The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S13E11

Episode Date: September 1, 2019

It's episode 11 of Season 13. On this week's show we have tales about vicious valleys, evil experiments and aggressive animatronics.   "Patron Saint of the Lost" written by M.J. Pack (Story starts around 00:03:11) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Pawn Shop Lady – Erin Lillis, Man on Phone – Mick Wingert "The Clown in the Church" written by Scott Newman (Story starts around 00:17:47) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Mark – Jeff Clement, Mom – Erin Lillis, Steve – Graham Rowat "The Montford Experiment" written by Kenneth Kohl (Story starts around 00:34:09) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Hutch – Mick Wingert, Male Doctor – Graham Rowat, Female Doctor – Nikolle Doolin "In The Corner of my Eye" written by Callum McKelvie (Story starts around 00:53:45) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Narrator – David Ault "In the Valley of the Headless Men" written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 01:11:57) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Derek – Atticus Jackson, Russell – Peter Lewis, Gabe – Kyle Akers, Jess – Jessica McEvoy, Pilot Bob – David Cummings, Mystery Voice – Matthew Bradford, Radio Voice – British – Erika Sanderson, Sam – Jesse Cornett Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack   Click here to learn more about Kenneth Kohl   Click here to learn more about LP Hernandez   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "In The Corner of my Eye" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke Audio program ©2018-2019 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Ready for the dark tales when we dare not 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 how we can't always trust our eyes. It's the Labor Day weekend, and for most of us, that means summer is pretty much over, and we look ahead to fall. And speaking of moving forward, I want to mention a very special episode coming out next week, the weekend of September 8th. We have a full-length episode for one and all based on stories with a certain theme, a theme hinted at with this season's musical theme.

Horror, 80s, movies, slashers, let's just say you'll want to camp out for this episode to enjoy the red, white, and blue horror stories we'll have for you. Intrigued, you should be. But as much as we think about next week, we can't overlook the great tales we have in store for you right now. Are you ready? You should be. So turn down the lights and grab the remote because it's time for our feature presentation. In our first tale, we meet a woman who's fallen on hard times. With no obvious way to get out of her situation, she resorts to drastic measures, pawning her mother's wedding ring.

but as is often the case when we let go of something precious, regret soon sets in and she wishes she could have it back. But in this tale, shared with us by author M.J. Pack, we learn that when you wish upon a star, sometimes you get more than you bargained for. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Aaron Lillis, and Mick Wingerth. So think hard before selling that beloved item

and think even harder before wishing to get it back, because you just might meet the patron saint of the lost. I've never been good with money. Mama knew this, teased me about it all the time. But Mama liked her cigarettes too much, and now she's in a box in the ground, so she doesn't tease me about anything anymore. I was 19 when I went into the pawn shop for the first time.

Bill were coming due when I'd already taken my extra clothes to the resale shops. It was December. I remember that clearly, because the utility company had already threatened to shut off my heat once or twice. But this was the first time I was really scared about it. All I needed was a few more shifts at the bar to make the cash, but, you know, around the holidays, everyone needs extra cash. So I went through the boxes on my dresser until I found what I was looking for. Mama's wedding ring. I know. I know it's shitty.

Your mama dies. You don't pawn her wedding ring. But do you have any idea how cold it gets in Ohio in the winter? Big winter storm was fixing to come through, and I couldn't go without heat. You gotta understand. Besides, you get it back, you know? You borrow the money, you pay the interest, you get it back. That was the plan. I walked into the pawn shop,

feeling small under the tall shells of old VHS tapes and chipped Disney glasses from McDonald's. Went up to the counter, put Mama's ring down on the glass, and told the lady at the register I needed money. How much? She picked up the ring and looked at it closely. I was hoping you to make me an offer. I smiled, but she just grabbed a weird little thing

that reminded me of mad scientists and scrunched her eye around it. She looked at it closer. Hmm. I can do 80. The lady didn't look at me, just kept squinting through that funny thing. 80? 80? $80 for Mama's ring? Felt like a slap in the face.

It's worth more than that. It's got three diamonds in it. Nice-sized ones, too. Daddy saved almost a year for this ring back in the day. The lady jerked back from my jabbing finger and looked at me. Really looked at me for the first time since I walked in. Seems like people do that an awful lot these days. Avoid eye contact.

