The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S13E03

Episode Date: July 7, 2019

It's episode 03 of Season 13. On this week's show we have tales about the toys and fun things which entertain us. "I Smelled Every One" written by PF McGrail (Story starts around 00:03:15) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Peter Lewis "It All Started with a Hot Air Balloon" written by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 00:13:00) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Grace/Henry – Erika Sanderson, Caleb – David Cummings, Spencer – Jeff Clement "Winnie the Walking and Talking Doll" written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 00:33:50) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Rhonda – Addison Peacock, Jake – Graham Rowat, Auntie Bernadette/Toys – Sarah Thomas "The Final Fold" written by David Stefanoff (Story starts around 01:05:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – David Ault, Leroy’s Owner – James Cleveland "Missing Brindolyn" written by JJ Cheesman (Story starts around 01:36:40) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Jessie – Jessica McEvoy, Brindy – Addison Peacock, Jessie’s Mother – Nikolle Doolin, Jessie’s Father – Mike DelGaudio, Mr. Tomlinson – Jesse Cornett, Mrs. Tomlinson/Bindy's Mother – Erika Sanderson, Brindy’s Father – Dan Zappulla Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the game Encodya, sound design by Phil Michalski   Click here to learn more about the music of Brandon Boone   Click here to learn more about PF McGrail   Click here to learn more about Manen Lyset   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Winnie the Walking and Talking Doll" illustration courtesy of Hasani Walker 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

Close our eyes. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. No Sleep Podcast video store. I'm David Cummings. Our VCR is ready to play stories about the toys and fun things which entertain us. As season 13 settles into its third episode, I want to acknowledge the season's new theme, based around the idea of 80s slasher movies.

The music, as always, was created by our maestro, Brandon Boone. He tweaked all his knobs and synths and came up with a great 80-style arrangement of our theme song. And then our senior producer, Phil Mikalski, took over and added all the creepy sound design to turn it into the theme you hear today. We're thrilled these two men pour so much into each season's theme. And did you know Phil has been doing the sound design for an exciting new project, which includes a short film and video game? It's called Encodia,

and the short animated film recently won the audience award at a Spanish film festival. The video game, based on the film, is now available as a demo. Included in the game is a voice you might recognize, our own Atticus Jackson. So check the show notes

for where you can learn more about Encodia, and hear the kind of amazing audio work Phil does while playing this exciting point-and-click game. And speaking of our new theme this season, did you know Brandon has his own page on Band Camp? There you can find a version of the Season 13 theme and much of the music Brandon composes for the show. Do yourself a favor and check out the masterful work this multi-award winning composer creates each week. Links are in the show notes. So Phil and Brandon and our entire team have created this week's stories, so I think it's time to begin.

So turn down the lights and grab the remote because it's time for our feature presentation. In our first tale, we meet a man who really loves the mall, so much so, in fact, that he's been living in it for quite some time. But in this tale, shared with us by author P. F. McGrail, we discover that living in a mall isn't all it's cracked up to be when it's going out of business. Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So pay attention when you're out shopping because you never know who might have gotten their hands on items before you. And it's especially concerning when they've been handled by the kind of guy who can proudly exclaim, I smelled everyone. Malls have everything, don't they?

So why ever leave? People toss out the phrase homeless with such cavalier disregard for what the term actually means. means. I am not homeless. The mall is my home. The Tavistock Galleria in West Mifflin, Pennsylvania, has been my everything for nearly a decade. My day begins before dawn. The J.C. Penny has just so many delicious little nooks and crannies that allow me to make a nest. Do you ever think about what's in the middle of those circular racks in the clothing section? It's the perfect place for me to hunker down all night on a bed of unsold women's pants. Everything's put back in place before the first employees arrive, of course.

You can't have anybody knowing about my nest. Now can we? I know what you're thinking. Wouldn't it raise suspicions if they found me wandering around before opening? Not a chance. That stolen mall cop, a uniform. for mispaid dividends many times over. And Joe, the idiot night watchman,

really never suspected a thing. I would occasionally pretend to be a mannequin in the display case shadows, but his brain was dimmer than the after-hours' lighting. Maybe that's why he disappeared without a trace. Never did find out what happened to him. And they never did replace that one. $913 a month was just too high a price for the Tavostock to monitor itself, it seems. What a sorry state.

I'm polite when the situation necessitates it, and I send a good morning wave to Ursula each day when she comes in to open. You see, once a person accepts anything as a routine part of their life, be it a car, a rule, Poor a smiling man in a mall cop uniform, they stop questioning why that thing is there in the first place. That fact has sustained me for years. Breakfast. Oh, there used to be an amazing cinnabon in the food court. Hell, there used to be a food court. Now there's just this creepy-ass carousel that children are rightly afraid to touch.

Forlorn, I'm stuck, my... munching on cold cuts, sandwiches, remembering the intoxicating aroma of cinnamon and warmth that would greet my day with all the sweet calmness of a warm blanket. For the record, fuck Amazon and your destructive mall crushing greed. Oh, these malls used to have everything, you see. I could pass the days just getting lost in Tavistock. I'd browse the dicks, sporting goods. Pervert. I'd imagine that I had enough money to buy everything in Jimmy Jazz, and I would just stand outside the bath and body works smelling.

