The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S12E15

Episode Date: March 24, 2019

  It's episode 15 of Season 12. On this week's show we have tales about the terror which can lie just behind things most innocent. "The Nope Game" written by Javier Loustaunau (Story starts around 00:03:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Kyle Akers , Video Girl – Alexis Bristowe, Mark – Dan Zappulla, Jackson – Atticus Jackson "Jinn" written by Jessica Hutter (Story starts around 00:16:20) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator & Homeless man – Jeff Clement, Evan – Mick Wingert, Jinn – Addison Peacock "Heart of Stone" written by Gemma Amor (Story starts around 00:40:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Daddy – Mike DelGaudio, Jenny McBride – Nichole Goodnight, Julie McBride – Nikolle Doolin, Reporter – Atticus Jackson "Through the Whorley Tunnel" written by G. Dean Manuel (Story starts around 01:11:15) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Danny – Atticus Jackson, Eli – Kyle Akers, Milo – Elie Hirschman, Ma – Erin Lillis, Tim Jergens – Jesse Cornett "Wither Barn" written by Lucia France (Story starts around 01:45:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson, Dan – Andy Cresswell, Barbara – Penny Scott-Andrews, Emily – Mary Murphy, Sam – James Cleveland Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about our Season Passes   Click here to learn more about The Sleepless Tarot Card Deck   Click here to learn more about Jessica Hutter   Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor   Click here to learn more about Lucia France   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Wither Barn" illustration courtesy of Alexis Bristowe 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 cluck tales of horror to frighten and disturb. As the sleepless hours tick. Brace yourself for the day. No Sleep Podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast Sanctuary. I'm David Cummings.

Our service this week features tales about the terror which can lie just behind things most innocent. Just a reminder that this episode marks the 14th paid individual episode this season. So if you've purchased this episode and any other 13 paid episodes at any point this season, you're eligible for an upgrade to a full season pass 12. All you have to do is email us at admin at the no sleeppodcast.com. We'll get you upgraded as soon as possible. And speaking of season passes, I understand that there's a little confusion out there about them. Some people think they cost 1999 per month. That isn't the case. For only 1999, you get the entire season, which lasts

six months, close to 70 hours of entertainment for over half a year for only 1999. That's only around $3.33 per month. And I also want to mention a new project which will be magical to all you fans of the mystical world of taro. There's a new Kickstarter campaign starting on March 22nd for The Sleepless Tarot. And while this is not a project directly connected to the podcast, nor is it right, run by us, it will feature a tarot card deck with imagery from No Sleep Stories you may have heard on our show. Headed up by author E. Z. Morgan and featuring art by many of our talented

illustrators, this tarot card deck will be a wonderful gift for anyone who looks to the wisdom of the cards. Check the show notes for more details about the sleepless tarot. And now, it's time for our service to begin. Bow your heads. And hear our words. In our first tale, we meet a man who's always looking to push the boundaries, someone constantly looking for a quick thrill, disregarding taste and taboo, the more desensitized he becomes. But as author Habier-Lostenau tells us,

sometimes the pursuit of the next buzz can be a step too far. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Alexis Bristow, Dan Zapula, and Atticus Jackson. So next time, think before saying yes to the offer of an edgy thrill ride because you might just find yourself playing the nope game. A couple of years ago, I was what you would call a bit of an edge lord. I was obsessed with disgusting and scary images, offensive humor, and no right was more important to anyone than my free speech,

which mostly meant throwing slurs at people over voice chat. I'm not sure if I can say I'm a better person now or more mature, but thinking or acting the way I used to usually results in me running to throw up. I can barely witness anything gory or offensive without instantly relating it to myself and getting flooded with unwanted images that escalate worse and worse. I've turned into the guy who PMs you and thanks you for trigger warnings, saving me from getting violently ill at work.

As you might guess, I didn't gradually mature over a couple of years. This is the effect of trauma. PTSD, my therapist called it. Although he doesn't believe in the events that caused my PTSD. He has a theory that it was a nervous breakdown after years of desensitizing myself, coupled with false memories or other junk. Maybe that's what my insurance is paying him for,

not to fix me, but to give me an alternative explanation that is a lot less disturbing than what happened that night. I used to work second shift customer service, heavily unsupervised. After the first shift was completely gone, we would regularly drink or smoke to make it through the evening. We kept a group chat where we would post crazy stuff, making each other crack up in the middle of calls. There was this gamer girl, Liz, who always shared video game memes and stuff like that, and one day she starts chatting about this thing called the Nope game.

She said it was like a video compilation of messed up stuff, and the challenge is to see how long you can watch it without shutting it off or turning away. Well, it sounded like something hilarious to try. But the more we looked into it, the more we realized it wasn't some video floating around out there. It was a specific stream you needed to know about, since it was almost always uploaded through different platforms with brand new accounts. So, after hours of digging, we found that one of the streams was happening in a few days around midnight. And that was perfect.

Normally we got out around 11 and hit up a diner. to get drinks and breakfast food, so there'd be plenty of time to check it out if we didn't mess around too much. Mark was joking about watching people-dying videos to condition himself to win. Antonio said it would be all cringe or extreme fetish stuff.

In hindsight, we were so naive, acting tough and even salivating at the prospect of showing how crazy we were. The night of the transmission, all of us, me, Jackson, Antonio, and Mark went to Liz's apartment, basically just a bedroom and living room with stained carpets and empty takeout containers everywhere. Her computer was in her bedroom, so we all piled in there however we could, on her bed, sitting on the floor or just standing around.

