The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S13E15

Episode Date: September 29, 2019

It's episode 15 of Season 13. This week we spin tales of the stressful, the unexpected, and the incomprehensible. "My Wife Won’t Stop Sleep Talking" written by Christopher Maxim (Story starts around 00:15:18) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Jessica – Jessica McEvoy "Wendigo Psychosis" written by Cash Robinson (Story starts around 00:26:094) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Desperate Man – Mick Wingert "Cry For Me" written by Karen Park (Story starts around 00:39:58) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Monica – Erin Lillis, Marilyn – Sarah Thomas, Sandra – Nikolle Doolin, Support group leader – David Cummings, Ryan – Dan Zappulla, Danny – Elie Hirschman, The Whispering Man – Peter Lewis "The Demon of Holy Innocence" written by J. Speziale Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: John – Mike DelGaudio, Celeste Montgomery – Addison Peacock "The Doctor Is In " written by K.G. Lewis Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Addison Peacock, Tabitha – Mary Murphy, The Doctor – Atticus Jackson "The Mystery of Orville’s Portraits" written by Troy H. Gardner Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Miss Usher – Jessica McEvoy, August Dupin – David Ault, Veronica Gower – Nikolle Doolin, Peter Post – Matthew Bradford, Orville Hall – Jesse Cornett, Billy – Atticus Jackson "Plan X Part 1" written by Peter LewisProduced by: Phil Michalski Cast: David Ault, Jessica McEvoy, Brandon Boone, Erika Sanderson, Nichole Goodnight, Peter Lewis, David Cummings Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Christopher Maxim   Click here to learn more about Karen Park   Click here to learn more about J. Speziale   Click here to learn more about K.G. Lewis   Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis   Host: Peter Lewis Executive Producer : David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "The Doctor Is In" illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham 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

Another day of scaring our audience witless. Time to put my feet up and relax. What's this? A message from our coup, Olivia White. Let's see. Boy Atticus. I need to write a Mint Mobile ad. I don't know anything about Mint Mobile.

Help! Hey, I can help. I know Mint Mobile. I use Mint Mobile. Do you want to call me? My phone's been cut off because I'm... I couldn't afford a hundred quid this month. What's a quid?

That sounds like more than $15. Uh, yeah, it's a lot more. If you're still using one of the big wireless providers in 2019, have you asked yourself what you're paying for? Between expensive retail stores, inflated prices, and hidden fees, you're being taken advantage of because they know you'll pay. Inter MintMobile. MintMobile provides the same premium network coverage

we're used to, but at a fraction of the cost, because everything is online. Mint Mobile saves on retail locations and overhead, then passes those savings directly to you. Oh, but the quids include unlimited data. Admittedly, I can't leave the house, so I only connect via Wi-Fi. With Mint Mobile, stop paying for unlimited data you'll never use. Choose between plans with three, eight or 12 gigabytes of 4GLTE data. And every plan comes with unlimited nationwide text and talk. Okay, but like, I really like my phone, which is cursed, and my number, which is 0772266. Oh, I'd better not read out her entire number. But you use your own phone with any Mint Mobile plan and keep your same phone number along with all your existing contacts.

Olivia ditch your old wireless bill and start saving with Mint Mobile. Ever since I started using Mint Mobile, I cursed past Atticus for what a flyer. fool he'd been, paying ridiculous prices. I get great coverage wherever I go. I only pay for data I actually use, and most importantly, my phone's never cut off when I need urgent help with brand deals. Just do it. Go to mintmobile.com slash no sleep to get your plans shipped to your door for free. Okay, fine, Chatticus. And I've recorded this whole conversation. There's your ad. Done. Except, But there's no horror element. Is that a problem?

No horror element, Atticus. Are you sure? Tell me, how are we communicating? It's not via your phone. It's over there on the bureau. She's right. We're communicating via Ouija board. Our coup is a ghost.

And always has been a ghost. Ah! Uh-huh! Remember, to get your new one. wireless plan for just 15 bucks a month and get the plan shipped to your door for free, go to M-I-N-T-Mobile.com slash no sleep. Cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at mintmobile.com slash no sleep. Ready? Ready for the dark tales when we dare not close our eyes.

Brace yourself for the no-sleep podcast. Are we rolling? Yeah, we're on. then. Let's spill beans. David Cummings. A man, some say... Some say. A myth, perhaps.