There was nothing like the Victoria's secret, though. I would come in and pretend to be looking for a gift that I could bestow upon my lovely wife. Really, I was pre-shopping. Sneaking into a lingerie shop after hours is much easier than you'd think. As long as you live in the mall, I was like a kid in a candy store. And to answer your question, yes, I smelled every single item in the store. Hey, you might be wearing one of my pre-sniffed garments right now. I promise you that it passed the sniff test. But I still have to mix things up every once in a while. That's where the holidays come in.

I've pilfered a Santa uniform, a bunny outfit, several elf costumes, and a large dog-like get-up that, uh... It has no real explanation. Again, I've become such a fixture that people just accept my presence. I can, I have spent the entire day in the middle of the mall, greeting children and being photographed by their smiling parents. No one doubts the authenticity of a mall Santa, not even when I smell their kid's hair. Now I know what you're wondering. Could something as wonderful as the Tavistock Mall really be in jeopardy?

I am crying as I describe all this, because the answer is yes. As the final doors close for the night, I prepare for bed knowing that I will soon. actually be described as homeless. What a sorry state. While I walk down the abandoned central walkway, avoiding the hot topic even at night, because those people freak me the fuck out, I head to the seldom used utility closet for a midnight snack. His glassy eyes take a moment to focus on me when I open the door. When semi-consciousness floats back into his brain,

the young man is once again seized with terror. Fortunately, he can hardly budge against his restraints. The boy's mutilated hands wouldn't do him any good anyway, because his fingers were the first to go. I pull out the carving knife and slice a nice thin layer of cold cuts from his belly. Sure, I complain about my sandwiches, but when the meat is fresh, cold cuts really aren't that bad at all. Oh, boy, it's a good thing that I knew how to slice out his tongue and sever his vocal cords where he'd be making a racket. And you know what, that tongue made a good

fucking sandwich. I pocket the cold cuts and the knife before closing the closet door on the convulsing boy. I do for him, because this is what happens when you're homeless. Decision is final. It's nearly enough to shatter my heart. The Tavistock Gallery is closing forever in June. We all knew it was coming, really. But I just... I just didn't want to believe it. I couldn't. Though keep in mind that it's nearly enough to shatter my heart. It's not quite sufficient. See, malls have everything, don't they?

So why should I ever leave? I can't find a reason, either. But what I can find is another... mall. So, I'll be searching the country for the best possible fit. Nearly every major metropolitan area has one, after all. I will search until I find one with everything I need. A synobon, a department store, hidden corners, lots of children. Hopefully not a hot topic, but beggars can't be choosers. Well, smell you soon, folks. When it comes to being lifted up above the world, you can choose an airplane or a helicopter,

but if you want a peaceful and serene way to gaze across the land from above, you really need to try a hot air balloon. But in this tale, shared with us by author Manon Lysette, a mysterious stray balloon descends on a farmer's field, setting off a most disturbing series of events. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and Jeff Clement. So we might not know how the journey is going to end, but we do know that it all started with a hot air balloon.

It appeared on the horizon early one morning at the far edge of Caleb's field. It was just a blip at first, but as it gently wafted it closer to my property, it became large enough to blot out the sun. My son, Henry, was captivated. He'd never seen a hot air balloon in person before. He watched it drift closer and closer, then ran out onto the porch in his dinosaur onesie and watched it creeping even closer.

As I drank my coffee, I could hear the sputters of the fire keeping the colorful thing afloat. It would stop and start periodically, bursting into a geyser of flame. My son waved excitedly, but his excitement waned as the hot air balloon drew nearer. Mommy, there's no one in the... What do you mean, huh? honey? I stretched down through the open window and peered up at the object in the sky. Henry was right. There was no one manning the hot air balloon. Weird? Must have gotten loose. There hadn't been much wind that morning, but if whoever

the balloon belonged to hadn't tied it down properly, it could have drifted off on its own. Out of curiosity, I grabbed my keys, buckled my son into the backseat of the truck, and took off after it. The balloon ran out of fuel and landed on the outskirts of my field. where I finally caught up to it. Caleb was already there, sitting on his four-wheeler and scrutinizing it with a perplexed expression on his face as the envelope slowly lost its circular shape

and fanned the ground like curtains in the breeze. Morning, Grace. Howdy, Caleb? Any idea what this straggler is doing here? Hmm, not sure. I opened the back door to let Henry out. My excitable sun jumped out of the truck and bolted towards the hot air blue.

thankfully Caleb grabbed him by the shoulders and held him back no son it's not safe might catch fire best to keep your distance i reckon it's a runaway tourist attraction from a few towns over hmm yeah that's probably it oh look henry squirmed in Caleb's firm grip the last of the fabric fell and draped over a patch of soil should be safe now I knotted back, and he let Henry go. My boy squealed and ran towards the basket. Careful not to touch the burner, honey. It's still hot. Caleb followed him in a much slower pace. It's quiet this morning. Did you notice?