We had been drinking and smoking since we got off work, but let me just say we were all pretty level-headed. Like, we had gotten perfect scores on calls while being a lot more messed up than that. Liz set up a recording app so we could re-watch the Nope game later, or maybe even do our own streams of it. We figured that's how it was spread. Anything that goes online gets shared to death, and people move on to the next thing once it gets boring. We were just early adopters of the Nope game. At this point, I realize I've been stalling a little

because I don't really want to talk about it. Anyone who hears this will probably find it stupid or silly, like somebody else's nightmare. But that was a real nightmare, we shared. There was an old-timey countdown reel, and then the transmission started. It was just a teenage. aged Asian girl in a hospital gown sitting in a metal chair or some sort of clinical room that

was white and spotless. Literally, as soon as it started, she spoke in perfect, unaccented English, making me think it was filmed somewhere here in the USA, but they were trying to go for the whole Japanese creepypasta aesthetic or something. One. Something squirmed in my stomach. Three. Liz's arm twitched hard, startling all of us. It was like a spasm moved through us like a wave.

Despite the booze and pills and weed, I didn't feel numb at all. I felt tense, exposed, and raw. I was transfixed. Four. I realized only four seconds had gone by, but I wanted to leave. More than anything, I wanted to leave. Five. The girl on the screen's skin glitched.

Not like Sue's a 3D model. Instead, it looked like flesh and bones spiked in little random directions and return to normal. Nope. Mark ran out of the room. I, however, felt trapped. Not even my gaze could follow him. We didn't taunt him for chickening out.

We just sat there. I think somebody in the room was sobbing softly, but I couldn't turn to see who it was. And nothing bad had even started yet. It was just a vibe being pumped into the room through the monitor, like some sort of gas. It wouldn't get really bad until she hit the first minute. By then her skin and bones regularly glitched and spiked and moved like an equalizer.

I tried putting my hand between myself and the screen, but when I looked at the back of my hand, the skin was rippling, like a wet surface that a drop of water had fallen into. 73. I felt my joints grinding a little and started to slowly bend sideways in an unnatural way. 74, 75, 76. The girl was bending as well. like some sort of snake. I felt my joints start to strain and move in weird ways. I wasn't moving a single muscle, but it felt like my bones were doing their own thing.

Jackson started to run, but he fell over. 84. He got up. 85. He fell again. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his flesh moving like waves, his limbs curling in strange ways. It took a few tries, but he was out of the same. the room before she called 100. It was no longer a challenge. It stopped being one long ago.

At this point, I was trapped, watching the girl on the screen spiral into herself. Liz was having spasms, making loud wet breathing noises beside me. I heard Antonio behind me, knocking on the ground at a very fast rate, like he was vibrating. I guess there were three of us left in the room. 112. I was slowly turning my head away from her hypnotizing game. which was peering at me from the core of a small, slow whirlpool of flesh, bone, and hair. She was like a liquid that pulsed with every number. 117.

The flesh pulsed. 118. It was like a visualizer of dread, spiking and shifting with my terror. But little by little, I turned my head away, past what felt natural. By the time she got to 122, I was looking at Antonio behind me. I don't know what was more horrifying. The fact that my neck must have been turning a full 180 degrees

or that his was pulsating and warping, glitching even more violently than Liz. One of his fists was jackhammering at the floor, making a very rapid thudding sound, with blood starting to pool in that spot. At 136, I was granted a distraction. The guys outside were screaming, yelling to us to get out,

but they dared not come in for us. I started to roll, to slither in ways I'm not sure I can describe. I felt loose, rubbery like I was melting, like some sort of trip or nightmare, except I'd never felt more sober. By 149, I made it to the door. Look at him! Once outside the room and with the door closed, I could feel the dread still thick in my head. But with the voice muffled, it was starting to subside. It was being replaced by a sort of stiffness and excruciating pain

Like I'd fallen down two flights of stairs to get away from that computer monitor I could still hear counting but it was different now coming from someone else One Jackson and Mark got into position Two I realized they had pillows duct taped over their ears Three They ran into the room emerging several moments later with Liz She looked big, uncomfortably and painfully big and bloated for a second. But she started to deflate into what I normally associated with her scrawny emo self.

There was little blood on the corner of her mouth, but she was breathing. Her bloodshot eyes darted side to side and finally rested in the middle. I think she was experiencing the same euphoria I was, meaning the pain was excruciating, but it was no longer spiraling out of control. Mark started pulling the tape and pillows off from his ears. She was the only one in there. We even checked the bathroom in the closet. Tony got out somehow.

When our nausea subsided, we prayed that it meant the transition had stopped, and we stumbled back into Liz's bedroom. The screen was black and bloody handprints were covering the floors, walls, and ceiling. But terrifyingly, or mercifully, there was no sign of Antonio. We did check out the video we had recorded, but thank you. Thankfully, there was nothing there. It was just solid black, as though some spyware protected it from being duplicated. All we knew is that it lasted exactly 11 minutes and 6 seconds before the transmission stopped.

And it was a few minutes after that, before we had worked up the nerve to enter the room to look for our missing friend and stop the recording. After that night, we spent a week working together, but never talked or made plans to see each other outside of work. Our customer service scores dropped, and HR asked us what happened to Antonio after his third no-call-no-show. We didn't have any answers for HR, and we didn't have any answers for ourselves. A few weeks later, we all got laid off when the second shift was eliminated, and the company transitioned into a regular 8 to 5 call center. I wasn't afforded the option to move to another shift. I couldn't blame them.