I like making eye contact. with people. There's more chances to smile. I smiled now. She did too, but hers looked like she felt sorry for me. We don't buy the diamonds, just the gold. The lady paused for a moment, then pulled out a little jeweler's scale and set Mama's ring on it delicately. See, if the pond defaults, we just melt the whole thing down. And what do you do? Just throw the diamonds away? My smile was faltering. I suddenly felt like I'd done the wrong thing in coming here. What kind of place would rip Mama's ring apart and throw away the diamonds?

She sort of ignored me and squinted out the numbers on the scale. After a minute, she sighed. Okay. I can do 200, but no more. And you'll have to be in on time to make your payments, okay? My utility bill was 140. What was I supposed to do? Yeah, okay.

$200. She took Mama's ring from me and put it in a little plastic bag. I watched as it went into the drawer with other things that once meant so much to people. Probably meant the most until rent came due or a gambling problem reared its ugly head. She handed over ten crisp, clean, $20 bills. I said thank you, because Mama always taught me to be polite, even when your heart is breaking. I left with the cash. I paid my bills. My heat stayed on. The winter storm came and went. Eventually, I picked up enough shifts at work to make the money back. But every time I thought

about handing over all that money at once, I got sick to my stomach. So I made payments instead. Not smart, right? I told you, I'm not so good with money. I kept paying that interest, and Mama's Rings stayed in that plastic bag. Until one day I called the pawn shop to let them know I'd be late to make my payment. I explained to the elderly man on the phone that a shift had popped up at work, one I needed to take, but I could pay extra the next day. I gave him my address to look up my account.

I'm sorry, your account came to. yesterday. Your pawn has defaulted. I'm afraid your item is gone. My stomach plummeted through the floor. I asked him to repeat what he'd said, but the words didn't change. I'd forgotten a payment. My pawn had defaulted. Mama's ring, her beautiful three-stone emerald-cut ring daddy bought for her back when they were young and in love and not bones and boxes under the ground, melted down for scrap, diamonds in the trash can for all I knew. I asked him if there was any way to make it stop, to get the ring back before it went wherever it went to get melted. He said no. The guys always came and picked up defaulted items first

thing in the morning. I called into my shift at the bar because I couldn't stop crying. I felt so stupid. Mama's ring gone for a lousy $200. She'd always told me I was bad with money, but this was real bad. When I got home, I had a few drinks of McCormick's before going right to bed. Lying there, dozing off under the somehow comforting haze of the whiskey,

I thought of a game and me and my cousins used to play when we were little, when we wanted to make a wish. We'd go outside, no matter how cold or late it was, and look at the stars. Whoever could count a hundred stars first, well, their wish would come true. Sure, we cheated and counted a lot of the same stars over again, but it still held some sort of magic. Whether the wish came true or not, little kid anymore. But I closed my eyes, pictured the stars, and tried to count a hundred of them, whispering the numbers like a prayer.

I wished not to be so stupid. I wished for Mama's ring to come back. That night, I dreamt of Mama. She was right there at my bedside, stroking my hair so sweet just like she used to. She kissed the corner of my mouth. She told me I was beautiful. When I woke up the next day,

Her ring was on the bedside table. I stared at it for a real long time, not even daring to move in case it was just a dream, and I'd wake up after all. But finally, I got the courage to reach for it. Felt real enough under my fingertips. The diamonds shining so pretty, the yellow, gold, bright and beautiful.

It looked even cleaner than when I last saw it. I hadn't believed since I'd, left the hospital without Mama for the last time. But that morning I got down on my knees and thanked God, thanked Jesus. I even thanked St. Anthony. I remembered from my picture book I got for confirmation that he was the patron saint of lost objects. My favorite had always been St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. But I didn't tell Mama that because I knew it would make her sad. It's weird what you remember when so much else just falls away. Anyway, I thank St. Anthony and all the other saints, and even the angels in heaven, because what this was, it was a miracle. I put the ring on my right hand, middle finger,

and swore to myself, I'd never lose it again. I'd never pawn another thing in my life because Mama had been back to visit, and she'd brought her ring, and chances were if she had to come back again, she wouldn't be so happy with me. I felt so much. blessed, so carefree. I picked up a shift at the bar and my attitude must have been contagious because I made double my usual tips that night. The next morning, I reached to the nightstand and felt for Mama's Ring. My fingers closed around it, but I felt something else too. I sat up and looked. There was a real pretty locket next to Mama's Ring, a gold heart with what looked like a Ruby said in the center, I didn't recognize this necklace. Something about it made me nervous.