It's never quiet with Henry around. I picked up the pace as Henry pulled himself aboard. Though I knew it was impossible, a small part of me was afraid that the balloon would inflate and my son would fly off into the sky, never to be seen or heard from again. Just one of the many ridiculous automatic thoughts you get when you're apparent. Everything has the potential to be dangerous, even when it's not. Thankfully, the hot air balloon stayed right where it was. And Henry ran around in the basket, like it was

the best toy he'd ever seen. Now don't you break anything, Henry? I leaned over the side of the basket as Caleb knelt down. He lifted the fabric and inspected it curiously. Everything looks intact. Best not leave it out here, though. Help me put it in the back of my truck. I'll store it in the barn until its owners show up. It probably cost a pretty penny. Someone was bound to come and claim it sooner or later.

Maybe I convinced them to take us up for a ride as a thank you. I shooed Henry out of the basket and told him to go sit in the truck while Caleb and I unhooked the fabric, rolled it, and tossed it in the back. We then grabbed the basket and hoisted it up. heavier than it looks. Probably because of the burner. I nodded.

It wasn't easy, but we managed to force it into the truck. Caleb helped me tie it down while Henry watched eagerly from the back seat. I wiped my brow. I was definitely having second thoughts about bringing it into the barn. Maybe I'd just throw a tarp on it

once I got home and call it a day. Caleb wiped his hands on his jeans. Well, I best be headed back. The wife will want to know what all the excitement was about. Thanks, Caleb. Y'all take care. He hopped on his four-wheeler and gave me a wave. We both took off in opposite direction.

Henry watched as Caleb disappeared on the horizon and then stared at our rows of corn the rest of the way home, silent until we pulled into the driveway. Mr. Scarecrow's doing a good job today. What? He pointed to the field. I followed his gaze to the scarecrow. For the first time in years, there were no crows cawing around it, or anywhere else on the property. Stupid thing never worked before. Didn't know why it was working now. Well, I'll be damned. Caleb was right. Without the incessant bird calls, and with most of the animals still asleep,

it was rather quiet out. So quiet, in fact, that I could hear a low atmospheric convalued. hum, droning on in the background. The kind of sound you only notice when everything else goes away. It was neither peaceful nor annoying. It was just a constant, low sound, easily drowned out by my son's babbling. Spencer, our farmhand, arrived late that morning. I was already washing the dishes from breakfast when I saw him driving up the road. He had a bad habit of being tardy, so I wasn't exactly surprised when he came running through the door, huffing, puffing, and apologizing. Sorry, ma'am. This is the last time, I swear.

I stared at him, unimpressed. Did you hear what happened? The hot air balloon? Yeah, I was there, and I still managed to make it back here on time and feed the livestock. Sorry, ma'am. It's fine, just get to work, all right?

He nodded. Just as he was about to step out of the door, however, we heard a booming noise off in the distance. What intarnation was that? Transformer exploded? Too loud for that. We stepped onto the porch and scanned the area until we spotted a wisp of smoke in the distance. Looks like it's coming from the Burns' field.

Probably just the tractor. Mr. Burns has been meaning to replace that old thing for years now. Guess the engine finally gave out. Come on, enough procrastinating. You've got work to do. His eyes stayed locked on the small column of smoke for a moment, but he eventually nodded. Sorry, ma'am.

While Spencer was doing hard labor outside, and Henry was watching cartoons in the other room, I got to work pickling vegetables for storage. It was nearing lunch when Spencer finally showed up again. It was covered in dirt. Took care of the cattle and everything, ma'am. Good work, Spence. I'll have lunch ready in a minute.

You mind doing one last thing? There's a tarp in the barn. Be a deer and go get it for me? Sure, ma'am. Where, exactly? In the storage left. Can't miss it. I'll be back in a minute.

I watched him walking into the barn while I tended to the hash browns. Then I waited. Waited for a couple of minutes. Then five. Then ten. What the hell is taking so long? I paced back and forth, irritated. His car was still in the driveway, so I knew he hadn't slipped away to go flirt with some girl in town.

With a grunt, I stomped into the barn, expecting to see him lounging about. I was preparing to chastise him for his laziness as I angrily swung the door open. Spence? The ladder was propped up against the wooden loft. The tarp had its feet. I grabbed the tarp and peered up, trying to find Spencer. Spence, what are you playing at? No answer.

Spence, lunch is ready. Get down from there. Still nothing. Not even a single creek from the wooden planks. All I could hear was the quiet hum from earlier. This time, slightly louder. If Spencer was up there, he was being perfectly still and quiet. Two things he wasn't too good at. Tarp wedged under my arm. I grabbed the letter and began climbing the rungs.

I was about halfway up when I heard Henry call. Well, I had what I needed. I had the tarp. Spencer could play his stupid games all he wanted for all I cared. I slipped back down and went back inside to serve lunch. Where's Spencer? He's trying a brand new diet of cold eggs and ham. Ew! We finished eating with no sign of Spencer. I was starting to get a little worried.