Universal synonym for fear, most definitely. A figure drenched to the elbows in such villainous vile doings that it would be perfectly excusable if what you're about to hear results in a shriek of outright terror into the ear of the nearest friend or loved one. Sadly, you are always. Alone. No one is saying unwanted. No one is explicitly saying that. However, there is much more to the story than you currently know. See, Cummings, while more recently

known for his audio and fashion industry exploits, has been a fixture in the archaeological and anthropological community for several... A cults. Generous handfuls of years. It's really not polite to talk about how many. You see, it all began long ago. When having collected a humble sum from knife work in various traveling bazaars, he brought passage on a small merchant ship and soon found himself adventuring across the open seas. But all around, the subtle smell of plunder drifted on sea breezes, tempting him toward nasty, bad, bad misdeeds.

And after a time, he listened to these impulses, like sickly whispers from within. but he only acted against those who had already proven themselves morally insurable. Even the most disgracefully notorious figures across the seas began to speak his name only in hushed whispers. This jovial blood-drenched legend. Slinging puns and slitting throats with equal ease, often simultaneously. Those same notorious figures began to disappear from every corner of the briny expanse as this new terror of the moonlight made his way from ship to ship, hoard to hoard, consuming.

In this way, an absolute fortune was secured, the first and most necessary step to any plan with true staying power. You know, I'm certain to wonder if we have time for this level of detail. But they deserve to know everything. What he's done, what he's tried to do, the sacrifices we've all made. But the time, though, do we have it? You're right.

We'll have to find another opportunity. They will continue to trust him until we're able to get the whole story out. It just may take some time for them to properly understand. Scatter! No, act natural. Don't unplug it, just... Hey, wow. Hello, all.

What? Hey! Hello, hiya. You were narrating a... about me while I was in the bathroom again, weren't you? Well, you do have the good microphone. It picks up all of our warm, round turns with such succulent sensitivity. Could you maybe...

I'm going to have to disinfect that when I get back? You know, they're not going to believe any of that stuff anyway. And shouldn't you three be getting ready to disembark? Go on now, fetch your backpacks and lunchboxes. Right-o-chi-o-a-chief. Phew, I sure will be glad to get out of here. Breathe some fresh air, take in some of that sky, pound the pavement. Oh, God, I hate that pavement.

It's not that I don't love having you all here inescapably within hearing distance, wheezing as you eat all my porridge, my dehydrated eggs, hammocks, and God knows what else swinging all through the night. It's just, there was once such a thing as boundaries on a man's submarine, you know? Ah, well, with time away. I'm sure I'll be hankering for my most private undersea moments to be interrupted by these little skits of yours once again. Can you imagine?

I wouldn't dare. Land how? You still say that on one of these, right? Aha, then we've breached the mighty Puget. All righty then, all ashore who's getting the hell off my watercraft. To those stalwart submariners returning below, Captain Sanderson has full hosting control in addition to the helm. Look to her if there are any issues while I'm topside.

The last few regions of our new targeting array should be coming online in the next few hours. We've been traveling all over the world in our various machines for months deploying these things, allowing us to pinpoint our listeners and beam the show directly to those who need it most, not to mention how much it will narrow down our advertising demographic. It has all been leading.

leading to this, your loyalty and perseverance in getting to this point is appreciated. So please, hold yourself in the same high esteem that I most certainly do as we celebrate these little victories. Otherwise, business as usual. Don't descend too many fathoms. Easy on the, the knots. I really don't foresee any issues. So strange to say, because usually I'd be worried about Peter getting us into some absurd predicaments, but now, well, you know. Still, it's a good thing we found all those recordings he had squirled away in the archives. He must have been siphoning stories from our submissions box for quite some time. God knows what he was planning to do with them all.

Oh, best not to think about it, really? But we have been able to run just enough of them to make it appear that he's still operational. He is still operational, right? Oh, of course. Of course he is. And I have to imagine he'd want it this way, that he'd want us to get some use out of them. You know, I think I even saw some leftover tour stuff.

Concept intros and such he must have been working on way back when he was being considered for host in 2018. Man, I wish that could have worked out. Ahoy, hi, hi. We're rapidly approaching our exit, if it's at all possible to up the urgency. Cummings! Why don't you go ahead and use some of those intro segments

he left behind. It will lighten the workload a bit. Maybe even help us all get a little closure. If you're certain they're tame. Oh, I'm sure they'll be just fine. Our security protocols would have flushed them otherwise. Copy that? Connecting to NSP Data Center. Well, here we go again. 2019, huh? Who would have thought we'd make it? Gooda Reza! Unsealing archived files for user P-Dash-Loop. Oh my, you did leave a mess, didn't he? Strange. Not seeing the older tour files, David mentioned, but there is a directory structure here

a title to tour 2019. That is, eerily convenient. Instinct would advise I steer clear, but David did say give them a try. I suppose we can always send words to cut the feed from the owl, if it should take a grim turn.

