The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S12E23

Episode Date: May 19, 2019

It's episode 23 of Season 12. On this week's show we have tales about bad places to be at the wrong time.   "The Cecily Marsh Interview " written by C.K. Walker (Story starts around 00:02:20) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: David – David Cummings, Cecily – Erika Sanderson "Sanguine Libations Part 2" written by C.M. Scandreth (Story starts around 00:30:30) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Katie – Jessica McEvoy, Brian – Jesse Cornett, Silas – Graham Rowat, Mystery Buyer – David Cummings "I Work at a Bad Motel" written by Jon Grilz (Story starts around 01:05:30) Produced by: Jeff Clement TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: New Night Manager – Jeff Clement, Old Night Manager – Mick Wingert, Phone Woman – Alexis Bristowe, Sally – Nichole Goodnight "The Hell Halls of Holy-Ween" written by Jennifer Winters (Story starts around 01:31:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Jackie – Nichole Goodnight, Amanda – Jessica McEvoy, Amira – Addison Peacock, Evie/ Demon Toddler Boy/High School Girl – Erika Sanderson, Leslie – Alexis Bristowe, Sister Cobb – Sarah Thomas, Brother Joe Cobb – Mike DelGaudio, Cole – Elie Hirschman "The Things Cassie Saw" written by Charlotte Ledville (Story starts around 01:54:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Samantha – Addison Peacock , Cassie – Jessica McEvoy , Corey – Peter Lewis , Mom – Nikolle Doolin, Dad – David Cummings, Teacher – Sarah Thomas, Weather Announcer – Dan Zappulla Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about C.K. Walker   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Click here to learn more about Jon Grilz   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Sanguine Libations" illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy 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 clit. 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 bad places to be at the wrong time. We're coming to the end of season 12 already. Next week is the penultimate episode and the following week will be our season finale. With season 12 almost in the books, that means we'll be offering another bundle, the first 12 bundle, where you can buy all our season past content, including season 12, in one fell swoop. And before the start of season 13, we'll be doing another one of our bundle sales, where you can buy large bundles or Terror Trio bundles at greatly reduced prices. And I'll talk more about some exciting new changes coming for season 13 on the next episode.

So keep in touch with us on social media and watch our website for all the details in the coming weeks. But let's not look too far into the future, because now it's time for our service to begin. Bow your heads and hear our words. This is normally where I would say, in our first tale, but instead I'm going to play for you an interview I was lucky enough to do with a renowned medium by the name of Cecily Marsh. The tales she has to tell are quite captivating. So let's jump right in. with the Cecily Marsh interview.

Well, here we are, sitting in my office, and we're going to do something a little different this week. We at the No Sleep podcast have managed to arrange an interview with renowned medium and mistress of the occult, Cecily Marsh. Thank you, Cecily, so much for being on the podcast. Oh, well, thank you for working with me. I know my schedule is inconvenient and ever-changing.

I think it's been about, oh, Well, over a year we've been trying to get together. Yes, that's true, but great things take time. Indeed. So, let's jump right in. Cessaly, you were born in Ireland and lived there until about the age of 17. Is that right? Absolutely correct.

My family moved to the States, and I've been here ever since. Can you talk a little bit about your credentials, what you do? I were... Well, generally I say that I explore our world from the other side of the veil. I learn about physical things or places that are supernaturally charged or strange or perhaps things that exist, things that you come into contact with every day, that you don't know about. Bethelms, for example, we'll be talking about those today

since most of your listeners are probably less than 10 feet away from one right now. I also help people when I can on a case-by-case basis, with medium work. Ah, thalems. I'm very excited to hear about those. Oh, be careful what you wish for. There's a thelm here right now, but two, actually. Oh, yes?

Hmm. Can you tell me about thallums? Good things take time, remember? Ah, of course. Okay, so I know we talked a little bit about what you wanted to cover today, but we're kind of playing fast and list. loose with this interview. Would you like to begin with, I think it was a bookstore?

Yes, yes. A Donal bookstore. Of course, it's a little place outside of Portree, Scotland, in the Highlands. Ah, cold. Very, but beautiful. Adonel has been there for about 700 years or so. It's a little place run by a very nice man named Rafe de Barclay. If you ask, he'll tell you the bookstore has been handed.

down generation to generation, but truly, Raff's been there since 1280, before Portchie was even a town. He's been there since 1280? Oh, I see. Yes, you're a medium, so you can communicate with someone that old. So, Rave's story is very interesting, but he does not volunteer it to many. I managed to get it out of him with the help of good scotch, like a voulin 16. Oh, yes.

I know it very well. The 16 would pour my secrets right into the glass. And that's how it was with Rhaef. One night we were hiding from the rain, tucked in front of his fireplace and sipping scotch. I asked about his life,

and he told me all about Donal. His bookstore? Yes, and his brother. Donal was Raph's twin. The DeBarkleys worked in a friary in Inverness in the 13th century. Dornel, Raph, their oldest sister Christiana and their father, whose name Rafe would not give.

Their mother died birthing the twins. Hmm, common at the time. Yes, but no less tragic. Adonel, like their father, preferred work at the friary, while Raif liked to hide away in the corner of their rooms and write. He was obsessed with books, stories. But according to Rafe himself, had little talent for writing. He had trouble with endings, he said.