He wasn't the most reliable guy. He'd often come in late and cut out early. But he'd never run off on me in the middle of the day, and he'd certainly never leave his car behind. I figured I'd go look for him once I was done with the dishes. Henry was playing with his toys, and I was drying off the last of the pots and pans. I probably never would have noticed it if the sun wasn't shining at just the right angle, sending a beam of light from floor to ceiling, dust particles.

They were dancing through the room's air currents. However, about a foot below the ceiling, there was a visible decrease in the density. I watched as little flakes swam up and disappeared beyond the invisible border. Weird. I squinted at the empty space. There was something about it that made me feel unnerved. It's like I knew something was wrong but couldn't quite put my finger on what.

I looked outside. Not a bird in sight for miles. I thought of the hot air balloon and how empty it had been. I thought about Spencer up in the barns. loft. A bumblebee buzzed by the window, flew up beyond the intangible line, and disappeared. One second it was there. The next it was just... gone. At my trucks. You ran towards the stairs. I grabbed him so quickly that he nearly fell. Don't go upstairs. I gulped down a knot of apprehension. My eyes were locked on the immaculate

separation between the dusty and nearly dustless air. In that moment, I could only think of one thing, something I'd heard on TV. Dust is mainly comprised of dead skin cells. My blood rang cold. I could see it moving, the separation, I mean. Slowly, like the motion of the sun setting on the horizon. It was subtle, but it was definitely moving down. That's when I realized that humming sound from this morning was getting even louder.

We need to get to lower ground. I wasn't even sure what was going on, but I knew that something bad would happen if we were caught under the unseen ceiling slowly dropping on us. We lived on a plateau surrounded by mountains, the lowest point for miles. There was no lower ground except for the cellar. Ducking my head, I grabbed Henry's arm and pulled him towards the door.

I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say. I closed the door tightly. unsure whether or not it would help keep it, whatever it was out. The mere possibility that it might was enough to bring me some form of comfort. With my free hand, I nabbed the flashlight I kept on the top step and climbed down with my sun. It was cold downstairs, perfect for storage. I had shells with jars full of pickled vegetables, homemade jams, and sealed meats lining every wall.

The concrete room wasn't very inviting to a seven-year-old, so Henry usually stayed out unless I asked him to fetch me something. I let out a sigh of relief and took a seat on the bottom of the wooden staircase. I could hear frogs and crickets chirping happily outside. Mom? I didn't answer. Instead, I went over the facts in my mind. Was I exaggerating?

What had compelled me to run and hide? An empty hot air balloon? A missing farm ham? Mom! Huh? What, Henry? What's going on? There's... I paused, thinking it over.

What was I supposed to tell the kid? I didn't even know what was happening. My eyebrows came together. There's bad air up there. Like a fart? Yeah, something like that. I hung my head and hid my face behind my hands. I was being stupid.

At least that's what I thought, until the croaks came to a sudden stop, as though all the bullfrogs in the creek out back was suddenly holding their breaths. I found myself holding mine, waiting for the sound to come back, with all I heard were the crickets. Ten minutes later, the crickets went silent. The void from the hush that fell over the room couldn't even be filled by the pitter-patter of Henry's feet as he ran in circles, bored out of his mouth. mine. My fear only increased as I spotted the jars of meat sitting on the top shelf of the rack in the corner. They were empty. I pointed the flashlight up and looked at the dust particles

in its ray. They were disappearing about two feet from the ceiling, just like they had upstairs. And just like upstairs, the invisible divide was getting lower, that low hum following suit. All I could do was watch, is over the course of an hour. The separation came closer and closer to my son and I, until it became clear that I couldn't sit on the stairs anymore. I pulled Henry into my lap and sat on the stone, cold concrete floor, shaking as I watched the invisible ceiling falling on us. From time to time, I had to jiggle the flashlight to get it working again.

I rocked my son gently, praying whatever was falling on us would stop and pull back, praying Henry wouldn't go rogue on me and run out of my grasp. As it came closer, I lay down and told my son to do the same. We had to stay as low to the ground as possible. Don't move, honey. Doing. We're playing dead, honey.

If you do good, I'll bake you your favorite cake, but you've got to be perfectly still, all right? Okay. I wasn't sure what to expect. Would it hurt when it happened? Would we disappear like the people in the hot air balloon? Could we somehow be saved? I held my hand against Henry's chest, pinning him down like a seabelt.

I could feel him shivering against the cold stone floor. I was terrified he'd squirm and disappear forever. Should have brought a blanket. No, the blankets were on the second floor. The second floor hadn't been safe. There was a rock digging into my thigh, but I couldn't risk moving. The threshold was closing in on us, making me feel claustrophobic in the white, wide open room. I dropped the flashlight, closed my eyes tightly, and held my breath for as long as I could.

