seemed like it lined up with the chorus. My heart was beating the same tempo. I blinked in time with the phantom music. I'm going to stay at my girlfriends tonight. We'll figure this out tomorrow. I bet my nails absentmindedly. It was just me and the bloody to

apartment. I noticed the smell of iron and how stained red my clothes were. I changed, called my folks. They were more than happy to pick me up after I told them what went down. I couldn't tell them why it had all happened. I couldn't tell them that something abstract had killed Vern, that it might kill them too. After I explained a bit of the situation, I shut down from them, just locking myself in the room. I'm so tired of this song. You have no idea how tired. I've lived my entire life able to think about whatever I wanted to. Now there's only one obsession. My brain feels wrung out, deflated, stressed. I'm treading water in a storm. I can't ask for help. If I ask someone they won't know it, it'll drive them crazy too. I spread it like a disease with

every person I asked. I have nowhere to go. There's no way I can talk to people about it. It's morning now. I've gotten a response from corporate about the store playlist. I've listened to all the songs they said were played that afternoon. None of them come even close to a match. I'm not surprised. I'm not even disappointed. I'm used to it now. I've stayed up all night going over this.

The entire time I've been wondering if it's all worth it, if all this torture has really been building up to this conclusion. I've racked my brain for another solution. Combed through my memories for some clue I might have missed. I've got nothing. There's no other answer. I got a call from the detective. James was beaten within an inch of his life by someone in jail.

He's in the hospital, stable and conscious, only able to whistle that song over and over and over again. The detective says it's getting to the doctors and other patients. Andre put it on the internet. It could have spread globally by now. All I can say is, I'm sorry. I didn't know. That was the entire point.

I didn't know, and I still don't. I've been biting my fingers so much they've bled. The pain was amazing. It brought back more of the song, but even when I manned up and pulled two of my nails out with pliers, I still don't know any lyrics or any band or anything. I don't know what this song is. But I will.

I saw how Vern relaxed when he died yesterday. He knew. I need to make it painful, unfortunately. I can't go on without knowing. I took a knife from the kitchen and I've locked my door again. I'm sorry. I have to know. We all have our demons to wrestle with, those things from our past which profoundly changed us or even damaged us. And in this dark and disturbing tale from author P.F. McGrail,

we meet a man who so desperately wishes he could alter his past that he allows a man. mysterious stranger to give him just such a chance, a chance in which what goes around comes around. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Mick Wingert, and Erica Sanderson. So always remember, no deal is worth the twist of damnation. I was six years old when a stranger murdered my parents as I sat in bed and walked. I was old enough for the memories to impress themselves aggressively into my tender mind, but young enough to miss out on the true magnitude of what was happening. I remember a maniacal look on his face,

and I asked him if he would take me into heaven with my parents. I only recall him saying one thing. I can't. I was vaguely aware of. of the fact that he wanted something more, something he wasn't going to get. He disappeared without a proverbial trace. I grew up as a fundamentally broken human being. There's a certain type of addict who picks up the habit because they can't articulate exactly

how they're damaged. The haze of getting high or low provides temporary reprieve to the ceaseless battle of a brain in war with itself. For simplicity's sake, we exchange a psychological poison for a tangible one. That's how I found myself at 26 years old.

What I lacked in diplomas and marketable skills, I'm more than made up for in anger and demons. The Foster system had done its best with me, but I couldn't fundamentally change the fact that I was present at each new home they sent me to. That fact was enough to damn the endeavor from the beginning. Nearly all of them were pleasant homes, with wonderful people and no closet-dwelling skeletons.

I can't really blame any of them, except for Brian. He taught me that a 10-year-old boy who's been beaten mentally might still be broken physically. For the second time in my life, I didn't realize just how much of me had been taken away until it was over. But the man with the gun... At least only played his role once. I was coming off a high, quite low. When I decided that I was going to do something, I didn't know exactly what,

but I felt that time was somehow running out. I possessed a broken body with track marked arms, a nine-mill in one pocket, $19.13 and 13 cents in the other. And nothing else in the road led me to a bridge. The water below was too dark to see. I don't know if I was planning on hurting myself or someone else. Hello, I'm mad...

I whirled around and aimed the gun wildly, but my hands were shaking too badly to have hit him if I tried. I'm looking for someone who's willing to make a change. The man was short and small, bald as a cue ball and ugly. His thin lips were offset unpleasantly by his bulging eyes, and the pale moonlight gave him the unsettlingly alabaster appearance of a clown. He smiled. You can go places if you don't care about coming back.

He extended a hand, but in that moment I truly believed that I had nothing to lose. The night air shimmer like a mirage, and we were standing in the bright sunlight of a cheerful city park, with a quaint playground in the corner. Mammon let go of my hand and extended it to the verdant scene in front of him. He squinted his eyes. You must take what you get. You do want to change the past, don't you, friend?