Well, when they were 16 years of old, Rafe and Donal were pulled from their duties by their father to watch an execution in the courtyard. When they arrived, Raph said they were horrified to see that the condemned was their sister, Christianer, who was only 17. Now, the twins were very close to their sister. They begged and pleaded with a cold and stoic father to stop the execution. He told them it was a good lesson for them to learn about the sins of the children. the flesh. You see, allegedly, Christiana had been caught with an older man. Traveling minister, Rave thinks he was. It's difficult for him to remember. Their cries went

unheard and the brothers were forced to watch the hanging, which Rave said didn't go easy. They left the body to swing for over a week. But during this time, Dornel cried himself to sleep every night, but Raph had become increasingly consumed. His sister was dead. It was an ending. Now, Raph visited the body every day until it was cut down, and he became even more obsessed with endings. The end of the day, the end of a story, the end of a life.

He describes it as the beginning of his love affair with death. In him, grew a certain necessity to know how his own story would end. Eventually, half-suffering from the madness of it, Rath ran away. Adonel tried to stop him, to save him, but Raph would hear none of it. He left anyway, left Donal in tears and stole two horses. He went into the fairy pool south of what is now portory. He waded in and begged the fairies to tell him how he would die, but they would not. Later, he would learn it was because they could not. Dejected, he left a horse's payment So that the fairies would not curse him

And Raff wandered north Then he met a woman on the road She told him she knew what he sought And that she could provide him with many, many endings Raff was excited She asked him to slaughter his horse Right there in the road as payment for these stories But Raph needed the horse to get home

And back to his family He begged the woman to consider other payment The woman asked Rafe if he had family. Upon learning that he had a twin, she became excited and asked Raif to bring Donal right back to where they were standing. Raff offered to bring another horse instead, but the woman was insistent. And Raph was obsessed. Ah, Raph returned with Donal, didn't he?

He did. And then the woman told him if he wanted his ending, he needed to slaughter his brother. Raph said no. Then the woman offered him more endings. Every ending, in fact, to every story. Raff told me, to his eternal shame, he could not deny himself this. He was consumed.

And so, he stabbed Donal in the heart. Donal fell to the ground, and in his place the ground grew cold. Before he could ask a single question, the woman vanished. Raph went home enveloped in unimaginable. grief. He became mute for years. His father asked after Donal, but Raff would not answer. But Raff visited the road every few weeks. And every week, another stone was in the path. And after a year, Rave realised that the stones were beginning to form a structure. And after another year, it was a building. Rave did not return again till his 37th year, still mute. But by then, the building was

finished. And inside were his endings. So many endings. Raff locked himself inside the stone building and devoured the books. They were the life stories of people, the everyday mundane stories, but they had endings. And Raph was captivated. By the time he had read every single book in the building, he'd realized much time had passed. Of perhaps 40 years. God, this is his story, mind you. But he hadn't aged. And when he turned back to the very first book he'd read, he realised it had changed. And that was something else.

A different name. A different story. So he started again. After a few hundred years, Rave decided to open as a bookstore. The town of Port Shry was materialising around him. Rave had business. A good business. His customers would occasionally find their own book.

He would never see them again after that. But of all the books in the store, Raff could never find his own. Well, that was his curse, I guess. And perhaps it's because Rave has no ending. He is still alive, after all. Still alive, you say? Well, that is quite a story. And you say he's no longer mute?

Oh, yes. He told me he became quite lonely. He wanted to talk to. people again. You can't shut him up now. Oh, fascinating. Yes, and they could just be the ravings of an eccentric old man, but you can't deny the books. They are there. And they're real. I've seen them. And did you find your own book when you visited? I certainly looked for it. But Rafe told me that someone else had bought it several years before, which is quite unsettling. Yes, understandable. I mean, if someone gains access to your privacy online, that can be unsatisfying.

settling enough, but for a person to have your book like that, ugh, very disturbing. Well, okay, as our time is getting short, can you tell us about Thelms? All right, let me ask you this, David. We're sitting in your office right now. Tell me, how many rooms in your home are currently empty? Oh, I don't know.

Maybe four rooms? That means you currently have four Thelams in your home. Ah, so they live in empty rooms? Well, Thelams are interesting. They don't really live anywhere. They exist there, and only ever in empty rooms. What are they? They're sort of like placeholders, vessels.

They hold the energy in the room, and they wait and listen. And what are they waiting for? Someone to enter. When you enter a room, you absorb whatever energy is there. That's why sometimes you might walk into a room and feel cold or unsettled. Or perhaps you feel warm or happy. Or maybe you feel nothing at all. Or the thelms hold the energy until you enter and then it releases it into you.

I see. So they're neutral. Well, not all of them. If a room has a particularly strong negative energy or perhaps someone was violently assaulted or killed or frightened, and holding that energy can affect the thelam over time. The thelm can become a conduit for that negative energy. It can start to have motivations and even thoughts. Wow.

And it's not as rare as you think. For all of the listeners out there, I want you to think about something. Think of your home as it is right now. Think of the empty rooms in your house or apartment. Some of those rooms, you keep the doors closed, don't you? A spare bedroom, an office, a bathroom. You don't need to keep the door closed. The room is orderly, but the airflow would be better in your house if the door was open.