There we are. Narrative payload configured. Broadcast will begin shortly. All hands rigged for dive and prepare for spanking downward departure. Firing final Pacific Northwest beacon spread in three. Two. Dive, dive, dive. Are we all asking ourselves that question?

And it is a little personal, don't you think? Who are you, huh? How do you fit into all of this? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I raise. my voice. See, if you're hearing this, it means that things are almost certainly going to plan, but, well, we've blown well past our ABCs. Yeah, this is like Plan X. I really didn't want to bring you into this directly. I was hoping there would be another way, any other way. Say la Guerre. It is my unpleasant duty to inform you that I made a mistake, that I was outplayed and outflanked, and I

utterly failed you. But I will do my best to set things right. You have my word. For now, all that I require of you is a listening ear. It will remain attached to you. If you are able to relax, Please do so. If you are unable to relax, welcome to the club. Either way, your best effort is more than sufficient. So, shall we begin again? Oh, I'm just realizing you have no way to respond. Okay, uh, in our first tale, we join a couple soon after a stressful move,

the anxiety of which seems to motivate an increasingly sinister, series of sleep-talking incidents. Written by Christopher Maxim and performed by Jeff Clement and Jessica McAvoy, this is, my wife won't stop sleep-talking. My wife and I moved into our new apartment just a few months ago. Before this, we lived in a large cottage overlooking a beautiful lake. It was my wife's dream home for the three years we lived there. We didn't want to leave, but it was a necessary step for us. You see, Jessica and I used to live down south. Everything was going well for a while, but my law firm decided to promote me out of the blue.

It was unexpected, but I couldn't have been more grateful. Unfortunately, the job entailed transferring to another one of our many branch locations. The one in question was in New England. We spoke long and hard on the matter, but eventually Jess agreed to the move. It's important to note that dollar doesn't stretch as far up north as it does down south. It's also harder to find employment. That's why we were downgrading our living space. Until Jess could find another job, we would just have to suffer.

At least that's the way she looked at it. Tensions were high the first few weeks after the move. I could tell Jess was irritable. She missed our old house, our old friends, and working a steady job. She had nothing to do with all her free time, so she was bored out of her skull. This led to many fights. For a while, it seemed like we would never settle in. About a month after the move, things started looking up.

Jess found temporary work as a part-time editor at the local TV station. She loved the work and couldn't have been happier with her coworkers. I couldn't have been happier for her. Everything seemed to be fine for a while. Not perfect, but fine. This was when the sleep-talking, it was to be expected, and honestly I'm surprised it didn't start up sooner. You see, my wife is a restless sleeper

whenever there's a big change in her life, good or bad. It happened when we got married, when we moved into our first home, and when she had the miscarriage. I'll touch more on that, later. Jess knows she sleep talks because I used to bring it up from time to time. I would laugh each morning recalling the weird thing she said the night before. This always made her uncomfortable. She seemed to be embarrassed by it. That's why after her first night of sleep talking in our new

apartment, I didn't say anything. The sleep talking went on for a couple of weeks. It was at this time that Jess's temp job at the TV station came to an end. Without a job to keep her mind off of things, her nightly outbursts became much worse. She began screaming at odd times during the night, in which I would be forced to calm her down. One night, her screams turned into tears. As she was crying, she said something I'll never forget. I wish you were dead. I knew my wife was asleep, but as I sat there by her side, calming.

her as best I could, I felt the need to press the matter. You wish who were dead, hon? To my surprise, she responded. You. This caught me off guard. It's a strange thing to want your husband dead, and even stranger while you're asleep. You're ruining my life. Those four words cut deep.

Whether they were meant or merely the problem, product of a tired mind, they brought the kind of words that demanded self-reflection. I wondered for a moment if I truly was ruining her life, or at least if I were to blame for her night terrors. My wife remained silent for the rest of the night. I know this because I stayed up. Contemplation and worry kept me from getting a good night's rest. I didn't believe for a second that my wife really wanted me dead. But her late-night antics were certainly a cause for concern. Between the screaming episodes and the morbid dialogue, this was the worst her condition had ever been. The next morning, I came pretty damn close to telling her about what had happened, but I kept

thinking about how she'd react and what she'd say. It was too much. I didn't want to burden her any more than I already had, especially after she'd just been laid off. I also didn't want to have another fight. In light of this, I kept my mouth shut. The following night, the screams were gone. This was a comfort, but a fleeting one. Just as I was about to shut my eyes and call it a night, the sleep talking commenced once again.

Sometimes I think about how I'd do it. I chalked this statement up to pure dream-induced nonsense. But then she continued. I didn't know what she was talking about. But as she kept speaking, it dawned on me. There were some moments of inaudible gibberish. But from the bits and pieces that were fluent, I could paint a pretty good picture of what she was describing.