I waited, listening to the droning hum getting louder and louder like a bug circling my ear. I could feel Henry's body hit radiating from his chest. As long as I felt that warmth on my arm, I knew my boy was okay. Even if I disappeared, at least he'd be low to the ground. Low enough to be safe, I hoped. We must have been there for at least an hour. hour, maybe two, before the sound became more distant. Henry had somehow fallen asleep despite the displeasing conditions. I opened my eyes, finally gathering enough courage to reach for the flashlight. I flicked it on and carefully aimed it at the ceiling. The dust wasn't back, but I couldn't see a divide anymore. Either we'd been engulfed or the phenomena had passed. I was afraid to move at first,

but I finally raised my arm. Nothing happened. I sat up. Still nothing. I let out a sigh of relief. We'd been spared. Somehow, by some miracle, we'd been spared. When the hum completely faded,

I cautiously climbed up the stairs, keeping my head low. I opened the door and looked around. The sound was gone. The invisible divide, gone with it. It was over. After waking Henry and warming him up, I headed out to the barn. It was empty.

No birds, no livestock, not even a single fly buzzing around the cow manure. Every single animal on my farm had gone missing. We got in the truck and headed towards town. As we passed the Burns' farm, I saw their crop duster crashed to pieces in the field. Must have been the explosion Spencer and I had heard earlier. I stopped to check, but the plane was empty. I knocked on the Burns' door, but received no answer. I drove to Caleb's farm and tried them.

No answer. I drove to town. There was no one. Not a single living being. Not even a goddamn squirrel. I don't know exactly what happened, but I'm afraid it's about to happen again. I can hear that hum in the distance. As much as I want to get out of him,

here, I can't take the risk. I mean, the only path out of here is through the mountains, and I don't fancy going anywhere too high right now. I'm going to try my luck and hide in the cellar again. If you don't hear from me, it means we weren't lucky enough to be spared twice. There are so many nostalgic things which people collect these days. Toys of all sorts, and one of the most popular items for collectors, are dolls. But in this tale, shared with us by our author Marcus D'Amanda, we meet the wife of a doll collector, and she doesn't have quite the love affair with collectibles. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Graham Rowett, and Sarah Thomas. So by all means expand your collection, but be careful if you come across the more vintage goods,

particularly Winnie, the Walking and Talking Doll. We found it in the back of Great Aunt Bernadette's Walk-In Closet. A little girl made of plastic with beautiful red hair and a blue and white dress, sleepy eyes that batted open and shut, white shoes with rollers on the bottom. Stood up, it would have been about two feet tall. When we uncovered it, it was still in its original box, which had been resealed with packing tape. Carefully, my husband, Jake, sliced through it with a pocket knife and passed the lid to me. It was a faded light green with a little.

red lettering. Winnie. She walks, she talks, she sings. There was no denying it. The thing was creepy as fuck. This is going on eBay,

like yesterday. Do a little research first. I don't know what we have here. It's not like it's in pristine condition. Packaging's been open before too. Jake and his collections. His packaging. The self-styled man cave he kept in our

townhouse featured a whole wall of Star Wars figures in their original boxes. If he could just bring himself to sell even half of that junk, he'd be able to finish off his student loans. Looks pretty pristine to me. For a thing his great aunt had presumably owned when she was a little girl, it was in damn near perfect condition. Jake held it, turned it over, peeled back a fold of the dress on its right side. Now you're taking liberties. I swear, the first thing any man wants to do with any doll is get the dress off. You're 32 years old, you pervert. Jake revealed a wind-up key beneath the dress.

He thumb-brushed the collar back, revealing a small crack in the neck. This ain't no Barbie, Rhonda. Damaged goods. He set Winnie on its feet. On the hardwood, it stood straight and easy, somehow expectant, facing me. This doll had been used. It had been loved once upon a time. Bernadette had definitely played with it. I felt bad for the eBay suggestion right away.

Still fucking creepy. See if she works? Point that plastic bitch in another direction. You aim it at me and so help me God I will punt that thing into the wall. His fingers hovered over the key. The doll, Winnie, blinked at me. I suppressed a small gasp. I'm serious.

You know I don't bluff, Jake. He put the doll back in the box, and it closed its eyes. Jake and Bernadat hadn't been close. I'd never known her except by reputation. In a family deeply steeped in Catholicism, he was one of the backslidden, but his old aunt was a genuine outcast. She'd been a lifelong spinster,

working her early years away as a midwife with no children of her own. Later, she'd been a fortune teller, a tarot reader, a conductor of seances. My mother-in-law branded her a Satanist, which Jake assured me was a crock of shit. And yet, there was no shortage of occult oddities sprinkled all over her small single-floor house, which had doubled as her place of business. I'm not just talking tarot cards and Ouija boards and goat masks, either. There were charms, amulets, beaded necklaces, sacrificial knives. She had jarred fetuses, pigs and bats for the most part, although some were unlabeled and unidentifiable, floating in

God only knew what liquid solution. She even had a framed, mummified face that I hoped was fake, complete with a silver engraved nameplate that read. Mother Abigail Jake parted the beaded curtain on our way back out of the closet Winnie tucked snugly under an arm She was a collector I guess Like me I moved right for the bedroom door

pointing to a stuffed rat that had been mounted to standing With an iron rod up its ass Only if you compare that to an Empire Strikes Back era Boba-Fet action figure Yeah she was a weird old bird I know His parents had flatly refused to clean the place out. They hadn't even gone to the funeral, which had been largely attended by elderly strangers,

most likely Bernadette's customers. There was no one else. No blood relations other than Jake. Maybe I was predisposed to find the doll scary in a house like this. Not that I believed in magic or ghosts or anything, really. But creepy old people kept creepy old things, it seemed. I wanted out of here. In the living room, Jake put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

Rhonda, what do you think we should do with all this stuff? I looked around, turning a full circle. The table and chair that Bernadette had used to commune with her customers and their dead relations was oak cut. That thing alone would go for a grand at least. We'd already made two trips to the Goodwill with her clothes, most of which might actually have passed for normal in the 60s or 70s. We'd get a quote on her VW tomorrow if Jake stuck to the plan and took off work again. You mean the weird shit?