I quietly put it away in the drawer of my nightstand. I tried to forget it. But they kept coming. Every morning, a new treasure that wasn't mine. A brooch with green glass stones. A little knife with a mother of pearl handle. Earrings that dangled what were probably opals at some point, gone milky white with age. Was it Mama? St. Anthony? It didn't seem much like a miracle anymore. It didn't stop until I took a real late shift one night at the bar.

We did this special, Dollar Yeager Bombs, that drew in college kids by the pack. They drank lots and stayed late. One of them threw up in the corner that night, and it took me half an hour. to clean it off the floor. So I was getting home late, you know. Usually I got back around midnight, but that time it was almost 2 a.m. I hopped off the bus and started for my apartment when some little voice in my head, one that sounded an awful lot like Mama, whispered, don't. I stopped on the street, not sure what to do when I saw it. The window of my second floor apartment. The curtain, it pulled back for just a second, then snapped back closed, like someone had seen me looking.

I went straight to the payphone on the corner and called the police. They notified my landlord and I waited, shivering on the bus stop bench outside while they went upstairs to check it out. I think they thought I was silly, a young dumb girl spooked by the dark, but they had their guns drawn anyway. It wasn't until later I found out. that she'd been breaking into my apartment almost every night since December. She used a lock-pick kit that had been pawned a while back and just sat forgotten in their stock. My address, it was easy enough. All she had to do was look up my account. I guess it was sweet, in a scary sort of way. She saved Mama's ring from the melter, but then, you know, she kept going. Brommer's.

me other things that had been left behind. The locket, the brooch, other pretty little items someone had once loved and let go. She told the police we were lovers, but we weren't. I saw her when I made the payments. That's all. But I guess I smiled at her a lot. I smile at everybody. She smiled at me when they took her away in handcuffs. It was the same smile she gave me the first time she looked up from her work and actually saw the desperate girl in front of her. A stupid naive girl who was bad with money and needed some fast.

Happened a long time ago. But I can't help thinking about her sometimes. Just laying under my bed, waiting with some new treasure clutched in her hands until I fell asleep so she could place it gently on my night. nightstand, stroke my hair, call me beautiful. It's not just things that get lost, you know. As they pushed her into the cop car with its swirling red and blue lights, she called out to me. I used to count stars too, and every night I wish for you.

So when I lie awake at night, thinking about that woman and what desperation can drive us to, Pawn shops and diamond rings and counting stars. I keep coming back to one thing. How did she know what I was counting? Moving to a new location can be difficult. Your surroundings are different and strange. What might be familiar to others looks odd and unusual to you. But in this tale, shared with us by author Scott Newman,

we're introduced to something that would seem weird no matter how often you see it. something entirely out of place. Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Aaron Lillis, and Graham Rowett. So trust us when we say it's something to be concerned about. It's totally not normal, and it's worth being wary. Because what you're looking at across the street is the clown in the church. I can still remember the first time I saw the clown in the church. I was 14 and my family had moved to a house in the town where my mother had

grown up. Across from our house was an old church, and through one of the side windows, I saw it. A clown. Now, when I say clown, I don't mean some weird dude dressed up hiding out somewhere waiting to scare any passer by. No, it was one of those animatronic ones people put out around Halloween. I couldn't make out any of its features because I was at a distance to start with, but from where I was standing, I could tell it was fake. My mom saw what I was looking at as we both stood next to the car parked in our driveway. You know, when I was a little girl, that was the church I went to with grandpa and grandma. Why is that clown in there?

Probably just forgot it in there after Halloween. Somebody playing a dumb joke. Come on, help me take these things in? We finished unloading the car, being joined by my older brother, Steve, who had gone in ahead of us. Now I love my brother, but he could be a real dick. It wasn't long before he spotted the clown as well and laid into me. He's been waiting for you, Mark. He'll come and you're asleep.