My wife was describing her plan to murder me. As deeply unsettling as this was, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. I can't say I haven't done some weird things in my own dreams, things I would never do in real life. Jess was mad at me over the move, and she was working out of frustrations while she slept. At least that's what I convinced myself. The sleep talking continued for a few weeks. I hoped that Jess's midnight venting sessions were doing her some good, but without a degree in psychology, I couldn't.

be certain. All I could do was listen to her ramble about offing me each night and wait for her condition to run its course. The longest her sleep talking had ever lasted was a month, so it was safe to say it would be over soon. A month passed. Then two. Jess didn't let up. Every night it was the same routine, either incoherent nonsense or babblings about how she'd like to hurt me. It was getting old, but one night changed everything. As my wife slept, she uttered some words that tore right through my heart. Be because of you. My emotions swirled about and formed a sour concoction that rested in the bed of my stomach.

This time, I had to know what she meant. There was a brief moment of silence, but eventually Jess offered me an answer. There was some more gibberish mixed in, but she was able to get her point across. You put life. I'm alone. This struck a nerve and caused a few tears to roll down my cheeks. It was my idea. to have a kid.

Jess never wanted children, but she made herself want them for me. That's why, after the miscarriage, I was surprised to find her absolutely devastated. I had no clue how much she'd warmed up to the idea of having a baby. My tears were interrupted by more sleep-talking. The last thing she said all night. It's been roughly aware.

week since my wife made that promise. As disturbing as that threat was, I could have easily brushed it off with rest, assuming it too was the product of stress. Unfortunately, I can't stop. Jess is scaring the crap out of me. I'm now taking short naps and sleeping with one eye open. And it's all because of one thing she's sleep walking. In our second tale, we meet a man who finds himself contemplating the fable of the Wendigo as he sits with the corpse of his brother. A creature outside, slowly digging its way through the snow to the cabin. No pressure.

Written by Cash Robertson and performed by Nicole Doolin and Mick Wingert. This is Wendigo psychosis. A gaunt frame carries the tatters of the remaining humanity of the Wendigo. His antlered head droops as his feral eyes shoot around, looking for his next victim. In life, the Wendigo had been greedy and sinful. In some legends, it was said that the crime for which a man is made into a Wendigo is the act of cannibalism. stories tell of tribes and villages who turned to cannibalism in times of famine a few members of the tribe saving themselves from starvation yet damning themselves to

turn into the hellish creature this old fable echoed through his mind as he cut up what was left of his brother we had been snowed in for weeks this this was the only way had he intentionally killed his brother with the purpose of eating him perhaps it would be different, but he hadn't. Rather, he had done his best to save him. Near the end of his brother's life, he was so sick that he could not even eat the little scraps they had left. It was only when the last bit of hope for him had gone that he decided to spare him from suffering any longer. In truth, he was made sick at the thought of eating the flesh and blood of his own flesh and blood. He did not die for this purpose. It was the fever, not I, that killed him.

As he repeated this to himself, he continued to work. He spared nothing but the head, which he could not bear to look out, and covered with cloth. He had loved his brother. If he didn't, why would he have given him such mercy and kept him from suffering? It was the sick truth that one of them must live through this storm. By any means necessary. When the storm ended, if the storm ended, he would go into town and file a missing person's report for his brother. He would tell them that he had gone out in the storm and never came back.

Even if he told them that he did what he did out of necessity, they would not see it that way. They might execute him, or even worse, institutionalize him. It was a good thing that most of the evidence would disappear over the next few days. The first bite made him vomit. The second did too. The third did not. But it was the heaviest of the bites and sat like a rock in his stomach.

Not being able to get down any more, he took a break and went up to the second story, which was now the only vantage point out of their cabin. The snow had stopped for now. but the clouds were hanging in the sky still. He knew it would be dark soon. He thought again about his brother and decided he needed to wait one more day before he tried to eat any more.

As cold as it was, he wouldn't spoil. He felt a little sick again at thinking about someone he once knew in these terms, but it subsided. He sat beneath a window and looked out into the surrounding forest, the hours slipping by. He snapped out of his trance and looked around.

It was now pitch black outside. The terror in his heart was so great that he had forgotten what he had done and he peered out into the darkness to try and locate the source of the call. It cut through the night right into his very soul. It was not a human scream, nor an animal one,

nor any scream from this world. He likened it to the call of an elk, except that whatever was making it was clearly no elk. It was shrill, hollow, but at the same time resounding throughout the forest as it shot to his core. He sat beneath the window all night, on guard from whatever creature had let loose such a sound. In the back of his mind, he knew that even if the creature were to present itself, he could not see it in the darkness. it may as well have been right under him. All at once, he realized it was now early in the morning. The light began to return, faintly glowing behind the fog.