But you always keep that door closed. Do you know why? I'm afraid to ask. It's because you don't like that thelm. Maybe a particularly negative one lives in that room. Maybe there are several you don't like, and you subconsciously always close the room. those doors. I know in my home in Reading I have two nasty ones, the one in my sewing room and

one of my guest bathroom. And do you make it a point to avoid those rooms? I used to, but as soon as you entered, the thelam dissipates and the energy is unleashed onto you. Well, the average person probably won't notice it, but I certainly can. It makes it easier to combat the slide, the slide into negative feelings. Have you ever seen one? Yes, and you can too. I'm going to teach you how to do that, but first a word of warning. That everyone's experienced the sensation of walking into a room and immediately forgetting why, right? Oh, absolutely. Yes, very common. Yes. Well, we think Thelims are responsible for this too.

A colleague of mine, Dr. Mark Frederick, he theorizes that this occurs when a thelm stays after you've crossed the threshold. Well, most Thelms don't stay because that's not what Thelms are for, but some of the more negatively charged Thelms may do this to push their negative energy at you stronger. It's not natural, not common, and it can short circuit your brain a little when this happens. But next time it does happen to you, try to take stock of your feelings at that exact moment.

If you're a little vexed and confused, but the phthalm is probably weaker. If you feel scared or unsettled, then that's a sign that the phthalm is strong and possibly angry, and you should avoid that room for a while. Now, what do they look like? Some of your listeners may be able to see them for themselves, but for those who can't, they're generally as tall as the room is, dark in colour and sort of wispy. They have a shape, but it's constantly readjusting, like smoke.

Tendrils that search out emotion and energy in the room, collecting it. They stand in the centre. Some Thelms have been undisturbed for decades or hundreds of years. In fact, the final story I'm going to tell you tonight involves a thelam who'd been living in. in a room for about 400 years before it dissipated when we arrived. Well, I can't wait for that, but can you tell our listeners how they can see Athelam? Absolutely. But before I do, I do want to reiterate to everyone that athelm cannot hurt you.

They can push energy at you, and the strongest can even pull energy from you, but they cannot injure you. Right. Okay, that's noted. So all you'll need for this is darkness and a candle. It doesn't matter what time of day you do it As long as the room is very dark But choose a room in your house

You don't enter much One where the door is always closed When not in use These elements are usually the strongest And most dense in colour Which means they're easier to see Light a candle or a match Anything will do as long as it's fire

And open the door to the room But do not enter Do not pass your arm over the threshold Do not let any part of your body cross the doorframe. You want the thelam to remain in the room. Now, if you have a candle, set it in the doorframe at your feet. If it's a match or a lighter, simply hold it out towards the room, but again, not crossing the threshold of the door. You may begin to catch movement out of the corner of your eye. If you stand long enough, you'll begin to see the phelum move. It will look like

tendrils or cloudy vines, or maybe to you would look like smoke in the corners of the room. It will be movement beyond that of a flickering flame. If you wait long enough, at some point the phthalm may reach out to collect your energy. And that is what I mean when I say about pulling energy from you. You'll feel it before you see it, but you will see it. As soon as you start to feel a sort of coolness, I guess, or a fear of emptying, that is when the thelum is touching you. For me, it feels like an overwhelming emotion of frustration, but it's different for everyone. I don't recommend standing there too long, well, five minutes at most. If Athelam likes what he feels, he could go deeper into you. And again, this will not harm you, but will fill you with a

sense of unease for the rest of the day, at least. So what's the longest that you've interacted with Othelam? Around half an hour, and I don't recommend that. The colleague I mentioned earlier, Mark Frederick, well, he and I read about someone in China who was able to communicate with Othelam for about 20 minutes, and we attempted that. Well, our Thelham didn't have much to say it simply shoved very disturbing images into our heads. We believe it was the incident that created the negativity in the room in the first place. The Thelam was trying to get rid of it. If this starts to happen to any of your listeners,

well, images that come from nowhere and are unsettling or disturbing, immediately enter the room or leave. We don't know what can happen if you allow the felons to do this to you. Hmm, fascinating. It is indeed. Well, Mark has had much more success communicating with Thelham. since then, and I'm very much looking forward to a paper he's publishing on the subject later this year. Oh, I'd be fascinated to read that paper as well. This is all so interesting.

Now, I believe you mentioned you had one other story to share with us. Or, as I like to say, in our final tale. Oh, yes, yes, the final story. Yes, well, I'd like to tell you about a case that I had, well, it's actually involved Othelham in the tertiary sense. It's not the focus of the story, but it was there. Now, this incident took place about 10 years ago in Germany. Now, I won't tell you which historical site this happened at because they still do tours there and it's been very traumatising for the staff, I'm told.

However, I will tell you that it was an old family keep. Well, perhaps you can even call it a castle. And they've been running tours through it since the 80s. Now, the keep has a stone crypt underneath for the ruling family. Ah, like Winterfell in Game of Three. Jones. Much like Winterfell in Game of Thrones. Well, as Game of Thrones is heavily based on medieval history.

Well, if you were to find this castle and go on the tour, you'd be told that in 1691, the Lord of the Keep grew angry with his wife when she bore him a third daughter instead of a son. Unable to divorce her, the Lord decided on a cruel course of action. He had a room dug out of the rock and dirt in the back of the keep, and a door installed. When construction was being done to create this room, the Lord impregnated his lady again.

He then locked his pregnant wife in the room with food, water, blankets and other necessities for a year. He told her that she would be released when she bore him a son and that if she did not, she would stay in that room in the crypt, under the keep, forever. And what happened? For a long time, nothing. The Lord would send his staff down to check on her every month.