Most evenings, I had just stared at the ringing phone and ignored it, so I see why they wanted to get rid of me. It was better that way. If I'd been fired, I wouldn't have been able to collect unemployment and seek help. I saw a therapist to help me cope and a dermatologist to treat the stretch marks and scars on my limbs. Jackson never got help. Instead, he got a shotgun and ended up in the newspaper after a gruesome murder suicide involving a bunch of strangers. Mark is actually okay, probably because he left the room first.

I see him around town, but we never say hi. We lost track of Liz. She got evicted and hasn't updated her Facebook since that night. And Antonio, the one we left behind, the one who watched the whole transmission, I don't think about him anymore. Like sometimes I start to picture him in my head, twisting and shaking and snarling and I stop myself. If I think of him, I'll just make myself sick.

So I try not to. Nope. Being a successful author can be a challenge. All those book signings, meet and greets, rubbing shoulders with a adoring fans, and there's always that one attendee, a little weird, a bit unusual, just slightly too obsessed. As an author herself, Jessica Hutter shares what happens when an author meets one such fan, who opens his eyes to a few horrifying truths. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Mick Wingert, and Addison Peacock. So put your best face on and prepare to meet

or adoring public, but don't forget about gin. Another one who stared. My PR man noticed her first. He nearly tripped over her feet, sticking out from her perch on the stairs. Ramrod straight back, bent neck, fingernails dug into her tights as her eyes bulged across the store in my direction. Clothes blacker than the shadows she sat in. But skin pasty white and not made up. This was the last detail that unsettled Evan.

Goth would have painted her face. I don't think she's trimming. I think she's just weird. I'd had this conversation with Evan many times. The one about the scary girl fans who came to signings, the groupies many male writers get. In fact, just last night in this same bookstore, the first night of the tour, he'd say, said the exact same thing, the same way.

Nonsalantly, I glanced toward the stairs. I felt a shudder run through my stomach and looked away. She was here last night. Get out. No, she wasn't. Yes, she was. Don't you remember warning me about her yesterday? No? The girl shifted slightly and hugged herself,

like a dark and uneasy bird pulling its wings in. The staircase was not that far away. She'd probably hurt us. But she continued to stare. Then Evan did something he had not done last night. He wandered over toward her, pretending to want to talk to the store manager and blocked her view. She craned her neck to look around his ample rear. But he kept moving back and forth with her, always getting in her way.

At last she was forced to give up. I finished the signing without further interruption, not even noticing what I normally did in the people coming up to the tables, what they said, what they wore, how they smelled. Mindlessly, I scrawled my name on the inside of each book, prepared to nod at any comment and dread any question. But there were none this time. Things were oddly quiet tonight. It was the first signing in years where the predominant sounds were the scratch of my pen. and the soft steps of customers shuffling forward along the carpet, pausing and then walking away.

I decided to cherish the moment. I wouldn't get another event this easy for a long time. I used to like talking to people. I used to like events. Now I liked finishing them. Now I liked martinis. As the last customer left, I rubbed my eyes. The store was dimmer than it had been than I'd have been.

before. My eyes strained and my head ached. I looked up at the lights, wondering if a panel had gone out since yesterday. Why were we here again anyway? It occurred to me as I gathered my pens and packed up my bag that we hadn't booked the store for more than one night of the tour, but here we were, two nights in a row. I glanced over to Evan intending to ask him, but was halted by the sight of him acting strangely. The staring girl was trying to stand up, and he was reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. Then gently but firmly he pushed her back down.

Jesus. I quickly walked over to them. The girl had just managed to get to her feet again when I got there. Is everything all right? I looked at Evan, wondering if he'd been at the cocktails. The last thing I needed was my... PR reps starting a drunken row. This wasn't even Evans' way.

A simperer by nature, he spoke to trouble in apologetic squeak-like noises. He had watery eyes and, because of his weight, tended to wheeze, thus solidifying the image of harmless, which usually worked to his advantage. But he wasn't acting like himself now, darting to and fro between me and the girl, pointing his finger in her face. You don't belong here. Nobody wants you here. Then he pushed her down again.

I looked at him in disbelief. Evan. No, this is me. The girl pointed several times to him and then to herself, as if that explains something. I frowned at her, uncomprehending, but also relieved she wasn't angry. Do you know each other?

clearly a fair question. Yet, without a word, Evan abruptly turned and walked away. It's okay. I'm used to that. The girl touched my arm with a fingertip, having made it to her feet. Her eyes were full on me again, but up close I saw a new thing in them, a thing warmer than insanity. Again, the quake in my middle.

I placed a hand against it. I'd like to apologize for my friend's behavior. Can I sign your copy for you? It's the least I can do. I'll write whatever you want. I smiled as I took the hardcover from her hands, my newest novel. But when I opened it, the smile faltered. It had already been signed.

Now she was the embarrassed one. I was here last night. Right. Sorry. No, of course not. We only, like, chatted for a minute. Shall I personalize it? Sure. God, where was this cheerfulness coming from? Just a moment ago, all I could think of was my hotel room, the bed, the small fridge under the television.

The warm thing in her stare grew. Longing? Sadness? I could see it wasn't fanaticism, so I didn't really care. What's your name? No, wait, I remember. Gin, wasn't it? Yeah. Interesting name.