A shambling form emerged from the edge of the woods and slowly forced its way through the snow. He opened the frozen window to try to get a better picture through the mist. He could not make out many details, but as the form began to get closer, he could see that it most resembled the shape of a man, save for two great antlers atop its head. It was terribly tall and thin, yet somehow could force its way through the snow with great strength. Its broad hands were sweeping the snow away from it

as it purposefully tried to make its way towards the cabin. As soon as he realized the creature's path, he began to run down the stairs to board up the doors. He remembered, however, the immeasurable feet of snow that were between himself and the creature. He continued to watch it as it got closer and closer. It was so close now that, were it to look up, it would surely see him. But it didn't. It continued on its mission, staggering and shambling along the way.

Eventually, it reached the cabin and began to look around on the ground. It was looking for something, surely, but it was unclear what? Then it began to try and dig downwards in the snow towards the cabin's wall. At first, it was not close to anything, but as it continued shoveling bit by bit away, it began to inexplicably find its way closer and closer to where the cabin's front door was located. It was as though it knew where it should be.

It somehow could not quite find it. His heart was pounding at the sight of this creature beneath him. It was so close now that if he were to try and close the window, it would surely know of his presence. He could only sit and watch. He knew all too well what it was doing. It was trying to find a way in. It kept working, but as it continued to shovel, the surrounding snow would fall back into place. Eventually it grew frustrated and began to claw at its own skin,

letting dark blood flow into the snow. He thought of how the blood had oozed just that way from his brother, as he had cut him up, and he could not help but throw up. The creature's head shot up towards him. Now he could see its face, or where its face would have been. The antlers were poking out from a crude cloth-like man. mask. The only things visible were the impressions of its sunken dead eyeballs and its mouth. Its lips were tattered like shredded rags, and its teeth were all but gone. And it saw him now.

Had the creature somehow jumped up to the window and killed him at once, he would have died in much less a state of terror than he was in now. Not because of what the creature did, but because of what it didn't do. Upon seeing him, it didn't continue to dig. It stared at him for what seemed an eternity, and then, slowly, sat down in the snow. This seemingly undecipherable action gave him even more distress. He wished it would somehow end him at once and spare him from this torment. Then he realized what it was doing. It was waiting for the snow to melt. ahead and wait. I've seen storms like this before. You could be waiting for days more. But the creature did not seem to even comprehend what was being said. As the fog began to fade away

into the late morning, he could see it more and more clearly. Its skin was gray and cracked, except for the parts which the creature had just torn. The gashes were still slowly dripping dark blood, leaving a ring of crimson around the snow on which the creature was sitting. Hours must have gone by, yet this thing still sat patiently. The sky was very clear now, illuminating its grotesque form even more. It was totally emaciated, sickly and bony. He was sure it must have felt cold, yet it did not appear to make any fuss about sitting in the below freezing temperature.

with no clothes or cover, save for the rags on its face. I hope you're enjoying it down there! He pretended that he was getting some sort of advantage over the thing by berating it from above. In truth, it was more for his own sanity. He had not been able to speak to anyone for weeks. His brother had been too sick to talk, so he was not accustomed to talking with something which would give no response. He continued to try and get something, anything out of it, when it raised its hands to its head.

At first, it looked as though it was rubbing its head in pain. However, it became clear to him that it was now trying to remove the cloth that was wrapped around its head. It was struggling at first, its nails clawing into the skin underneath and soaking the rag in more blood. However, to his horror, the creature finally got hold of the rag and began to unwind it. It twisted and unraveled the cloth, which seemed to be yards long at this point, until its face was finally visible in the sunlight. Upon seeing it, dread shot through him. It was not the creature's face. It was the face of his brother.

Are you here to plundice? me. The creature continued to look right at him. He was sick. Was I to let him suffer longer? Was I to eventually come to the same fate as him? If I being tormented for my unwillingness to die then so... The creature still made no acknowledgement of what he was saying and continued to watch him.

if even the man without sin suffered here on earth, then so must I one hundred times for what I've done. But I will see to it that you do too. Who knows how long you may wait. And I hope you do wait. I hope it becomes unbearable for you to sit down there. I hope you can know what I felt to see your one source of food,

yet being unable to attain it. God willing, we shall be here for weeks more. He was still yelling down at the creature when he felt a drop of water on the back of his neck. It startled him as he turned to look up and was met with another drop on his forehead. Again, another drop of water fell onto his face.