They would call to her through the door. She would beg to come out, but they were not allowed to help her. and then eight months after they had closed the door on the lady of the keep no one answered when they called to her through the door the lord of the keep was advised of this and assuming his wife had died instructed his staff to keep the door closed

and seal off the crypt entirely which they did it wasn't until the keep was classified as a heritage site that the German government came and opened the crypt the public may walk through it but there isn't much to see and everyone asks about the iron door in the back

and the tour guides will relate the story I just told you And so how did you get involved? Well, about nine years after the Crips were opened to public tours, people started reporting noises from the other side of the door. In the evenings, after the site was closed, two of the staff even reported he were banging on the door. Now, I take everything with a grain of salt, but when I heard these reports, I was very interested.

Now, a medium friend of mine, Stephen Crell, who actually lives in Germany, was asked to come and offer his opinion, and he asked me to go along. I also invited Mark Frederick, who is a leading authority on Thelims along as well. So Mark and I flew to Germany and arrived at the site in the evening after the castle was closed to the public. When we arrived, we were told that they were going to open the vault door for us. Now, this is a door that has been sealed since 1691 when the poor woman was first put in there.

We were very excited and curious about what was on the other side. Ah, not unlike the red door from the haunting of Hillhouse. Sorry, do go on. The door was very difficult to get open, but they did manage it. It was dark and smelled of mossed and not much else. We did not let anyone enter, and Mark and I attempted to reach out to the thelam inhabiting the room. And it was very agitated.

It was pushing such energy at us that Mark had to leave the crypt. It seems to have concentrated on him mostly, and he did not like the images it was pushing on him. He would not tell us what he saw, although I did get it out of him many years later. Ah, with the Lagavulin 16? I'm afraid he needed the a-ting. Oh, my.

Yes. So Stephen and I entered the room, which was really more of a dungeon. And did you find anything? We did. And what we found was unexpected. I cannot wait to hear this. There were two bodies in the room. One appeared to be an adult and one a child.

I'm sure you can see where this. this is going. The child's body was basically mummified in the dry, cold air, and the adult's body was the same, but wasn't intact. In fact, it looked like it had been torn apart. The blankets in the room fell apart at a touch, and there was broken glass in many corners, and rotting barrels that I assume used to hold water in the others. As a medium, did you get much from the room? Yes. It was filled with despair and pain and, oh, so much love. It was conflicting and confusing. There were no souls in the room, no ghosts, only residual energy from their deaths.

Wherever the mother and child were, they'd moved on long ago. At least, that's what I thought at the time. Can Othelam exist in a room with a ghost? It's an excellent question, David, and the answer is yes, but not for long. Remember, Thelms absorb everything. There have been some fascinating and disturbing cases of Thelams affected by spirits, and this may even be one of them. I don't have time today, but perhaps if we do do another interview down the road, I can get into some of those stories. However, in this case, we decided that the Thelam was not beleaguering by the souls of mother and child, but we may have been wrong.

In any event, the bodies were taken away. Stephen and I were in the room for about an hour after that, and we both decided the room was empty of lost or lingering spirits. The room was resealed and I was told our tour operators still show visitors the door and tell the story of what was found inside when we opened it in 2008. So the spirits were freed

when their bodies were removed? As it turns out, no. People still report noises from behind the door. The only plausibility here is that it's the thelum. But thelms are not even of our dimension. They cannot interact with tangible things. They cannot make noise. They cannot bang on doors.

They cannot more. things. So I called Mark Frederick and asked him what could be going on. He believes that after the deaths of the mother and child, the thelam arrived in the empty room. Mother and child was still there and perhaps absorbed by the thelam, giving it access to real-world things like doors and rock and floor. If this is true, it's a very sad ending to the story of the lady and the young lord of the keep. There will be no peace for them. The baby was a boy? Yes, the other body was a four-year-old boy. Ah, so the Lord got his son.

And didn't even know it. Here's what we can piece together from the forensic evidence of the bodies and what Stephen saw when the thelham assaulted him with the images. The lady, whose name I cannot give here as it identifies the castle, went mad after eight months alone in the room. She started to believe that it was the only place in the whole world, that nothing else existed but that room, that the voices through the door, were disembodied spirits floating in the ether trying to trick her, trying to get in. So she stopped answering them. She gave birth to a son. Now since he was issued from her body, she trusted him, protected him, fed him.

She managed to stretch the water and food for years by eating as little as possible and breastfeeding her son for as long as possible. As he grew, she told him that this room was the only thing that existed. The only thing that had ever or would ever exist. and they had to be quiet so that the spirits would not try to enter the room. The lady stopped eating so that her son would have more food and she eventually died a slow death. The little boy did run out of food and began eating his mother's body, but then he too died.

The images pushed at Stephen showed the boy was very sick, so perhaps he got an infection or disease from eating rotten flesh. Either way, it's a very sad story. A sadder still if the spirit stayed in that room only because they believed nothing else existed. If they never moved on, it's likely that they were absorbed by the Thelam. Oh, my goodness.

That's horrifying. Oh, yes, much of medieval history was. Well, perhaps we can end on a better note, though. Oh, I would certainly welcome that. Well, I happened to be in Inverness last month, and I thought I'd take a little jaunt up to poetry. Uh-oh. And while I was there, I thought I would stop into Dornel.

and guess what I found I'm guessing a book that interested you yes and it was very interesting it told the story of a certain master of horror who reigned over a podcast empire oh well I wouldn't say an empire not yet but eventually yes wow and did you buy the book

I did not I feel strange about buying someone else's book I did skip to the end of yours, though. Okay, I'm not sure I want to hear this. How about a few clues then? Yeah, I'd be open to that. Oh, don't worry, David. There are many chapters left in your book before death.