J-I-N-N, like a derivation of the Arabic for Jeannie. I liked that. How could I have forgotten it? When I finished, I handed the book back. She read what I'd written, looking at the words far longer than was necessary. Her nose twitched and she did a quick inhale, surreptitiously trying to sniff the inscription. Evan had been right.

She was weird. Maybe I should have walked away right then. That's what a wise person would have done. I should have been looking for Evan anyway to see if he was okay. But I didn't move. I had a new need, and it was to go wherever this girl was going. The appeal of my hotel room crumbled under the idea of walking out into that city without her. Can I escort you anywhere?

She nodded, and together we left the bookstore. The transition was smooth, just like the signing had been before Evan lost his shit. No one stopped to shake my hand or to remind me about luncheons or contracts, no gushing girls or boys, nor did I get a sample of the other half of my fans, the irritating critic. Last night, one of my critics had approached, gaunt and pinched around the edges like a decrepit sparrow, a head of graying, electrified tendrils that wafted toward you you when she got too close, sticky saliva that sat in the corners of her lips when she opened them to talk, smelling like

pachuli. I hated her on the spot, clutching my first book in the crook of her arm as if it were an infant she'd just saved from savages. When are you going to write something serious again? None of that tonight.

This evening, something had changed. The alien that had taken over my PR rep had swept his body away where he could not remind me about morning meetings. The lights of the store had been dimmed, specially to provide me cover for escape. Even the city seemed in on the plot, the street lamps darker, too, and looking farther away.

For once, I wasn't suffering the sweaty anticipation of the first drink. I felt light, unusually untethered. The girl walked alongside me, shoulders slumped, hair limp. She focused on her feet the way she'd focused on me earlier. I was used to the girls with the crushes, starry-eyed at the relatively young man-writer before them, bludgeoning people with his angry intellect. It had always been a trait I couldn't help in myself,

and which had been disgusting to women when I was unknown, but which now seemed to attract them. I used to have a therapist to work on the anger, but he would only call it something else, misnaming my demons. So I ditched the therapist and let the anger steamroll me through three more books and millions more dollars and a growing number of females who mistook my anger too for something else, but with much pleasanter results. This girl, Jin, wasn't the same as the others. She seemed resigned to have me at her side as we walked through the first.

streets. I didn't ask where we were going. She clearly had someplace in mind. I glanced over in time to see a homeless man emerge from a doorway. The man continued to shout his word at our backs, but made no move to follow. Eventually, the sound of him popped out of existence, like he'd come to the end of the tape. Sorry. It's not your fault. She didn't look amused or like she agreed with me. We walked a bit longer in silence, enjoying the mild night, when she spoke up again. This book was different. Oh, you mean mine? I guess it was. Why?

I got tired of philosophizing. I guess I wanted to relax. I winced on the last word, because of another pang in my gut, making it sound like I didn't mean it. All right. enough. When I walked this girl to wherever she was going, I'd get a taxi back and go straight for a pill. I just needed a good night's sleep. I was too wound up. This damn tour. I'd been dreading it from the start. From the moment my publishers said they would print the book. I guess I'd hoped they wouldn't go through with it. It was the worst thing I'd ever written. I knew it from the first thing I'd ever written. I knew it from the

the moment I finished the first draft. What was horrifying was how much I hadn't cared. A gang of teenagers across the street began catcalling. Gin ducked her head and walked faster, looking pained. To my bafflement, she apologized for them as well. I had to admit, the gang made me nervous, too. What was up with New York tonight? It wasn't that late, but the streets were almost deserted.

The area wasn't bad, but it suddenly felt dangerous. I grew up in a bad neighborhood. Getting caught late at night alone in a city is a fear of mine. It often comes up. It's good tonight, you've got me. Uh-huh. She glanced at me and almost smiled. My pride wasn't hurt.

I'd had trouble saying it myself without laughing. I mean, look at me. Finally, some more people appeared on the sidewalk. Several looked our way in passing, and a few called out hello. A young couple walking arm in arm, a police officer, a pregnant woman. My companion gave perfunctory waves, never slowing down. I was having trouble keeping up, my skin dampening. It's okay. We're almost there.

There was a harsh gust of wind. She tried to control her black coat, which flapped behind her, again giving me a glimpse of the ungainly bird yanking at its wings. I want you to know I've always been a big fan of yours. Your stories have always made me happy. Your characters, they have such a hard time, but they always find something in themselves that saves them. They become their own heroes.

Hearing that, almost her. as much as my stomach. Sinuses tingling. I opened my mouth to thank her, but a different sentiment came out instead, bathed myself. This time when her coat sleeve rose in the wind, a hand extended from it, giving mine a cool squeeze and letting go. I wanted to grab the hand back. I wanted to cling. Isn't that astounding? I'm nothing like what I write. Maybe that's what writers are. She stopped walking then and pointed. I looked around.

We'd come to the Brooklyn Bridge, the boardwalk beneath our feet, a single iron railing keeping us from plunging into the East River. I went up to the railing and leaned over it. Hey, I haven't been down here in ages. You don't mean we're going to cross the bridge tonight. You live in Brooklyn? She shook her head. I was very tired now.

I walked over to a bench and sat down, blinking at the view. I felt myself smiling, a smile from far away. Oh, good. My father used to take me here. Tell me something astounding about. She gazed at the bridge, too, then down at the Black River. Then she turned to face me, taking a deep deep, breath. I pull other people into my dream times. I pull other people into my dreams. I just looked at her.