Yeah, it's not like we're going to keep any of it or donate it, right? We could cart this stuff to the landfill and be done with it today. It was tempting. Including the doll? After we figure out if she's worth anything, and if she still works. She, he said. Not it. Of everything, only the sale of the house will be split with the rest of Jake's family.

And we could take as long with that as necessary. Like I said, Jake, eBay and Craigslist. We can leave all of it right where it is until we've unloaded what we can online. Then, dump the rest of the county landfill. That might take a while, but sure. I didn't think it would take that long. The shit was weird, sure, but then so were people. The doctors had told us we were perfectly normal.

All kinds of people struggled with getting pregnant, and we'd only been trying for a year. They'd recommended fertility treatments, but we were reluctant to go that route until we'd given it more time. We wanted a baby, not triplets. And we were still hopeful. We'd even picked out our townhouse in part

because of the small upstairs room next to the master bedroom that could serve as a nursery. And that room, being unused, was where I told Jake he could put Winnie the walking and talking doll until we decided what to do with it. But first, he brought it into the kitchen. Hard floor. Perfect surface for a test run. I surrendered warily, plopping down at our little table so as to get out of the doll's path. Fine. 10 to 1 the key breaks off in your hand.

I really believed that. How many decades had passed since this child's toy had done anything? It was only plastic, already cracked at the neck. Jake knelt with the doll, took her gently from the box, set her on her feet with the little white shoes and rollers. The key creaked and clicked as he twisted it, but it did not break. He only turned at a few rotations.

Then he let the doll go. With small, shaky steps, it shuffled forward. Strange that its eyes remained shut until the voice mechanism on the inside warbled to life. And when they did open, they batted and fluttered as though awakening from a long sleep. And, true to its advertising, the doll sang. Or it tried to.

The voice was scratchy, as though pull. played from a dusty record, distant, as though from a bad radio signal. It missed certain words as it crowed, and it was old, as though the inside of the doll had gone on aging while the rest of it had not. It swerved just a bit, angling toward the kitchen table. I stood out of the chair so fast I upended it. Okay, fuck all that. I drew my foot back out of the way. But when he stopped, Having barely advanced two feet away from Jake And was still two feet away from me Its internal record, which had apparently hit a skip,

Shut off with its last step. Its eyes batted shut. It works! Holy shit, Rhonda! Hold on there. I wouldn't call the sound quality crystal clear. Got to find out how old our little girl is. Jake drew his phone from his pocket and began swiping, typing.

sounding out his key words as he entered them. Winnie the walking and talking doll. I don't care how old are little girlies, Jake, or taking it to the dumpster out back, or storing it back at Bernadette's with all that other crazy voodoo crap. Maybe she has a ghost trapped in her. You don't want me leaving ghosts in the dumpster

for our neighbors to find, do you? Very funny. I started saying more, but then stopped. Teasing or not, it was a... actually a fair point. Jesus. Jake showed me his phone screen. His search had taken him to a sales site for antique collectibles and toys.

On it was another Winnie doll, almost exactly the same, but with a red dress instead of a blue and white one. The pitch read, Vintage 1950 doll Winnie, 25 inches. Walks, sings, original box with papers, $125. Okay, see that? The cellar can't even give her away. Rhonda, she's almost 70 years old. Winnie shuffled forward another half step.

The key twitching. Caught on another skip, maybe. I put my hand over my mouth. The words. The timing. Jake knelt behind the doll, twisted the key some more. Winking at me, he turned it around and pointed her the other way, and let it walk again.

She'd made it past my husband and was shuffling into the hall as though making for the stairs. For the nursery, I thought, watching it until it stopped again. Oh, Rhonda, this is a YouTube video waiting to be made. Yeah, I said, opening the folding door in our kitchen to the washer-dryer unit.

There, on top of the washing machine, was our toolbox. You mean the one where we play a couple who misses every goddamn horror movie cue that's ever been done until they both end up dead? Exactly, that one, and it'll... He kept smiling until I pushed past him, brandishing the heavy steel hammer with the comfortable rubber-encast grip. We're not making that video, Jake. I advanced on the doll without looking back.

Rhonda, come on, please, you're not serious. I took a knee, raised the hammer over my head. The key in the doll. twitched, its feet shuffled forward. So why? Take it's hard. Take that's hard. Take that's sad.

Keep at sea. I smashed its head in. The face cracked down the middle. One eye went rolling, a tiny piece of plastic skittering over the hard, wooden floor of the hall. I pushed it down to the floor, switch to the claw of the hair. to the claw of the hammer before going for the middle of its back. I struck it over and over until it finally quieted. Shards of broken doll were everywhere.