He raised his arms in an attempt to frighten me. It didn't work. At least, that's what I told myself at the time. Asshole. I swear the woman had superhuman hearing. Later we had takeout for dinner, and I got to bed. School was already starting the next day. day and I was tired from the drive and unpacking so far.

When I got home from school the next day, I was alone at the time. Mom wasn't back from work yet, and Steve was nowhere to be found. I was about to let myself in when I looked back over at the church. The clown was still there, but it wasn't where it had been the day before. It was standing in front of the middle window now. It had moved. I walked across the street and got a better look at the car. clown. Still to this day, I don't know what compelled me to do it. Plain curiosity, I suppose.

I couldn't help but remember my brother's words from the other day. He's going to get you, Mark. It was evident the church had been through some rough times. Its white paint was faded, dirty, and chipped off everywhere. The three arched windows that were facing me all looked neglected, and like they hadn't been cleaned in years. The inside had been hollowed out with no pews or any other furniture remaining. Then I peered closer at the clown. It was about my height, 5-7 or 5-8, with a suit of alternating red and white stripes that shined like silk in the daylight.

It wore a white boa around its neck and three large red pom-poms in front and massive ruby red shoes on its feet. Its face and hands were gray and looked like they'd been fashioned out of molding clay with bumps and wrinkles all over. Its scraggly red hair exploded out the back of its head except where it was bald on top. And it had a piercing stare to its jaundiced eyes, like it looked right into my soul. It stared and smiled with its mouth full of teeth. It wore a sign on its chest with words that looked like they'd been really. written in red marker. The words were,

Hug me. A single thought went through my mind at that moment. The hell, would anybody leave this in a church? I had had enough exploration for the day and walked back home, not even looking back once. I spent the rest of the day watching TV and doing what little homework I had. Mom got home not long after, and so did Steve. I tried not to think about the clown that night, but even as my eyes started to feel heavy, its repulsiveness swelled in my mind. The next day while I was waiting for the bus to pick me up,

I stole a glance over at the church. The clown had moved again. This time, it was in the window closest to the front door. It had to have been Steve, do it? It was just like me. that asshole. Soon the bus arrived and I sat in a random seat, staring out of the window at the church,

at the clown. I spent most of the day at school distracted, and I was pissed at Steve. Later on, I was waiting for Steve when he got home. Mom had picked him up. So you think you're so funny, huh? You and your stupid friends? I don't know what the hell you're talking about, weirdest.

I'm talking about the damn clown. You keep moving it, trying to scare me. I pointed towards the living room window in the direction of the church. Okay, I don't know what's going on, but it just needs to stop. You both are getting too old for this. She pointed at Steve as he continued to profess his innocence,

and soon after he made his way upstairs. I could feel tears forming in my eyes at that point. mostly out of anger and frustration. But mom didn't want to hear about it. It's just a stupid clown, no, go get cleaned up for dinner. The next few days passed without any extra excitement. School went by quickly and I'm guessing my mom must have talked to Steve because the clown hadn't moved anymore.

It wasn't until Friday after school that I noticed something was different again. I had gotten off the bus as usual when I did what now had become routine for me. I looked over at the church and I saw the clown, still in the same window. But even from the edge of my driveway, I could tell something had changed. I cautiously walked over and as I got closer, the differences stood out even more. It looked a full foot taller, maybe more so. It's once normal legs now looking like stilts, and its arms and fingers look like they'd grown with its wrists and knuckles bent at odd angles. But its face was the worst part.

Its eyes looked wider and teeth more knife-like and pronounced. My subconscious brain was picking up all of it. It looked. A very real chill ran down my spine and I did. turned with haste to make my way back home, never looking back once, even as I slammed and locked our front door shut behind me. I decided to stay up that night and watch the church, watch the clown. If my brother was pulling off some elaborate prank to mess with me, then I had to know. I had to catch him in the act. I faked going to bed and sat down quietly by my window.