It was dripping from the icicles above the window. Slowly but steadily, they continued to drip onto him. He turned again to look at the creature. still sitting in a ring of its own blood. However, it was no longer gawking at him without response. It was grinning at him now, waiting patiently for the snow to melt. In our third tale, a woman attends a support group for grief, having recently suffered loss herself. There she meets a soft-spoken stranger who, rather than offering her a new patron,

path forward, offers the chance to bring this loved one back. Written by Karen Park and performed by Aaron Lillis, Sarah Ruth Thomas, Nicole Doolin, David Cummings, Dan Zepula, and Ellie Hirschman. Attend these groups for yourself in Cry for Me. I wasn't always such a terrible human being. Spending my time the way I do now Well, I'll keep it up until the day that I finally gotten back. What's mine? After that, maybe I can return to some version of myself I recognize,

but I'm no victim. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I walked into this with my eyes open. That's why I sit here in the cold, rickety folding chair in the church common room across from Maryland, and will her to call her to call her. cry. That I still feel him here with me.

I saw him that day, saw his body, with the needle still in his arm. But I can't help expecting to open the door and see him on the couch with his laptop on his knees and his hand in a bag of Doritos. Marilyn sobs, and I clutch the cold thing in my jacket pocket.

Come on. And then, as usual, Sandra cuts Marilyn off to make it all about Sandra. And it's even worse when they're young. My Jill, only six years old. I still don't understand why God took her from me. No real tears from Sandra. Maybe there were real ones years ago, but little Jill would be in her late 30s now. Sandra is all dried out at this point.

I sigh too loudly. Lindsay, are you ready to share? The group leader turns the focus toward me, and I almost forget to respond to the name they know me by. No, not yet. I wonder how long they'll let me sit and listen to their tragedies without paying in kind. When the hour is done, I sling my bag over my shoulder and stick close to Marilyn, following her out to the dark street, not quite done with her yet.

I was thinking about you the other day. That thing on TV about the country's opiate epidemic. All those poor kids. It has the desired effect, and Maryland's eyes swim behind pools. I know. So many mothers are feeling what I feel, and nobody can do anything about it. I press on, long past hating myself. for rubbing someone's face in their own pain.

The kids like yours, that's the worst. So young. Their lives are wasted, just unlived. Who knows what they would have done with those lives if they'd had the chance? I know from experience that the what-if hypothetical future kind of comment will really get them going. She cries, leaning on my arm, and I hold the jar in my pocket tightly. sure, her tears are making a tiny but important impact. Like I said, I wasn't always such a terrible human being.

I used to be compassionate and kind. I think I still am on some level. I mean, I'm not actually causing anyone new pain myself, but rather just wringing out the last drops of feeling from old pain. Something interesting I've learned this past year or so is that pain is more of a cocktail than a shot. A complex interplay of jagged and soft things that alternately cut and soothe each other as the feelings flow through a body. In my more optimistic moments, I tell myself that what I do to these people heals them faster. But most of the time, I'm not thinking at all, just trying to

rush through this quickly so it can be over. When I get home, I take the lecrimatory out of my pocket. for collecting tears. This one is ancient. The one who gave it to me claimed it was a relic from Roman times, and putting aside for a moment his taste for the dramatic, I could almost believe it, since any decoration the vessel once sported has been worn away by hands and time. And any edges, once sharp, have been smooth like sea glass. It's thin enough to almost see through, and always cold, possibly made of a marble or alabaster that my hands never are able to warm. I gently place it in its usual resting place inside a drawer in the bookcase, willing myself to walk away from it and not to do what I really want to do, which is to hold it up to the light and see if the level is any closer to the top than it was yesterday. But I know it'll just frustrate me to see how little progress was made by three tragic support group meetings, one visit to the children's ward of the hospital and sitting in on a morning funeral of someone I don't.

know. I know I shouldn't, but I do it anyway. So, so carefully. I move it to the lamp and barely make out that the jar is maybe seven-eighths of the way full of the viscous liquid. This won't be over until I reach the top, and it has been many months since I started. Today is Ryan's group. That's what I call it in my mind, although he's just a participant like me. His wife, Elizabeth, is in St. Bernardet's in the middle stages of ovarian cancer. It's not looking good for her, but he never cries, even when he talks about her and how young they are and how they wanted two kids, a boy and a girl,

and they hope to get a puppy with the arrival of each baby so they can all grow up together, and how that will never happen now. I wonder whether his tears would be worth more, somehow plump up my collection by being rarer and therefore weightier. I sit next to him, feeling the grief like heat coming off his body, and listen to the others talk. I can't stop stealing glances at Ryan since he's my type. The type I never seem to date but like to look at.