Not on purpose. When I'm awake, I'll meet them, run into them, whatever. Even just a few seconds is enough for someone to latch on subconsciously. Then, through that connection, they just wander into my dream one night. They wander in. You're the one. dreaming them. It's not me. It's them. And it's not everybody I meet, of course, only the ones who...

Well, it doesn't happen all the time anyway. But when they do come, they've usually got a reason. I'll be dreaming along, dealing with my own subconscious, the usual issues, feeling like I don't belong, rejection,

my fear of the city at night. Suddenly, someone who doesn't belong, Just shows up. How do you know they don't belong? They smell. Excuse me? I don't mean they stink.

They just have a smell. Like in real life, like a real person. No one else in my dreams ever has one. I recalled how she'd sniffed my book. In your dream? Now, this is all... I gestured at the bridge, the river, the city. You?

And I just wandered in? I was dreaming about the reading at the bookstore. I guess that's what drew you in. I was really sorry to see you here, more than the others who come. Why? Why did I come? You know. You're the one who named me.

Underneath my tiredness was the pain in my gut, and on top of that was the lightness still. The delightful feeling of unattachment. How could a person feel all of those things at once? I think I need a hospital. She made no move. The thing in the stair I could not recognize before, that softer, warmer animal.

I knew it now. Pity. What's going on? I think I'm sick. Please. Let's just get out of here. She didn't move. I tried to straighten up. But the pain was too great. The pain and the lightness.

I can't play this game anymore. What's my name? Jin. She waited. I, given the wrong answer. I said it again, this time picturing it in my mind correctly, removing the final N and replacing the J with a G. Now she nodded. Pity mixed with approval. I thought of the pills in my hotel room. How much I needed them now. And the truth

swooped down on me. I gasped. tears. It took too many. Tuck them with the chin. Right. Is it over? Really? Just like that?

She said nothing. Did, but I knew her answer. Just wake up. Get us out of here. The homeless man in the doorway. The gang of teenagers. The odd collection of strangers on the street. The abusive version of Evan.

I did not belong here. The girl reached out to touch my shoulder, just the way Evan had before he'd pushed her down. No, before she'd pushed herself down, telling herself no one wanted her. But when her hand landed, the touch was gentle. I can't wake up. Where would I go?

She held my book out in front of her, open to the first page. I read what I'd written in her copy of my lousy final night. I want to go to the river by the Brooklyn Bridge, where my father used to take me. The pain subsided as I remembered. That's right. This was where we came every Sunday. We ate hot dog. We watched the gulls.

There was just my face wet with old tears. She smiled. Thanks for the book. I'll always be a fan. And she sat down on the bench, pulling in her dark wings. It's natural to feel protective of your child, to want to shield them from the world to keep them safe. In this tale from author Gemma Amour,

We're introduced to a father who will do anything for his daughter, and it's hard not to be moved by the dedication he shows. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, and Atticus Jackson. So let your heart be warmed by the story of a man who dotes on his child. And if you're not moved, then perhaps you have a heart of stone. My daughter is the prettiest girl you ever saw. She is so pretty and perfect that she will be famous one day. I guarantee it. She's nine years old and has golden hair, green eyes, and freckles everywhere.

She looks just like her mom. I only see her two times a month. Me and her mom didn't, well, we didn't work out. Now Jenny lives with her mom and her new dad. and I'm allowed to see her every other weekend. Her name is Jenny McBride. McBride's her mom's name, not mine. I didn't even get to give her my name in the end.

My name, it's not important. Jenny's favorite food in all the world is chocolate. And so every time we meet is in my favorite diner in town where they make hot chocolates with spray cream towers on top so tall you sometimes cannot see over them. The sprinkles on the cream leave brown smudges all over Jenny's face. And I like to spit on my sleeve or a napkin and rub them off while she wriggles and belches and looks happy. The staff at the diner all love her.

They give her extra marshmallows. She is nearly always sick afterwards. And then cannot manage her dinner. And my ex-wife Julie shouts at, me for spoiling her appetite. But I don't see her four days a month. How else am I going to show her I love her? Jenny is growing up so fast, growing up so smart. She doesn't get that for me. I know. She gets it from her mom. Always too good for me was Julie, with her fancy education and nice clothes and rich father who bought her anything she ever wanted whenever she wanted it.

warned her off me, he did, told Julia I was worthless, lazy, wouldn't amount to anything. Turns out he was right, wasn't he? I am nothing. Except that's not quite true. I'm Jenny McBride's father. And that, right now, that is enough for me. The divorce was hard. Maybe the hardest thing I've been through in my life. waking up to an empty house and instead of my daughter climbing into bed for a cuddle, well, that hurts just as much now as it did the first morning I opened my eyes after Julie kicked me out. I used to wake up with a full heart, you see? Open my eyes and see my girl, my little girl.

But now I only see the ceiling, the walls, the floor, the windows, and my heart isn't full anymore. My heart is cold, like stone. until until i see jenny again every time we sit down behind our towering hot chocolates she opens her mouth and tells me something so bold that it makes me choke on my drink she has a boyfriend now apparently a boy in her class at school called giles as soon as she tells me this i realize i hate giles even if he is only nine years old i don't want to compete for jenny's love Her love only belongs to me. Well, I consider waiting outside the school gates after school one afternoon, lying in wait for Giles, pulling him into the bushes by the parking lot, putting my hands around his neck.