I nearly stumbled over. Maybe I was still a little high. But the insanity of what I'd just seen, I couldn't be chalked out to the lingering effects of a friend. few downers. This man, this stranger, had just accomplished the supernatural, and had taken me along for the ride. My head swam. Yeah, yes, more than anything, he nodded to himself. You can change the past. And should you fail? I promise that you will still be able to exact your revenge from the one who hurt you.

He rubbed his open palms together like he was about to eat a particularly succulent meal. Ah, first the taking, then the getting. He pointed at a playground slide. Hurt one. Make him feel it, or you'll have to do it. and again until it's real. You gain more than he loses. Men pushed me forward, and I found myself stumbling to the slide.

It was an otherworldly experience. I had no doubts about Mammon's offer. He meant it. Something inside me, deep and instinctual, made the idea of questioning his nature seem laughable. But was I really going to hurt a child? I saw myself continuing to walk forward. I heard in myself weighing the options.

If I didn't hurt a child, the seemingly impossible chance that I had to fix me would slip away. Were I to hurt one slightly but not enough, then I would have to hurt another. I'd risk losing the entire opportunity and the child would suffer unnecessarily. But if I made it count, one child's temporary physical pain could mean a lifetime of emotional healing for me. He would get over it, make sure not to give him permanent damage. Do you judge me for it?

I want you to look truly and honestly inside yourself and ask whether you would have done the same thing. I climbed up the ten-foot slide with the vague notion that it would be so much easier if I moved fast and with minimal thinking. I was almost shocked to find myself standing on top, incurring the concerned gazes of on-looking parents. A sandy-haired boy of about five was sitting at my feet, ready to slip forth. I picked him up and tossed him like a rag doll over the edge. The parents were sprinting toward me, but I had enough of the head start. I didn't know where I was running. Only then did the thought cross my mind that Maman may have been deceiving me after all.

The doubts flooded in, like they'd been deliberately unleashed. Of course he had tripped me. Heems like Mammon did for fun. But there he was, just a few dozen yards away. His hand was extended. Well done, friend. You've taken something physical. You'll get your balance.

My hand made contact with his. and I was sorry. I knew instantly that I could control my flight. It was instinctual. It was wonderful. I tore through the cobalt blue sky without a whisper of effort, then turned into a dive that would have put a peregrine falcon to shame. I'd been high plenty of times before,

but this was so different. This was real. I saw the house where I'd lost my parents below me and I immediately dove onto it. I landed on the roof, light as a feather. Someone different certainly lived here now. It had left me broken and I intended to return the favor. I could feel that.

the strength in me before I punched. My hand cut cleanly through the brick and mortar of the chimney. It felt like cotton. I cheered as the crumbling smokestack disintegrated from the top down, leaving a chunky, red pile at the bottom. Then I leapt off the roof and spent the rest of the day in the clouds. It gradually became more and more difficult to stay above the earth. When it took all of my strength to maintain a five-foot hover, I alighted onto the ground and accepted that my day was done. And yes, it was worth it. Maybe I wouldn't have thought so if I were a whole person, but that's something I just cannot know. The lingering effects were subtle, but they were everywhere.

It took three days before I could put my finger on it. People cringed at me. They didn't like me. Something about my presence caused them to feel unpleasant, though I would bet that even they did not understand why. It was then that Mammon visited me again. Got a taste for more. The cost is still the same.

I shook my head. It was worth it, Mammon. But you promised to help change my past. He nodded solemnly. True, true, friend, you have changed physically, and you've changed physically. That's the first step. The second is mental.

He tapped his dome as the night air evaporating. around us. We appeared in the backyard of what was clearly the afterglow of the house party. The shitty furniture and shittier beer cans told me that this had been a college shindig. Memmon's predatory gaze was lingering on a solitary girl who walked out the back door with a black trash bag. She didn't seem to notice us. He pointed. Take her. Take her where? He shook his head, but his black eyes stayed locked on mine.

Wait until she walks up to her room. Take her. There. Where a training from my face. No. No, there's no way. I've endured that myself. Brian was...

I just can't. Then you can't change the past. You have to take if you want to get. And you have to get. This will make it easier for her. He presented me a pill. I shook my head again. I had no words.

Fine. He turned to walk away. I grabbed his diminutive shoulder. Wait, again, before you judge me, consider what you would have done. Mammon had the power to change my life. Could I really let that go? Wouldn't be worth the call? I was able to slip the pill into a glass of water by her bed was shaking hands.

It did not render her unconscious. but she was barely able to resist. I told myself that it actually was better for her, since she didn't have to be restrained. And she wouldn't get physically hurt. I told myself that she never broke. I can't hide the whole time. I was inside of the girl from the party.

I was able to get inside of everybody. Their minds were soft and yielding. It was like pressing my finger into a hard-boiled egg. Once I was inside, I could nibble on what I found there. I walked into a liquor store, bought a lottery ticket, then handed it right back and told the clerk that I'd won. No, you didn't. The lottery drawing's not until tomorrow.