Well, that's good to know. All right, I'll give you three words about your ending. Are you ready? Okay, I'm ready. Cocktail? Well, that makes sense. Elevator. Hmm, interesting.

Woman. Yeah, of course. It really is fascinating. I think that's all I want to know. And it's more than you should. Well, Cecily, it has been an absolute pleasure having you on our podcast. Oh, thank you. It's been an absolute pleasure being here. And are there any websites or social media pages you'd like us to plug?

Oh, no, I try to keep a very low profile online. Oh, I understand, yes, yes. Well, thank you again for sharing such a fascinating subject with us. And now, I guess we'll just carry on with the rest of the episode. Throughout our lives, we may find a handful of books that really speak to us. Grab us by the throats and don't let go. But how often do we spare a thought for the authors and what they might pour into their masterworks? In the second and final part of this tale, shared with us by author C.M. Scandrith,

we find out just what lengths some authors might go to in order to write a book. good book. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Jesse Cornett, and Graham Rowett. So it's time to peel away our bookmarks from the dog-eared and blood-stained pages of the second chapter of sanguine libations. Brian Howell was almost the last person you'd suspect of being a horror author. Three hundred pounds and tall enough for every doorway to make him duck, he seemed to deliberately encompass and embrace everything about the southern redneck stereotype. From his battered trucker cap to his grease-stained overalls and collection of home-forged hunting knives, he was all drawl and good old boy, and it was pretty much impossible not to like him.

Affable, cheerful, and unfailingly polite, Brian had been the bedrock on which the project had been founded. Nothing seemed to faze him. Not Alex's histrionics, nor Rickin' Crystal's bicker, Without his solid and steadying presence, sanguine libations probably would have died long before it reached first draft. He'd supplied his phone number in the email, and I called him right away. I needed to find out how the hell he'd gotten hold of the book, and what he'd done with it. After an exchange of pleasantries that felt agonizingly long and trivial,

Brian revealed that shortly before the car crash, Rick's final contribution to the project had been a trip to the post office. There was a note inside the parcel, in crabbed and frantic cursive, and the contents read like one of the trashy revenge horrors the author had favored. It explained that Crystal had indeed poisoned Rick, and that he had lost his shit, stabbing his spouse over and over until she was little more than a red dishrag. It was not the abstract, well-planned murder he had some.

sometimes fantasized about, and once he'd snapped out of his psychosis, he realized his life was completely fucked. Seeking medical attention would only prolong his suffering. If he survived the poisoning, his best option would likely be a lengthy prison sentence. Mailing the book to Brian seemed to be Rick's attempt to set some things right. What are you going to do with the book? There'll always be people who want to hurt you. The legend. Have you read the book? Seal the three Ziplog baggies. Lord alone knows what kind of shit's all over those pages,

so I sure is sugar ain't touching it unless I have to. Hold off on burning it just yet, okay? I want to be there when you do it. I'll drive down right away, and we can torch the thing together. Cool? I want to get silence in on this. Let's leave him out of this for now. You know him and I don't exactly get along.

Then I'll see you in, what, a couple days? See you in a couple days. I guess I'd expected Brian's place to be a dump, full of beer cans and deerheads or something. But his bachelor's trailer was spacious, tidy, and clean. He owned a chunk of property he'd inherited from his folks and still worked the land, as well as grazing neighbor's livestock. After supplying me with a very welcome glass of sweet tea, he jerked his thumb at the biohazard

bag on the counter. There she is. Sanguine libations. The worst damn thing we ever got ourselves involved with. He wrinkled his nose like even uttering the title stank up his bright little home. I still read the self-deprecating humor in his words. Brian had enjoyed the hell out of the project. His passion for horror definitely was not something shared by his rural peers,

especially not for the kind of purple, lovecraftian-inspired stuff he wrote. Interacting with people who appreciated his interests was something he could only really do online, and I think he'd been more deeply hurt and traumatized by the deaths of the other contributors than he let on. We can burn it right now, I mean, if you want to. Then he glanced at me, clearly reading the nuance of my body language far better than I usually expected men to.

Or y'all can get some rest. We can do it fresh in the morning. I'm tired as hell. Let's do it in the morning. All righty then. Let me fall down the couch for you. Sorry, but breakfast calls at 5 a.m. sharp. I got early chores to do in the morning that won't wait none for a buck burning.

I slept poorly, even though the fold-down bed was surprisingly comfortable. I stared into the velvet country darkness full of unfamiliar animal sounds and clear stars, and my restless mind kept wandering back to the impending destruction of the book, endlessly replaying all the events leading up to where I was now. Brian had no inkling of the towering amounts of money I'd been offered for it, nor did he know how the stories had changed with each other. death. And if I told him about the latter, I wasn't at all certain he'd even believe me, let alone touch the thing to pry the soiled pages apart to prove it. But lying there with the

book so close, I felt the pull of it like a small singularity. My hands itch to take it out of the bag. My eyes burned to devour the fifth and sixth chapters, to allow me to bask in the Eldridge glow of the blood-sacrifice stories and all their reformed perfection. And then there was the promise I'd made. That had been its own call, binding me to complete the book, to cement poor Tori's place and literary history as one of the nine authors of the masterpiece that would be sanguine libations. The book emerged from the bags and found its way into my hands eagerly, as though seeking out my touch. illuminated by the eerie blue light of my phone, the pages parted stiffly, and I drank down the ameliorated stories, drowning myself in their eye core, in the freshly spawned darkness they contained. There was no way I could destroy it. Not now. But I also couldn't reconcile one fact. If we didn't get rid of the book, Brian's demise was the inexorable conclusion to his own steps through the same.