But then I remember that Giles is only a nine-year-old boy, and besides, I have a restraining order on me, and I can't go near the school anyways. But I don't understand it. When I was nine, I thought all the girls were stupid. And I know that the girls thought the same about us. Kids are so different these days. With their boyfriends and girlfriends and their makeup and their smartphones and video games and group chats and all that nonsense. It worries me that Jenny talks so much and so openly about kissing and holding hands and dating apps and which pop star she thinks is cute and what lipstick her mom bought for her.

I never let her wear any of that stuff when she's with me. If she's wearing makeup when she arrives, I take her straight to the bathroom to wash it off. I want her to look like she's a nine-year-old, not dolled up, not mature before her time. With me, Jenny is a child. We have hot chocolate, or go to the movies, or play frisbee in the park, or run around the zoo making funny faces at the marmosets. We don't look at cell phones, or talk about fashion or moon over stupid social media celebrity. Some things are sacred, aren't they?

Jenny's innocence is one of those things. So is our time together, so sacred. I wish I could turn her to stone, preserve her like this forever. But then I remember it doesn't work like that. I remember that she's supposed to grow into a beautiful young woman and maybe have a little girl of her own to feed hot chocolate to. I also remember that thinking in this way has gotten me into trouble before. And so the clock ticks on

And before I know it, our Diner Date is over, and she's kissing me goodbye With her sweeter than chocolate breath Hot on my cheek. I can feel my insides go all hard and solid. And I'm heavy. Heavy's a rock. There's a waitress working in the diner

Who always looks sad when she sees me with Jenny. Sad? Like she knows what's happening. Maybe she can see how unhappy I get when the few hours we have together are over. When Jenny's mom is back, ready to take her away, arms folded, tapping her foot as she waits for us to pay the bill, wipe our faces. I always order a large black coffee afterwards because I need something scalding hot to warm up my insides. I wave my Jenny off and stare out the window.

Sometimes I try to read the newspaper or a magazine left lying around as a distraction, but I can never really get into it. usually end up lost in my own head. My coffee sits untouched in front of me. One Saturday, after Jenny is gone, the waitress in the diner slips me her phone number on a napkin as she serves me. I make eye contact with her. She's nice looking. A little tired, like me.

A little worn around the edges. Like me. But I don't mind that. The company is nice, I guess. I pocket the number. and try to forget about it for a while. It's too soon after the last one, really. I should space things out a bit.

But also, I reason, as the phone number burns a hole in my pocket, well, time is slipping by all too fast, and I suppose I should make the most of it. Jenny is always badgering me to get another girlfriend. She liked the last one. But the less said on that the better. Jenny says it's good for me to be around other people. She says I spend way too much time on my own.

Jenny is wise for a nine-year-old. Her wisdom frightens me because one of these days will come to meet me for hot chocolate and she won't be nine years old anymore. She'll be a beautiful teenager with questions and the whole truth about her mom and me will come out and she won't want to see me anymore. The truth is that there were other women aside from Julie. lots of others, and now I'm paying for it. I tried to explain to Julie that I couldn't help it. It's in my nature, and I didn't want to hurt Julie, not like the others. She wouldn't listen to me, and things ended.

Now I watch my little girl getting taller and bolder, and I wish more than anything that I could take her away from all the bitterness her mom will make her eat when she's older. And what will happen when her mom does tell her everything? Well, that precious childhood of hers will be over. And because Julie hates me, she won't miss out on any of the gory details. And my little girl will suddenly see that I'm not her hero. She'll feel like she no longer knows me.

And I would not blame her one bit. I'm not so sure I can bear to let that happen. My fists close around the sugar shaker on the table in front of me, and that cold, sinking stone feeling spreads through my body. And there's a quiet, creaking sound. And suddenly, the glass shaker in my hand is not made of glass anymore. I look down and see that it is now a perfect stone replica of a sugar shaker, carved from gray granite, every tiny detail perfectly reproduced.

Almost as if, almost as if it's not a replica at all. but rather the thing has simply turned to stone in my hand, like my heart has turned to stone in my chest. I slipped the shaker into my pocket, along with the phone number, and leave. Next week, and I have bought her a giant jewelry box with a little mechanical ballerina inside who spins around in time to tinkly music when you lift the lid. I might buy her a trinket to put inside as well, a charm bracelet or something. I won't be able to see her on the actual day, as it's not my week that week.

So today, we are going to have another birthday for her, just Jenny and me and no one else. We're going to have hot chocolate, the biggest one I can buy. And I hope it spoils her dinner real good. And then we'll go bowling. And when she is gone, I will try not to think about how. long it will be until I see her again. I will try, and I will fail. I'm sitting in my usual seat in the diner next to the window. The waitress who gave me her phone number is looking at me from across the room, I can tell, probably wondering why I haven't called her yet. She should be

grateful, really. She's safe so far. She's warm and flesh, unlike the others. I like to sit here because I get a good view out of the window in the direction my Jenny walks after her mom drops her off down the main street. You can also see the diners counter from here. And Jenny likes to look at the pastries and pies and pull funny faces at the staff.