Even in the dim lighting of the night, I could still make out the shape of the clown. I knew Steve was already in his room, and that mom would soon retire for the night after a glass of wine and some bad sitcom TV. All I had to do was waited out. I don't know what time I had fallen to sleep, nor did I remember laying down on the floor up against my bedroom wall. I woke up slowly with my head in a semi-daze, and I instinctive. peered out of the window. It took me a few moments to focus, but then I saw something that immediately sent me into panic mode. The front door of the church was open, and the clown was nowhere to be seen. I froze. The steps that led to our upstairs did creak, albeit not enough to wake

someone up if you knew where to step. My first thought was maybe my mom had stayed up late and was finally making her way up. I hadn't checked the actual time yet. Someone was coming up the stairs. Then I heard another sound that made me question who it actually was. The noise was like fingers being lightly dragged slowly along the wall. And they were close, right on the other side of my bedroom. I pressed my ear to the wall as silently as I could hear better. I could still hear footsteps, heavy, but yet somehow eerily quiet in the dead of night. Somebody was trying very carefully not to be heard, and then the footsteps stopped. I sat, ear still pressed to the wall. I sat there on the floor. My gaze now focused and eyes.

is better adapted to the darkness. I could clearly see the knob being turned and my bedroom door being inched open. I could make out the horrible, wretched face of the clown, peeking in at me. I did the only thing my body would allow me. I screamed. The next few moments were a frenzy of activity.

My mom's bedroom door flew open at the same time my bedroom light was flipped on. In the flood of light, I saw the clown. I saw a clown mask on top of a Metallica t-shirt and then Steve took the mask off and erupted into laughter like I've never heard before. Mom barged in behind him. She glared at him with an intensity I'd only witnessed a couple of times before. What the hell is going on?

Stephen! What? It was a joke. Look at his face. He fracked. Get out and go to bed. We'll talk about this tomorrow and whether I'm going to ground you for life or not. Steve walked out, his laughter silenced, with the clown mask hanging limp from his hand.

My mom didn't say anything else to me except to go to bed and then closed my door. I distinctly remember standing there in place for a while as the house again went silent. I looked out of the window one more time before surrendering to my bed. The church door was still open, swaying in the nighttime wind. The clown was nowhere to be seen. After that night, I never saw the clown again. As time went on, I eventually accepted the fact that the whole thing had been a trick by my brother and one or two of his friends. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed silly to me, being so afraid of something that couldn't possibly have hurt me.

But still, I was always a little skittish around any clowns, whether they were human or robotic. I secretly dreaded when Halloween came around despite my attempts to appear otherwise enthusiastic. Over the years, it became kind of a running joke in my family. That was at least until I got a call from Steve yesterday. He didn't sound like his usual happy self. Sometimes he'd call asking me for money, but one way or another he'd always managed to bring up the clown incident, like it had just happened yesterday. But not this time. This time, he sounded downright spooked.

This time he went right into bringing up the clown. Yeah, it's getting kind of old, don't you think? It's just there was something about that night I never told you before. Never told me. One. That night after you and mom went back to... There was silence from his end. I could sense this was hard for him to talk about, but I had to know.

What was it? I had the phone pressed so hard into my ear. It hurt. My heart starting to race in my chest. What he said next made my chest feel heavy. There and checked. The bathroom window had been opened. I saw something on the floor.

There was another man. moment of silence before he spoke. It couldn't be. Why are you telling me this now? Mental health facilities are often the settings for horror stories. Tales of sinister asylums and the howling of the criminally insane. But what we often forget is that the people receiving treatment in these facilities are sick, troubled individuals who need help, not stigma. In this tale, shared with us by author Kenneth Cole. we meet a man who has a lot of sympathy for the individuals incarcerated in the facility he works at.

But after becoming a counselor, he finds himself intrigued by a forbidden door within the building. Performing this tale are Mick Wingert, Graham Rowett, and Nicole Doolin. So let's do some outreach and exhibit care in the community while we spare a thought for the unfortunate souls who are a part of the Montford Experiment. My name is Jim Hutchison. Most people call me Hutch, even in my professional life. My family-owned businesses as a concrete contractor, and we perform work for a variety of private and federal clients.

One such client is the Texas State Department of Corrections. It was work at one of their detention centers that got me interested in volunteering at a facility. About five years back, we were installing a parking lot at the Montford Adult Correctional Institute in Lombe. It's also known by a... the more appropriate name, the Montford Psychiatric Unit, as all the inmates have been diagnosed with some type of mental disorder or other.