I heard my husband come up behind me. Rhonda? His voice was choked. What was it in his tone? Sadness? Disappointment? Betrayal? There.

Can I take it to the dumpster now? Rhonda. But looking down on the doll, I suddenly understood the feeling Jake was trying to project. Shock. Simple, terrible, unbelieving, shock. Underneath the doll, from the original crack in its neck, the crack I had not made, oozed. A spreading puddle of blood. Not real.

I shoved the pieces into a trash bag, two or three at a time. Jake had turned his back on me. He was breathing heavy. One hand clamped over his chest. It's fake, Jake. It's like all that bogus, hocus shit in that old bat's house. Those goddamn pickled animal fetuses were bogus, and so is this. She just tricked the doll up to get back at whatever family member had the bad luck to clear up after her once she was gone.

That's all. I pinched up the dislodged plastic eyeball. between two fingers. The pupil in the plastic eyeball shrank. Then dilated, as though taking me in. I couldn't help it. As for the eyeball, that rattled back over the floor. My hand had flung it without any instruction from my brain.

And really, who could blame it? But now I couldn't see the damned thing anywhere. Jake hadn't responded to my scream. I turned on my knees to face him. He was heaving breath. His hand still over his heart. Jake, what? Jake, you're scaring the shit out of me.

I went for my phone. Better to call 911 and have it turn out to be nothing than to wish I had called later. But Jake stopped me. Panic attack, I'll be okay, but... God, Rhonda, what if... It's her? I stood, hefted the bag.

The only parts of the doll not in the back or the eyeball and... A small smear of red whatever the fuck. Her? What are you talking about? Auntie Bernadette. In the doll. What if she...

I don't know. Displaced her spirit or something. You got some weird relatives. I'll give you that. But that's crazy, Jake. Don't you go crazy on me now? He looked like a little boy standing there, lost and afraid. I moved in to give him a hug.

But he held his hand out, warding me off. He shook his head. His voice still wasn't quite right. Go ahead. Hug me later. I'm not mad. Just take it to the dumpster like you wanted. Okay.

Maybe call the local exorcist while I'm out. Tell him to meet me outside. He didn't laugh. He unrolled a few paper towels over the sink. Wet had one. He pointed to the red smear. I'll finish cleaning up. Just get that thing out of here.

Down the small chute and into the belly of our parking lot recycling dumpster, the hideous thing went. 70 years old. Enjoy being reincarnated into something useful, Winnie. Maybe an enema tube or something. The big blue recycling box that serviced three blocks of townhouses in our neighborhood was closed at the top, and large enough for the bag to echo on its way down. The noise of its passage into hopeful oblivion never really stopped. at least not while I was there.

It was almost as though I could hear the plastic shards shifting around. Maybe some inconsiderate asshole had thrown their food trash in there, and now a rat had gone in to find it. In my head, I could hear it singing in its old woman voice. I hurried back to the townhouse, shut myself in, and locked the door behind me. Trash pickups Thursday. That's tomorrow. Good.

Godspeed and good riddance. Maybe if Bernadette had inhabited the Winnie doll, her spirit had been sent on its way. If so, even though I struggled to believe in such things, perhaps she was now in hell. It would serve her right. It got away. Jake's hand still clutched a wad of damp paper towels, but there was no blood on them. The puddle on the floor was gone. Um, what?

What do you mean? got away. Nothing got away, Jake. I got rid of it, all right? The blood, Rhonda. I tried to mop it up. I swear to God I did. It was like fucking mercury. It wouldn't soak in, and then it fucking dispersed all over the place, like a hundred fucking liquid marbles. It went into the walls, Rhonda, right into the goddamn walls. It was the truth. Jake's a shitty liar I would have known. And given everything else that had happened, it was surprisingly, Easy to believe.

In my head, the old woman kept singing. I took my husband's hand. I dragged him to the front door and flung it back open. That's it. We're out of here, Jake. Road trip, motel, we'll figure this out in the morning. We'll get help. Then, out of nowhere, a sharp, searing pain in my head.

No, in my eyeball. In my right eyeball. I let go of Jake and dropped to my knees. Jake didn't so much as look at me. He walked away from me, toward the hall, the stairs. I wanted to follow him, to get up and tackle him, drag him outside, throw him in the car, burn some rubber. But my eye, my eye, felt like it was being pried out of my skull. I held my hand to it, as if to prevent.

prevent it from coming out of its socket. It seemed to swell. I couldn't close my right eyelid. All I could do was sit there on my knees, rock back and forth, scream like a baby, like a baby doll. The voice in my head stopped singing. It spoke.

But Jake was thumping up the stairs like a zombie. I can't help it, Rhonda. I have to go. They're calling me. Rhonda, help me. I could hear them, like background chatter in a theater before the house lights go out. They were ancient, lonely, desperate, and dead. But over them all, there was always the voice echoing on the inside of my skull.

Winnie's voice. Bernadette's voice. Pain receded. My eye went numb and scratchy, dry. The baby doll. Behind me, through the doorway, I heard its approach. It was impossible. It couldn't have made it over the entryway step, much less the front porch.