Yes, I did. I won $10 million. His face grew soft and contorted. I realized with disgust that he had become empty. Oh, yeah. He didn't even offer eye contact, and that was that. I convinced everyone that I needed to convince that I'd won the lottery, and they gave me $10 million.

Is that a ridiculous way to twist a narrative? I would have thought so, but my narrative wasn't twisted. The money brought me no joy. I needed to addle the brain of anyone who came close enough to share it with me. It was the only way to stay out of jail. When I used to have no money, the dream of it brought me happiness. When I had money, there was no dream, and therefore no happiness. I was able to resist the temptation to buy another fix for three whole days.

But there were two facts that were as inevitable as daybreak an hour before dawn. The first was that I was going to relent at some point, and by a shift, shitload of drugs. The second was that with an unlimited supply, I would eventually overdose. Since it was no longer a matter of money, it would just be a matter of time. I prayed for Mammon, and I was not disappointed. So you found that it's the wanting and not the hands. having that makes the world go round.

You want to want to be inside, but you don't like what you see when you get there. His eyes swiveled wildly. The words went right over my head. I have money, Mammon. I'll give you anything you want. Please help me change my past. You've given of your self-physics. You've given of yourself mentally.

After that, there's nothing of you live. So you can change your past. Here, he stopped grinning, clutched my hands, and looked deeply at me with the gravest expression he had yet shared. To understand this, friend, you can change the past. You have to want to.

I returned his stare and nodded. The air evaporated around us like a swirling fog. For a moment we were in complete darkness. The greatest get requires the greatest take. Save a child. Take. Balance the crooked scales. I stepped back into the ephemeral darkness.

Where would I take? Take a child. He will not die if that is true. My head spun. I'm not a bad person. Bad things have happened to me. And I've had to live with them. The terrible parts of the world stick to us like sap.

And we get blamed for spreading things we never created in the first place. What should I have done? What would you have done? Welcome back, 19. I pushed my eyes into my palms. It wasn't fair. None of it. I dropped my hands to my sides.

It was either taken unknown kid, or the younger version of myself would be at stake. A child would be damaged either way, I reasoned. that much was impossible to change and i had already suffered more than my fair share the crooked scales did need to be balanced even if they couldn't be destroyed besides this child might get a chance to set things right at some other time Maybe I was just a terrible link in a horrible chain, and he would be in my place one day. The thought somehow comforted me. There was balanced suffering.

If not purple. Mammin cracked open a door. Moonlight spilled onto his pallet face. I nodded. He reached out his arm, handed me a pistol. and opened the door wide for me. I walked inside with leaden steps. The faint wheezing of a child's soft snore

led me to the back of the room. I approached him. Wake up. He stirred. Then I had doubts. That's when I changed my mind. How the fuck Could I be plotting to kidnap a child?

Naja rose up in me like a serpent. Shut up! I shouted stupidly. Not now! That's when the bedroom lights turned on. I wheeled on my feet nearly blinded, and I saw a man raising a shotgun to my head. The roar of the blast frightened me so much

that I didn't immediately realize. it was I who had fired. The man crumbled into a bloody mess at the other end of the room. God! The scream was pain incarnate. The blue whirl of a bathrobe flashed into the room

and collapsed onto the ground. Stay away! The world was spinning. I couldn't figure out what was going on, but I knew that I had to get this person away from the man's gun. Stay away! But she didn't.

I saw an arm reach for the shotgun. Each detail was painted in fine relief, as the hands embraced the weapon, hoisted it high, and pivoted it in my direction. A finger wormed its way around the trigger and began to squeeze. What would you have done?

I aimed and pulled back my own trigger. I didn't even lift my head to make eye contact with my mother until I was firing the shot that killed her. There is comfort in the fact that I'm almost certain she didn't know who I was. Hey, mister I looked down on him His skin was pallid

His eyes were wide and black He appeared to be in shock You sent my mommy and daddy into heaven Will you take me there too There's nothing else here for me If shaking was so bad Then I could not speak at first What was I supposed to say?

That I could not kill him because that would rend time and space apart. Each second was tearing the boy's fragile mind in ways that he could not possibly understand. We had to force the words out. I can't. I could feel it there, etched on my own. phase. The maniacal torment, the sensation of wanting something more. Exactly what my child's self had seen all those years ago, was seeing now. I needed to leave. I could see Mammons' wicked grin from just beyond the doorway.

The light danced lazily around me once again, and the scene was gone. We found ourselves at the same bridge where we had first met, and I truly didn't care. The heat from the barrel of the gun, still in my hand, however, told me that the previous scene had been very,

very real. Memmon tottered back and forth as he approached me. He shook his head slowly and grinned. I promised you that you could change the past, friend. Not that you would.

That part was up to you. But don't worry, friend. Because the second thing I offered was a guarantee. You did fail. So here's the promise. You may extract your revenge from the one who heard you'll get. He pointed at the gun that rested warmly in my hand, and I looked down on it with dawning comprehension. When I looked up, Mammon was gone. There was nothing but an empty bridge, the water below too dark to see.

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