They always pull faces back, twisting their lips or sticking their fingers in their nostrils and blowing out their cheeks, each faced more disgusting than the last, until my girl is almost crying with laughter. When my girl sees, She's her jewelry box. She is so happy that I have to try hard not to blub like a baby and make her ashamed of me. Her great big eyes are wide as she hoax about in all the little compartments and trays,

telling me what she's going to put in each part, and ruffling the tiny ballerina's tutu with her sparkly painted fingernail. The dark, cold stone inside my chest, it warms. I can feel it's softening, and then it beats. For the first time in days, a clear, distinct heartbeat. And I can feel blood flowed through my veins once more. Like I'm an icicle thawing out. And when I'm with Jenny, I'm a man, not a block of ice, not a statue. Jenny gives me life. Do you know what the music is, Daddy?

She's sucking hot chocolate up through a metal straw and stroking the jewelry box affectionately, like it's a dog or a cat. No, Jenny. Do you? She nods. Of course she knows. She knows everything. She goes to school and crams it into that pretty head of hers and reels it off to anyone that listens. I call her my little sponge, because that's what she is, soaking up anything anyone tells her. It's Beethoven, Daddy. It's called the Moonlight Sonata, and I can play the first 13 bars of it on the piano. I laugh, I tell her to stop showing off and drink her chocolate.

I stroke her hair and wipe off the chocolate that is smeared across her cheeks with my napkin, just like I've done a thousand times before. Sometimes you can love someone so much. You want to hug them hard until they just get sucked into you, making one person. Sometimes you can love someone so much, you want to just capture them in stone forever. they never leave you. When she walks off, I noticed that she is taller than she was last month. She's going to grow up slim and blonde and tanned. I have to let her. That's the hardest thing of all about being a parent, letting them go once they're no longer children. I'm not sure I can do it.

The waitress who gave me her phone number is called Barbara. Barbara and I decide to go on a date. The same weekend is Jenny's real birthday. I figure I could use the distraction. Better to be out in company while Jenny is at home with her mom and her other dad opening her presents, dancing at her party. You know, then to sit by myself at home thinking about it. Well, before I head out to meet Barbara, I ring Jenny to wish her a happy birthday. I'm only allowed to call her between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. on the Saturdays when she's not with me. But I never miss it.

When she answers the phone, I can tell that she's upset. What's the matter, sweetie? You sound sad. Can't keep the jewelry box you bought me. Because she bought me one for my birthday, too. She put years up. The grip on the phone handset, and my head starts to throb as she continues. I'm so sorry.

I can feel something cold happening in my stomach, a strange, steady, tingling sensation that crawls up my skin and along my arms and legs radiating out of me like x-rays. You know, I think it might be hate. Yes, that's it. Pure hate. I'm sure of it. I'm sorry. I'd already bought one for her, and it cost me a fair few dollars, too. You should have consulted me, really. Saved us any confusion. The silence hangs heavy. My grip tightens. The cold spreads up my arms and into my fingers.

Anyway, at least the thought was there. I'll reimburse you at the next pickup. I know money is an issue for you. Wish her happy birthday for me. Then I try to hang up the phone. And I can't because it isn't a functioning handset anymore. It crashes into the wall on its cord as I let go. suddenly heavy. Heavy is a rock, because it is a rock, a perfect stone copy of a phone handset,

and it smashes into the wall and then slowly sinks to the ground on an overstretched cord that can't support its weight anymore. A little pile of dust and gravel smatter onto the linoleum floor around it, and I look at it for a moment. I should cancel my date. I know. Instead, I put on a pair of leather gloves. Our date passes in a haze. I don't say my I can't. I don't really feel anything, except for the constant pain of hate. Barbara is disappointed. I can tell. I don't touch her, not once, despite wearing gloves. I don't trust myself. Instead of Barbara, I see a jewelry box lying on the doorstep, the ballerina turning uselessly inside as the music winds down. What was it? A moonlight, something?

I hear the tune playing instead of Barbara's voice as she speaks to me. I keep my hands in my pockets and my arms tucked in tight by my sides. At the end of the night, I walk her to her apartment. She invites me inside, still holding out hope that she can turn the date around. I hesitate, and as I do so, I can hear an echo, an echo of my Jenny crying. And I can feel it. The cold, taking over me. and I know it is too late for Barbara.

It will be the same for her as it was with the other women before her. And then I give into it. The hate. I rip off my gloves, hustle Barbara inside, and before she knows what is happening, I have wrapped my arms around her waist. She smiles at first, before she can feel what is happening to her.

She smiles because she thinks I am making a move on her, that her plan to seduce me has worked after all. But it's not that. I am not interested in that. All I am doing is letting my rage out, letting it slide along my stony veins and out of my hard, cold fingers. And then her smile freezes and her eyes go wide.

Her waist is now hard and rough to the touch and solid. The warmth and the softness of her woman's curves gone. The dark red of her fake leather jacket, slowly turning a dull gray. There is a creaking, crunching sound, like that of ice cracking on a park. I should stop, but now that I have started it, it would be kind of cruel to leave her like this,

half stone, half human. As if, to prove my point, Barbara gasps for air. Strange, gurgling, choking noises coming out of her. Her face turning purple. Her mouth open, like that of a fish. It takes me a few moments to realize. that she is suffocating.

Her lungs are rock now and won't take in any air. I stare into her terrified eyes, but I don't let go. My rage keeps on coming. It flows out of me and into her, and then, before she starves of oxygen, her face, her warm, pink, soft face turns dark and immobile. little bit by little bit. Starting from her neck, creeping up over her mouth, turning her teeth into perfect stone eggs.