deadly dance. And I really liked Brian. I probably liked him more than anyone else I knew, including my deceased foe boyfriend. I dozed after breakfast while Brian did his rounds. By the time he got back, Redoland with the oddly wholesome scent of warm chicken mash, I felt moderately human, especially with three cups of coffee in me. He finished his own cup, took my empty one, and rinsed them neatly. Well, there's a burn pen out back. Should do the chick nicely. He picked up the book.

I'd carefully resealed it after I'd finished reading it, although my fingers were reluctant to slide the last plastic zipper. I tried not to look at it in case it sensed my betrayal. All right, then, let's do this. Squatting down amidst a ring of ash and charred debris, Brian bawled up some newspaper and dry shrubbery, carefully propped around some split kindling, then placed the book atop its nest. After adding a healthy splash of gasoline, he struck a match, then gingerly dropped it and was rewarded instantly by a roar of orange flame. The plastic of the

makeshift biohazard bags melted almost right away, slagging on the cover of sanguine libations, then running off into the ash pit, where it bubbled and then bubbled and the airbagos. sizzled with an acrid stink. The corners of the book blackened and curled, but it appeared to be resisting the flames. Wait a minute, he'll get it. But after a solid five minutes of watching the tongues of flame devour the twigs, then start in on the wood, it became clear his confidence was misplaced. Sanguine libations was simply and impossibly refusing.

to burn, much to Brian's consternation. More gas. He unscrewed the cap of the can and expertly threw arcs of fuel onto the conflagration until hot galaxies of sparks flew at our faces and the fire had climbed taller than he was. We let it die down again, and when the blaze was finally wicked low, there the book sacked, smug as a phoenix on a pile of glowing emper. numbers, scorched, but unburnt. Brian kicked it free of the ash pit.

Nope. Don't believe it. He must have known. Must have soaked it in a retardant. It just doesn't want. I was unable to meet Brian's gaze as he squinted at me sharply. Sweating, agitated, and angry now. He picked the book up, thrusting it at my chest.

Don't believe in none of that whole shit. You shouldn't either. It's just a goddamn book. And one way or another, I'm going to end it. Marching back into his home, he reemerged moments later, a claw hammer jutting from the bib pocket of his overalls, shouldering the biggest gun I'd ever seen. He nailed the book to the ragged remains of a tree stump on the other side of the burn pit. Taking a dozen paces back, he sighted the book down the barrel of the barrel of the burn.

weapon, then yelled something that was lost to my ringing ears as the rifle soared to life. Take this deep. ...gunfire ripped into the charred cover of sanguine libations. Chunks of paper puffed into the air like the devil's own confetti. I heard the first of the two ricochets as an angry hornet wine flying over my head. The second sang past my immediate right, close enough to raise all the hairs on my arms and neck. And, as though guided by the thirsty souls of all the previous authors, the third ricochet tore right through Brian's jugular, birthing a muddy spurn of arterial blood. He didn't seem to register for a moment. Maybe the adrenaline-fueled rage at the stubborn book

numbed any pain, but as dark liquid spouted from his neck, the back of his hand pressed itself to the wound. He stood there incongruous, his posture befitting some southern bell, even as confusion warred with his anger and took its place in his eyes. Bullets still ripped from the rifle, his other hand fisted around the trigger, but his aim was lost, growing wild. To compensate, he paced, he paced solidly toward the tree stump, each step increasingly unsteady. The thick fingers that grappled for purchase at his Adam's apple were unable to staunch the river of blood. Each footfall was marked by a wordless, wet croak, a sound my mind will never unhear. When his legs finally gave out, the gun fell silent, and so did Brian. He collapsed against the stump. Gourb.

black hand still wrapped around his throat. I think there's only so much death an unprepared human mind can handle, and mine had gone well over its limit. I don't remember how I wrestled the book from the blasted stump, nail and all, but in my hands, in my memory, it was actively bleeding, dribbling black ink from every bullet hole. More likely it was just saturated. in Brian's blood. But whatever was happening, it seemed my psychosis was progressing into full-blown insanity. I drove away too fast, desperate to get away from that neat trailer and my friend's messy corpse, and I watched the book on the dashboard bubble like boiling wax. The cover and pages slowly, lazily healed themselves until almost all the damage done by Brian's over.

powered automatic weapon was gone, except for a few faint pock marks. Clearly, I had lost my mind. Though I was unable to process it at the time, it would be weeks before anyone found Brian's body. And even then, it would simply look like target practice gone wrong. Nothing implicated me in his death. Nobody knew I'd even been there. I kept driving until my eyes began to droop, closed, but when I finally pulled over on a side road near the highway, I slept fitfully. My dreams were a looped horror film, images of the book's surface crawling obscenely, alive and warm, like the squamous lice-infested pelt of some demon's pet. I decided I just needed to find somewhere to stay, some familiar face or voice to jar me

out of my madness. As I gave up on sleep and pulled out onto the highway, I got it. a fragile thread of reality tugged at my exhausted brain, revealing the corner of a memory. Silas Jones lived just over a hundred miles from Brian, in the very state I had almost reached driving blindly. Silas was not my favorite person, but given a purpose and a destination, sanity glimmered in my mind, a wan but gathering light that might eventually push back. the consuming shadows. I knew it wouldn't be enough. Even staring into the sun itself wouldn't burn away all of the darkness summoned by sanguine libations. Just as I'd done with Joey, I hadn't been shy about flirting with Silas to get what I wanted, but that had been more difficult

with Silas. While he was an eminently attractive guy, he wasn't able to hold down a relationship for one simple reason. He was creepy as fuck. His many fans were enamored with his edgy characters and monsters, but I suspected his devotion to his pet obsessions, kidnapping and rape, might be a little too enthusiastic to be just a writer's schick.