As my men were doing the preparation, concrete placement, and finishing over a number of weeks, I used to watch people walking in and out of the front doors of the facility. It was depressing. Always the same scene. There would be inmates in orange and white striped jumpsuits, trustees, outside the door, sweeping the front steps and picking up trash, cigarette butts, gum wrappers, etc. But mostly sweeping, always sweeping, all day long.

Must have been the cleanest set of stairs in all of Texas. I supposed it was a treat for them, though. After exhibiting good behavior for a while, they were actually allowed outside the unit. I've seen the conditions inside, and boy, I would not want to be locked up in there for too long. Still, the looks on their faces, blank stares, slack jaws, sweating in the 100-degree sun. As I said, very depressing. I had a lot of experience with mental disorders, being diagnosed with depression and bipolar disorder, and being a recovering alcoholic.

I found help and comfort through proper medical care and support groups. I wish there was some way I could pass that on to these poor men. Then one day, I discovered how I could. The guards at the front desk came to know me and some of my supervisory crew. They didn't mind if we occasionally came inside the lobby to get out of the summer sun and use the restrooms or buy a soda from one of the machines in the waiting room. I was sitting in a chair one day holding a cold bottle of big red to my forehead. When I overheard two women talking nearby, they were well-dressed and obviously not there as visitors.

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. but the few words I heard caught my attention. Apparently, they were volunteers at the prison, bringing the word of the Lord to the inmates confined inside. I told them how much I admired their work and how I had a desire to help in a similar way. And so, they suggested I apply for a position as a pastoral counselor in the unit.

Long story short, I did just that. I had to go through some training, what I could and could not bring into the facility, what I could and could not say to the inmates, never share personal information or build friendships, and how to act when inside general population, walking and talking amongst the convex. It was all pretty much common sense.

For the first eight weeks or so, I had to be escorted in and out of the unit proper. I would arrive, place my boots, keys, wallet, and such on a conveyor belt, turn over my briefcase for inspection, and walk through a metal detector. Then one of the guards at the entrance to general population would call up to the counselor's office and someone would come down to get me. During the eight weeks, I was fingerprinted, interviewed, and a federal background check was run on me.

Eventually I was given a badge of my own and no longer needed an escort. I learned many things in my first few months of volunteering. Bibles were like currency to the inmates, reading material to overcome boredom. Pencils were not allowed in the cell blocks. so the men love meeting with me to write journals. They spent most of their time doodling ideas for tattoos. The really sick ones, the mentals as the guards cruelly referred to them, were not allowed into General Pop and looked forward to my visits.

Most of all, I learned how easy it was to get things in and out of prison. Not that I ever would have done it. But I marveled at the fact that given the right inclination, a body could make a mint smuggling in cigarettes or booze. stuffed into their socks. I followed the same ritual every evening that I visited. I would park in the lot, walk past the trustees who swept the front steps, and wow, did they ever stink, and enter the facility.

The guards got to know me and grew comfortable with my visits. They began waving me through the detector without having me remove my boots or open my briefcase and eventually started letting me avoid the security check altogether. Next, I was allowed to bypass the desk. and go directly behind to a filing cabinet where I could retrieve my badge. I wasn't permitted to take it outside the prison. Then I'd get buzzed through an unremarkable metal door and walk down a long, unadorned hallway. At the end of the hall was where the genuine security measures began.

The hallway terminated at another door. This one made of double layers of thick, cloudy, bulletproof glass, supported within a frame of four-inch-by-four-inch square steel tubes. I would approach and stand under a camera mounted above the door, lifting both my face and the badge toward the camera in order for the guards inside to verify my identity. Once done, the door would slide open, allowing me to step inside an airlock of sorts.

Then the door would slide shut behind me. The compartment was a triangular room with three doors, all similar, and a window set into the side. The guards in control of the doors sat behind the window and would control the doors opening only one at a time. I came to call them doors number one, two, and three, sort of like the game show, let's make a deal. I was entered through door number one,

and then I was allowed to pass through door number two into the prison general population. From the start, I would always gaze at door number three and wonder what was behind it, as it was the only door with dark and black. Since no more than one door was ever opened at a time, I never got to peek inside. During my orientation, I was told the prison's infirmary was back there. When door number two opened, the stench was overpowering.