Then her nose and her eyes, and then moving up over her hair, it is done. She is hard and cool to the touch, frozen in time forever. Her face, a sculpture of fear. I let Barbara fall to the floor. She topples over, rigid, and the crash as she hits the ground is deafening.

One outstretched hand snaps off with the impact. So does her head, the neck being the weakest part of the statue, and it rolls away from me, settling in the corner. Headless, handless. She looks like a sculpture from an art gallery, or something you might find in an old garden somewhere, or in an old painting, with roses growing wild around her. Only there are no roses for Barbara, only the floor.

I leave and walk home. My anger and hate has simmered down a little. The music box still tinkles along in my mind. Quieter now. I would feel some regret for what I have done, but I can't. My heart is stone. My girl's faces all over every newspaper and magazine you could imagine. She is facing the camera straight on, and it is a wonder the photographer did not pass out in the dazzle of her smile.

In the photo, she is pearly white teeth and olive glittering skin. She is a beautiful young woman, the most beautiful I ever saw, more beautiful even than her mom was at that age. Everyone around me seems to know my girl's name these days. Did you hear about Jenny McBride, they say, opening their papers to the double-page spread that sets out her whole life, including what happened with me and her mom, with pictures of her as a baby, with creases of fat on her arms, and a smile that could knock you out. Even then, even when she was so little and I was still allowed to be called her daddy. The picture was taken just after Jenny's 17th birthday. It was her first proper model. It was her first proper model. job. I hated that her mom let her do it. It changed her. She grew unnatural airs and graces. She stared at her

phone all the time. And she told me she couldn't drink hot chocolate anymore, that there were too many calories in it. We stopped going to the diner. She stopped wanting to hang out with me, her own daddy. Well, I felt jealous and angry, always, every day, every day, every one. waking moment, thinking of all those other men looking at her in the magazines and on the TV. I asked her once if she thought it was a good career choice. Jenny? I said it quietly because she was developing a temper like her moms, and I didn't want to provoke her. You're real smart, Jenny. Do you really want to be a model for the rest of your life?

She punched me on the arm while scrolling through something on her phone, only half listening to me. Of course not, Dad. Modeling is fun, but I want to be an actress. I told her she could be anything she wanted to be, but I didn't mean it. Acting was worse somehow than modeling. If she was an actress, and if she was famous, she would belong to everyone instead of me. I had to do something to protect her from all of that. A girl is famous now, despite everything. and so am I.

Everyone knows my girl's name. Did you hear about Jenny McBride, they say? Waving their smartphones and newspapers at each other and turning up their TV sets loud when the news comes on? Tonight, I am on the TV too. Me and Julie, and the camera is close on my face. Julie is not looking her best, with mascara streaked all over her cheeks

and great back. bags of misery under her eyes. Good. Now you know how it feels. One small part of me wonders if I should wipe all the black stuff away so that she can see properly. Another part of me thinks that if I touch her right now, I won't be able to stop until the entire room. The entire fucking city is turned to stone.

Instead, I sit next to my ex-wife in a large gray room, a cluster of microphones in front my face. This is the first time I've ever used a microphone, and it makes my voice sound all tinny and robotic. Every few seconds there's a pop and a flash of light, and someone shouts out my name. I respond just as the detective handling Jenny's case instructed me. Please, please, if you have our Jenny, we just need her to come home. We love her and miss her. She is so precious to us. Please, let her go. The words come out easily, despite everything. Despite the fact that I know this, this whole thing, this press briefing, these cameras, my speech, it's all a lie.

Because I know where Jenny is, don't I? Julie breaks down into sobs next to me. I continue to keep my hands to myself. The reporters in the room go wild after I finish speaking. But it's not me they want to hear from. I've spoken. It's broken, weeping, Julie, whose misery they want to taste of now. Mrs. McBride, what do you think happened to your daughter?

Mrs. McBride? Who do you think has her? The babble of voices mingles into one loud, rushing noise. And then this fades. And I hear that music box again. The moonlight sonata, Jenny's scream. Did you hear about Jenny McBride? they say. They shake their heads, blow out their cheeks, and tell each other how terrible it is.

And her, so young, too. My girl Jenny is famous. And I will never see her again. Except that's not strictly the truth. At home, I have this little jewelry box, a box that plays music, something by Beethoven, with a ballerina that spins around inside when you lift the lid. And hidden in a secret compartment at the bottom of the box is a napkin with chocolate smudges on it. An old one I used to use to wipe Jenny's face clean with. There is also a photograph of us smiling together. She's nine years old in the photograph. That's how I remember Jenny.

My Jenny. And lastly, tucked away in the very bottom of the secret compartment, there was a lock of soft, blonde hair tied up with a white ribbon. And then something gray, cold, and stony in the shape of a finger perfectly carved, a finger that has been snapped off at the knuckle joint. The single fingernail is dainty, and there is a faint suggestion of a surface pattern like glittery nail polish. The fingerprint is perfectly, brilliantly detailed. The finger is solid and elegant and hard and rough to the touch like rock. The rest of Jenny is now gravel. Gravel scattered in the yard behind my house. Dust, just like my heart. I stare at the microphones in front of me

and open my mouth. No words come out. My heart is stone. As our service concludes, we send you away with our blessings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program,

please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. Over 60 hours of content for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week in our sleepless sanctuary. This audio production is copyright 2018-2020 by Creative Reason Meeky. Media, Inc. All blessed rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.