There was always a certain something that permeated every conversation and interaction with him. It was intangible. as a feeling, but if you put it into an olfactory context, it could be described as the faintest whiff of rotting meat. To top it off, the project had truly revealed that the guy was an asshole at his core. It had been informally agreed from the outset that I'd write the final chapter of sanguine libations, since it was my project. But as the writing had progressed, Silas had pushed hard to grab the final slot, to finish the book with his grandiose ideas.

When I wouldn't budge, he did precisely what I'd hoped he wouldn't do. He killed every story arc with his chapter, leaving mine as essentially an unnecessary epilogue. We fought over that. I think he wanted to fight over it, to vent all his frustrations on me, both literary, and romantic. He engaged eagerly and maliciously. His pre-prepared litany of grudges uploaded like vicious missiles, one lengthy instant message at a time. Implicit in all of them, there was also a dare. Would I have the guts to remove him from the project? I considered it, sure. My finger hovered over the block button several times, but I knew that giving Silas further grievances would pour fuel on his

hatred. And his fans were Legion. Amongst them, the type of horror fan you really have to worry about, for whom the line-dividing fantasy and reality might be more of a smudge. So instead, I did the thing I knew would get under his skin the most, but the only thing he could do nothing about, and that no one could really blame me for. I rewrote my ending to retcon most of what had happened in Silas's chapter, fixing the fucking mess he'd made as cleverly and subtly as I could, then finished the book the way I'd originally intended. The guy was furious, but couldn't do a damn thing. He'd tried playing literary chess with me,

forcing me into a corner, but I'd rallied with a move he hadn't seen and trounced him. Thinking about Silas, and with the benefit of horrible hindsight, I could see now what Joey had been getting at with his theory on the book. It was a nexus of negative emotion. There had been so much conflict, hatred, and malice in its creation

that it made perfect sense it would consume the writers. Even the decent people, the rare few who hadn't eagerly rolled in the bullshit, but who got covered in it anyway. Like Brian, I stopped down the road from Silas' house and cradled the book in my hands. The cover was completely black now, the pages are ruddy brown. Brian's chapter cried out to be read, A whale I could feel to my bones.

His death deserved to be given meaning, and so I parted the bile-colored pages and read until my mind was raw and weeping. I didn't move until every hint of light had fled from the sky, paralyzed by the darkling brilliance and unfathomable, madness that Brian's story now contained. When I was released, I closed the book and walked, beneath stars dimmed by streetlights, down the road to Silas' house.

Unkempt and unshaven, Silas ran a hand through his beard and hitched up his stained sweatpants. It's late. I wasn't expecting company. Oh, you don't say. What do you want? I want to talk to you, about the others, about sanguine libations. I need to talk to someone about it, Silas. I'm seriously worried. I'm going fucking crazy. He kept his grip on the handle, conflict writ large on his face.

I suspected he was inwardly debating whether to shut the door in my face or give himself the golden chance to prey on my distress. Brian's dead. "'Shit.' "'Glancing at the book in my hand, he ushered me in. "'Even Silas had liked Brian. "'He didn't offer me a seat, "'so I found an awkward perch on his cigarette-scarred couch

"'between heaps of dirty clothes, "'then told him the story from start to finish. "'He flopped down next to me, too close. "'I left nothing out. "'From my part in Torrey's suicide, right up until entering his house. Silas listened without comment, his lips twitching to suppress unknowable emotions,

and I felt sullied by the peculiar creepiness that always permeated his presence. When I was done, he stood up and began pacing furiously, his gaze drawn again and again to the book. Why, Katie? Why the fuck did you bring it here? It's killed everyone else, so it's probably going to try and kill me. Do you hate me that much?

Did my story really fuck with you so badly that you decided to murder me over it? He paused, kicking an empty soda bottle towards the kitchen, and I cursed myself for jumping at the bang as it hit the doorway. His smile at that was even uglier than his tone. You know, if you'd just been able to admit I'm a better fucking writer than you, that I was the best choice to tie up this story? I bet none of this would ever have happened. No, I didn't come here to kill you.

Jesus, Silas! I just wanted to talk to a familiar human being face to face. To tell someone I'd just seen a good friend get his fucking throat torn out and have his fucking soul sucked into a book. But I guess you're not actually a human being, are you? I don't give a shit about who is the better writer. I never bought into your bullshit all that manufactured rivalry. I just wanted to be famous enough to have a bestseller.

Anger tightened my throat and hands. Tears blotted and bloomed on the black cover of sanguine libations. Silas just watched me like I was a case study in histrionics. Okay, then, Katie, if all that's true, admit I'm a better writer than you. I want you saying it on camera, for everyone to see. He fumbled his phone out of his sweatpants pocket. I reeled, eyes blurry, No streaming.