But there, right in front of me, plainly to be seen through my good left eye, shuffled Winnie the walking and talking doll. She was still shattered, her dress gone, the plastic covering her torso, gone. She was a pair of arms and legs and a head held together by old metal rods and discs and screws. Her interior record player was crapped, but still in place. The needle clicked against it, looking for a small vinyl record that was no longer there. Her right eye was brown, and it was too big. It was too real.

It was mine. Our baby will play with you, Rhonda. Like hell it will. I regained my feet. With the pain gone, it was easy. Maybe you didn't hear me before, but I don't bluff. And with that,

I reared back and punted it with everything I had, heedless of the damage it might do to my own foot. Back through the threshold of the front door, I sent it flying until it landed on the edge of the porch and rolled back down the steps. For the moment, my head was clear. Through the hallway, I charged at a full sprint and up the stairs, only mildly aware of the pain in my right foot that would blossom into agony later when I had time for such things.

For now, the only thing that mattered was Jake. I found him at the open doorway of his geeky little man cave. I ran to him. Before I made it to his side, I saw into the room, saw the wall of pristine action figures in their undamaged packaging. They rattled against the walls. They moved inside their packaging, plastic arms and legs flailing against their transparent plastic prisons.

And they were succeeding. One of them, don't ask me which, fucking hate Star Wars. Had a foot out the bottom before I even got them. As I pulled up short, carver struck, it dropped to the carpet. It bent at the waist to sit up. Jake? He was looking down, breathing heavy again. His arms hung limp at his sides, whispers from the action figures,

and from the one on the floor, who pivoted at the shoulder to point an unbendable white plastic arm at me. Jake, look at me. Are you deaf, Jake? I said, look at me. Nothing. I took him by both sides of his face and forced him. I shrieked at him, my lips, centimeters from his face.

Look at me! Thank God. He finally did. He caught his breath. His gaze fixed on the eye I could not see out of. In that moment, I knew it was Winnie's dead eye, the one I dislodged from her head earlier. Only now it had grown to accommodate the same.

space of my eye socket. And I could feel my legs stiffening, the skin, pardoning. He took my hand. In the man cave, several other figures were dropping free of their prisons. A few were on their feet, teetering, their balance unsure and difficult on the carpeting. Now, Jake! He listened, and we ran. Down the upstairs hall, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and onto the porch. where Winnie was waiting. Her plastic skin rippled at my approach, slowly softening towards real human flesh. This time, I punted her with my left foot.

Jake caught me before I could fall. With my husband supporting me under the arms, we lumbered for the car. He helped me to the passenger's side without question. He couldn't know how my limbs were freezing up, how my knees and elbows were becoming more difficult. To bend, getting into the car was one of the hardest things I ever did. I did it. He drove. I sat back and listened with my good eye shut as he tore through the neighborhood, heading straight for the highway.

I have no idea how fast he went, and I'm amazed we never got pulled over. As we drove, as the distance between us and the animated phantom that was Winnie, the walking-talking doll, increased. stiffness in my limbs diminished. Then, the pain in my eye returned, and it was excruciating, even worse than before. But it was good. I was getting my eye back. That was three days ago. I haven't been able to sleep much since then. Neither of us has. We both took off work the next day, but we didn't do anything in terms of selling the old VW or anything else. We've spent most of the time driving, spent each night at a motel, each one a day further away from the townhouse than the last. How far away do we have to be in order to be safe? Can it know where we are now? Can it follow us? Jake's been in touch with his family, even the weird-ass turbo-religious ones. And suddenly,

Jake doesn't find them so weird, particularly in their unwillingness to participate in the closing of his Aunt Bernadette's estate. Nor does he find their accusation of Satanism quite so worthy of scorn as he used to. It's difficult to blame him all things considered. Even so, I hope I get the old Jake back, and soon. As for me, I put it down to a strange old lady that found a dark power through the strength of her belief.

I have a hard time believing there's only one such power on this earth, that it all comes from one belief. structure so many people never even learn about. But I don't pretend to know anything either. I know enough to be afraid for our neighbors, though, so I don't keep Jake from talking to his family. They're looking into it, he says. They're being careful. They've been in touch with the clergy. And that's good, because I'm afraid for them, too. Jake's family, I mean. I don't understand them more than half the time, but I don't want anything bad to happen to them either. If their belief in the church helps them to defeat Bernadette's belief in dark magic or

Satanism or occultism or whatever it is, then good for them, good for us all. They're determined, he says. They're sympathetic to our situation and hope it will be safe for us to come home soon. They claim they miss us, which is. strange. They've never missed us before. Am I overthinking this? Probably. But we're halfway across the country now, and it's still hard to feel safe when we're not moving. If that's paranoia, sue me. At least I'm not dead by some silly horror movie trope in a creepy doll story. I don't play by those rules, even if Jake does. As the lights come back on, our story come to an end. Please remember to be kind and rewind. If you would like to find out how you can hear

the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us at the video store next week. Our door is always open. This audio production is copyright 2019 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All 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.