No matter how many times you'd enter that block, you'd never get used to it. Mostly it was a reek of urine, but it was accompanied by an underlying sweet citrus smell as a result of the cleaning fluid they would ineffectively use to mop down the halls. Inmates assembled up and down the halls, always giving you the once over with their eyes. Occasionally, they would lock eyes with you and try to stare you down. During orientation, we were told never to look away, to stare them down as you would a stray dog. Looking away would be a sign of weakness. It may seem cruel, but you had to keep them beat down.

You had to constantly remind them that you were in charge and that they were nothing. Anything less could lead to unrest and rebellion, and you couldn't have that. The mentals were up on the ninth floor. The elevators, like the doorways, were controlled by the guards and monitored by cameras. I would press a single wall button, and eventually the doors would open. I'd step inside, look at the camera, and speak my destination to the camera microphone. Sometimes there'd be an inmate or two in the elevator. I never stood with my back to them.

I would always stand facing them, my back to the door, staring them down. And for the most part, they would lower their eyes to the floor and try not to look at me. I was instructed never to enter an elevator if it was occupied by an inmate that intimidated me. But I never backed down. At first, I acted brave because I was unsettled, but didn't want to show it. After a while, I felt sympathy for the men more so than fear of them. The ninth floor was divided up into five pods, each contained in five double occupancy cells. My habit was to rotate which pod I would visit on a daily basis, taking the weekends off.

Even though I was educated not to make friends with the prisoners, I have to admit that I looked forward to the visits as much as they did. Sometimes heavily medicated and by far the calmest group of men in the facility, they were, say, for a few odd ducks, among the nice little. people I've ever met. So it was day after day, week after week, month after month, that I would follow the same routine. There were occasional variances on some days due to fights or unrest among the inmates in general population. One thing never changed. Every day as I entered the block, I would look over at door number three and wonder what lay behind it. I asked a few times and was told the infirmary. After a while, stop asking for fear that somebody might. become suspicious about why I cared so much.

Truth was, I'm just a curious person. But I was told, with great firmness, that my request would be impossible to fulfill, and that I should let the issue drop. I could almost hear the implied, or else. That just piqued my curiosity even more. My interest grew and grew until one day I decided that I was going to visit the infirmary one way or another.

Although my decision was made on Tuesday, I didn't act immediately. I became more attentive to which guards were working on each day and at each time. Certain ones were more lax or friendlier. It took two weeks of studying them and building my confidence

until I decided that it was time to act. Exactly two weeks and one day from the Tuesday that I made my decision, I finally got up the courage to say, I'm visiting the infirmary today. In my mind, I thought, Let's see what's behind door number three, Monty. The guard never even batted an eye.

Gave me a nod, twinkling his fingers as his eyes dropped back to the video screens in front of us. That easily, the door slid open. Boy, if the stench in general pop was bad, odor wafting through door number three must have been quite literally a hundred times worse. In the hot Texas sun, with all of the turkey vultures, Roadkill never lasted very long in Lubbock. Every once in a while, though, you'd come across a fresh one. That's the closest thing I could think of to describe the smell behind door number three. It was as if you picked up a day-old dead armadilla, buried your nose in its crushed belly, and took a deep breath.

Well, what I imagine that would smell like. I'd never done that. Definitely the smell of rotting meat and gangrene, though. The door slid shut and another long haul was revealed, dimly lit with flickering fluorescence it was like something straight out of a horror movie. I soon found out that it was an extremely appropriate description. Another door at the end of the hall hung loosely from its frame, allowing light to leak out around it.

I could hear alternating moaning, crying, and the worst screaming coming from behind that door. I could have, should have, turned around and headed back for the exit, but I had gotten too far. The only way to go was forward, forward, and through that door. Although I knew it would seem suspicious, I opened the door slowly and stuck my head around the corner. The best way to seem as if you belong somewhere is to stride right in with confidence,

but I couldn't. I was afraid of what might be behind the door. Heck, I thought it most likely was just a prison hospital, moaning, crying, screaming, all normal noises for men in pain. It was most definitely not a normal hospital ward. There were at least a dozen men strapped to the steel tables, some naked, some in orange prison jumpsuits, and some wearing the striped suits like the trustees

that I passed every day outside on the stairs. All of them had IVs inserted into their arms, the drip bags containing a fluid that looked like antifreeze. Vital signs monitors, Vsms, were attached to most of them. There were two men and a woman, all wearing lab coats standing amongst the tables. One of the male doctors looked up in surprise and then beckoned over. Come in, come in. They must have noticed the look of confusion, quickly turning to panic in my eyes.