Dark-eyed, shy, college boyish. After the group, he and I share a cigarette in the dark up against the building, and without even deciding it out loud, we go to my house. He goes upstairs ahead of me and eases open the wrong door on the second floor. even though I told him my bedroom is the one across the hall from that one, and before he can see inside, before I can see inside and ruin everything. I slammed the door shut and pull him angrily by the shirt into my bedroom, and we fuck. There's no other way to say what it is we do together, circumstances being what they are.

Danny was eight on his last day alive, wearing a black Batman shirt that had caused a big fight that morning between us. It had been in the hamper for a reason. Big orange juice stain covered half of the Batman logo, but that didn't stop him from pulling out this smelly, wrinkled thing and refusing to take it off, even as I glared down at him. Having surrendered, while he smugly ate his Cheerios by the handful, dry as usual, despite my efforts to get him to try them with milk.

He hates milk. Hated milk. Well, at least there's that. I let him have the last word in the form of his favorite breakfast and stained shirt on our last day together. My ex had hopped from the driveway then, and Danny jumped up almost knocking over his orange juice. Hey, hey, slow down. I handed him his backpack full of what he would need during his weekend away with his dad visiting his grandparents. Bye, ma'an.

He kissed me with orange juice breath and ran out. the door. He grew up calling me the same thing as dad called me, shortening Monica to its first syllable. And I could never make Danny understand he was supposed to call me something different than his dad did. I really wanted him to give me that special name only your kids called you, but gave up after a while. Probably nobody noticed the difference in the single sound, but me anyway. I waved to my ex from the front porch and watched his familiar profile as he turned aside. to back out of the driveway, hugging myself against the cold. I wonder if the chills I had that morning were a kind of premonition of what would happen a few hours later on the highway. As a distracted driver

changed lanes without looking, setting off a chain reaction that would end in four fatalities, including Danny, as my ex-husband's car wound up smashed into a tree on the side of the road. I'm late to Ryan's group, and my usual seat next to him, on the love seat is taken, but when I see who has taken it, my blood lands in my feet and I see pools. It's him, the one I met months ago, the one who made me what I am today. He doesn't acknowledge me, but instead looks around at the group members with an expression of concern, masquerading as someone who has lost someone, or is losing someone, or is suffering in any way, which he isn't because he can't. I don't know where to look, and instead close my eyes.

eyes and concentrate on those who share their stories, reaping their pain, trying not to think about what that man wants for me, why he's come now. Can't be because it's time for him to collect my jar. It isn't full yet. He rubs his palms together in that way I remember, making that sound like dead grasses blowing against each other in a night wind. Taking into account the ancientness of his eyes. His face should be weathered and lined, but it isn't. It's too smooth, and his skin is too fine. When group is over, I am resigned and gather my things slowly, expecting him to bring his coppery old man smell over to me. But he's walking away from me. I see him put a hand on Ryan's shoulder. They're leaving together. I rushed to stop it, to remove that hand and prevent him from

telling Ryan his terrible and irresistible secrets. But other people leaving get in the way, and when I get outside, they've disappeared. I have no idea where Ryan lives. But anyway, it's probably too late. I felt that same hand on my back last year. Back when I came to a group like this for real, as I shared my sadness and hopelessness from losing Danny, I'm not sure what I was looking for. But at the end of the meeting, I found it soothing when the stranger who had sat across from me put his hand up my shoulder on our way out. That is, until I turned around and saw his face up close, a face that just wasn't quite right. He whispered to me when we were the last ones in the dark parking lot. He always spoke in a whisper. Anything. I'd give anything to have him back.

I can show you away. I had immediately thought back to that nightmarish time a few months before. The police at my door, the hospital, the funeral. My head swam with conflicting desires to believe versus reject this information. It was impossible, but exactly what I most wanted. But impossible. What are you talking about? You shouldn't say things like that.

What's wrong with you? He didn't reply but just stood there, watching me, rubbing his palms together slowly, making a sad, dry rasp. I was compelled to raise my eyes and look at him. His old, empty eyes met mine, and there was a kind of hum and something clicking into place, and somehow I knew he was telling the truth. In whatever reality he inhabited this process would. work. He could do what he said. He could bring Danny back to me. If you want him back, I need something first. He handed me a four-inch tall, pale cylindrical jar with a stopper on top. It was vainy and cold, bringing to mind an embalmed body. I imagined how easy it would be to fill it

myself with my own tears, pictured myself going back into the room I never entered, lying down on his bed and smelling his Star Wars pillowcase. I could knock it out in a weekend, easy. Somehow he heard me thinking, your tea must be the tears of others, and I'll come for it. But how? How do I collect them? Take them. Just be with people. Witnessing, absorb their pain, and the tears will appear in the lacrimatory. He held up the open jar for me to see. I've given you a start. I looked inside the open jar at the thin film of liquid in the bottom,

and then I looked at all the space in there I would have to fill up all that emptiness. Ryan is different the next time I see him at group. The seat next to him is empty again, so I take it. His leg is jumping as he sits on the love seat and his eyes are darting around the room. They'll only meet mine for a second before going elsewhere. I know what he's doing. He's searching for suffering in the room so he can harvest it. But there's not enough here for both of us.