You can't be fucking serious. I'm deadly fucking serious. He grinned. His smile, nicotine yellow, and all business. I can't really describe what I felt in that moment, other than that overused word, rage. This was an instant whoosh of heat in my chest, throat and head, A pure sort of rage that pushes everything out of your body

until you only contain a singular emotion, like Tink from Peter Pan. I felt incandescent with it, a searing red sun blazing with a nuclear core of all-encompassing fury. The book was very heavy in my hands as it rose and fell, far, far heavier than it should have been, A shimmering red glare hazed my vision, even before the blood began to fly, manifesting further as Silas's head crumpled and flattened under my furious ministrations.

The hammer of the book smacked wet and hungry, until all that was left of his hateful face was a ring of raw meat and fragmented bone, a last few pink-slicked air bubbles bursting themselves. within the ragged remnants of his mandible, Silas Jones would never write again. I don't remember a lot for a while after that. The only part that's clear is my memory of reading Silas' chapter immediately, kneeling in the circle of gore where his head had been. After that, I must have had a shower

because my car had no bloodstains in it. It looked like I'd fed myself on my journey home, judging by the jumble of food wrappers and gas station receipts on the passenger seat, but I don't recall anything about that drive. Pulling up to my apartment block seemed to unlatch my mind, the slap of the familiar. Awareness returned, sudden and brutal, leaving me shaking and gasping with shock. I'd murdered Silas. I'd murdered him in exactly the sort of crazed frenzy you were.

read about in the worst police reports. And in the worst horror stories, I managed to climb the stairs and still my jittering fingers long enough to put the key in the lock, before I tottered to my bed and collapsed, sobbing out my anguish to stuffed animals and pillows. Who was I? What was I? There was no way of knowing how long it would take for Silas to be found. Would the cops even know where to begin with unriddling his murder? Had anyone actually put the pieces together about sanguine libations and realized that someone or something was killing the authors in order? If they hadn't, surely it wouldn't be long before someone did. Six inadequate showers, four tasteless meals, and three fitful naps later, I braced myself to check online. There was no public

mention of Bryan's or Silas' deaths on any of the Horver hangouts yet, so I pulled up my personal messages and opened my email. The offers on the book had trailed off. Only a couple of very persistent buyers were still emailing about it. One caught my eye with its all-cap subject line. An offer you can't refuse. Give me sanguine libations. The email read as follows. I know you killed Silas Jones. I can implicate you in the death of Brian Howell and in the deaths of several of the other authors. Bring the book with you at the specified time to the location below,

and we will arrange a trade. If you give me the book, I won't tell the cops anything. I can be generous if you can. I'll even give you enough money to run away. At the bottom of the message was a map and a time. time. My first reaction was that I should forward the message to the cops, but another part of me wrestled with that instinct, then stomped on it. I don't know if I'm still the person I was when I started this project, before all this death. And when did it get to the point of no return? If just one

factor had been different, if Kelly had been the first author instead of Alex, maybe none of of this would have happened. I feel like I was trapped by a whirlpool of events, pulled under by a current far too strong for me to even consider fighting against. And the book, the anchor stone right there at the bottom of the sinkhole. Now the book is influencing all my choices, has claimed too much of my mind, has grown too powerful from the bloody libations it was named after. Or is that Just another excuse. Then all of this was done by my own free will, and there's nothing evil about the book at all. Maybe I've just made this all up.

Just another horrible story in my catalog of horrible stories. In any case, I've written it down now, for posterity, so that anyone who cares can read it for themselves and judge whether the madness came from within or without. I'm quite certain the new owner of the book is going to kill me. And honestly, that will be a relief because I don't think I have the wherewithal left to run from my fate. I feel so very tired. I do have one last wish. If they do see fit to kill me,

if they've realized what the last step must be to complete meditations on sanguine life, I hope I get to read it before I am gone. I'm the final author, and I'm the reason it exists. The book must know I deserve at least that much. Signing off, Katie Claremont. Katie met me at the agreed location. It was nice and remote, because I didn't want anyone interrupting the completion of the book. She told me about how the words had changed with the book.

blood, and she let me read it all so I could see how magnificent it was. She was right. I've never seen anything like it, and I'm, well, I'm obviously a horror fanatic. I have signed copies of Straub and King in my collection, along with lots of great and rare horror works from over the last century. I even have an original of the modern Prometheus in pride of place. But even that, That pales in comparison to this new book. Katie bled out as we read her story together. That blood from her open wrists, pouring new words out onto the page is something I'll never forget. I think she would want you to know that she did get to read it to the end.

Her eyes didn't close until the final words drank up her very last pulse. I'm not half the writer she was, but I don't. try. I think she wanted this story completed, too, because she gave it to me for the completeness of it all. I need you to know that the book is brilliant. It's the greatest work of horror created, I guess because it kind of created itself. I'm not wordy enough to describe just how dark it is, how monstrous it is. You'll just have to read what Katie wrote and believe me when I say it's all true. But a book like this is too good to remain in one collector's library. I said I was generous and I am. I have, of course, transcribed it fully from the original,

which will always be mine and you will never see it. That pleasure's all mine. But should you wish for a copy at a price, then please email me at this address. You can't say you know what horror is until you've read it. 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, visit the no sleep podcast.com to learn about our season past 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.

2019 by Creative Reason 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.