The female doctor began explaining in a soothing voice. Don't worry. You're not the first outsider to stumble his... way into our infirmary, and I'm certain that you won't be the last. As you've probably already guessed, what we have here is more of a lab than a hospital. We've just become so used to calling at the infirmary that it's simpler that way. It's happening. Everyone, myself included, turned toward one of the tables that held a dead man. Well, previously held a dead man, to be exact. His VSM had jumped to life, and seemingly so had he. He began twitching.

and then thrashing. He began to scream. I'd seen a man being burned alive once, when a barrel of hot tar accidentally spilled on him, and the screaming was the same. It was gut-wrenching, and it made my skin crawl. You could hear the pain and sorrow in it. The female doctor scrambled to inject a syringe of some milky liquid into the man's IV port, and after what seemed like in eternity, although it was probably mere seconds, he calmed. And his own. And his own... breathing steadied itself. Here's the thing. They hadn't been performing CPR on the man when I walked in.

There was no defibrillator to be seen. The man was unmistakably dead when I arrived, and during the few minutes we had been talking. Here he was alive once again, as if he had spontaneously resurrected. Disturbingly, though, his eyes were still clouded over as if he had cataracts. An uneasy and sick feeling crept its way into my belly. The doctors hadn't told me anything yet,

but on some level I already knew what was happening, or at least part of it. What's going on? So while two of the doctors tended to the resurrected man, third explained the experiment to me. You see, we were tasked to find out whether or not these so-called evil men have souls or not. Of course, I personally don't think

that there's any such thing as true, evil, but I do wonder if these malcontents have the same sort of spiritual makeup as normal people. After all, why do they do what they do? In 1907, a Haverhill, Massachusetts doctor by the name of Duncan McDougall managed, apparently overcoming any ethical reservations over human experimentation, to put six dying people on a bed equipped with sensitive springs, and claimed to have observed a sudden loss of weight, about three quarters of an ounce at the exact moment of their death. Having reasoned that such loss could not be explained by bowel movements or evaporation,

he concluded he must have measured the weight of the soul. A follow-up experiment also showed that dogs didn't seem to suffer the same sort of loss, therefore they didn't have souls. I'm not implying that these inmates are the equivalent of dogs, but one must wonder exactly how they compare to normal, healthy human beings. We obviously don't have much control data, but we have recycled these men as much as possible for research. Recycled? Oh, yes. We don't just throw them away. You see, as a pleasing consequence of our intended experiment, we found that we were able to revive our test subjects. Revive them? Yes, revive, resurrect, bring them back, whatever you wish to call it. This way, we're able to take measurements and observe through a variety of different conditions. It's quite ingenious.

Do they have souls? You know, I'm quite certain that they do. As I said, we lack enough data to use as a control. However, it seems that each time we bring them back, they lose a little until, it seems, it's all gone. After a certain point, we can no longer observe any differences. And how long does that take? Usually four or five cycles.

I cocked my head still in disbelief over the casual way he was talking about the atrocities they were committing. And what happens then? I'm sorry, I don't follow you. After you're done with them, what happens to them then? Yes, that's the problem, isn't it? That's currently the little snag we've run into. You see, eventually, they just stopped dying.

He must have seen the look on my face. I mean, it's not as if we haven't tried. We usually put them down in a most humane way, sedation, paralysis, and eventually, with an injection of enough potassium to stop their hearts. Then we revive them and do it again. Again, and again, and again. Each time it gets a little more difficult to put them down until... Well, until we just can't do it anymore.

What? In simpler terms, they are basically incapable of dying. Quite a problem. And they really start to stink. Can't you burn them, cremate the bodies? Oh, now that would be cruel. I held my head in my hands and began to hyperventilate. So, where are they?

well outside sweeping the steps with that I began to feel light-headed what caused me to faint though was his next question Mr. he looked at my badge Hutchison

would you consider yourself to be a good person do you believe that you have a soul As the lights come back on our stories 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,

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