When we're done, Ryan follows me out. He wants to talk about Danny. He wants to get me to cry. Don't do this, Ryan. You never share your story. It's important. I know what's in your pocket. He goes white.

You? That man from the other night? Yeah. Oh. How long have you... Had a jar? Almost a year now. A year?

How long is it going to take to fill this up to get Elizabeth back the way she was? It occurs to me that while Danny is gone, Elizabeth is still alive. I guess she's in a bad enough state to rate this sort of... help, though. I don't know. Sometimes I'll go a whole day, and it's like the level never changes. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it wrong. He didn't really explain things. Ryan has no clue about the

rules yet, and I don't see how it would benefit me to give away what I earned with such effort. I knew a little about the dark web from my ex, and I managed to find my way to an occult-related bulletin board there. After sorting through a lot of crazy posts about demon summoning, spellcasting, and the like, I maneuvered my way to a section populated by ones who knew about the lecrimatory. Of course, on the regular internet, I found plenty on the crematories. There are a real thing people used to use. In ancient times, tears would be collected in bottles and buried with the deceased. In more modern days, while soldiers were away, there are accounts of women collecting tears

to show their returning husbands how much they had missed them. but to find the hidden story of the crematories and the power they have when given to you on purpose, you have to go to the dark web and its shady bulletin boards. I'm not sure how reliable and accurate the postings are, but I follow the rules that make sense to me. Like how keeping it somewhere dark and cold keeps the lucrimatory and its contents more stable. Sounds like basic physics to me. Or how only pain-related tears work, not ones from laughing or love.

One look in the whispering man's dead eyes tells you he's not interested in those. But there's a good chance some of the rules and the postings are bullshit. Like one saying that you can make your own the crematory by casting a spell on an ordinary jar and then summon as many people from the other side as you want. And I ignore posts like the ones claiming that actually causing someone pain and collecting that will accelerate your progress. I'm not that desperate yet. How close are you to filling your jar?

Could be tomorrow, could be next year. I have no idea. If I were you, I'd be working 24-7. Why are you here with me? You should be out there filling that thing up, getting your son back faster. It doesn't work like that. You don't make any progress when you're burned out.

The jar won't fill. Believe me, it wears on you, Ryan, listening to these people day after day, trying to keep the ugliness out of your own soul. When I first started, I would go home, at the end of the day and just puke my guts out and drink. Oh, how I had drunk in the beginning. I see vodka straight out of the freezer was the only way to block out the stories I heard in these groups, the stories of loss that magnified my own in terrible ways. And then there was the discovery

that I could kill two birds with one stone. Every bar had a lost soul slumped on a stool who needed to tell a sad story, and plenty of alcohol for me to drink while I collected it. I I took on stories of regret, guilt, horrible abuse and crimes, and I was unable to look away. I had to absorb it all into the jar. It's not as easy as you think to listen to these stories and then let them go and live your normal life. Go to work, do the laundry, talk to your mom on the phone. It's hard to feel okay after hearing so much shit in such detail, in such huge quantities. The whispering man won't prepare you for that.

But you'll see for yourself. The man who gave me the jar? Who? What is he? Do you really want to know? Ryan's energy is still frantic as we walk through the parking lot. I remember that feeling. Seeing a miracle being offered and being afraid someone would yank it away.

I know a way he can work off some of that energy. I follow him to his car. We get inside. As the car warms up, I think about the whispering man and why he came to both me and Ryan at the same time, forcing us to compete in the same location. Maybe that's part of his game, to dilute our pool of resources,

a way to postpone the moment he has to deliver on his promises to us. I'm so close, though. Well, Ryan has only begun collecting. But it's not as if I expected the man to make it easy. He's not kind. I have no delusions that he's offering this solution as a way to help us feel better. I don't know what he's getting out of this.

All that matters is that I get my Danny back. I turned to Ryan. I think he's... But before I can finish my sentence, everything goes black. I used to lie in bed and wonder what it would be like when Danny came back to me. Would it be like a rewinding of everything that happened since he died, and I'd go back to our last morning together and never experienced losing him at all? Or would it be that he would knock on the door?

Like it hadn't been his body crumpled in the... car after all, but someone else's. Just one big misunderstanding. I couldn't bring myself to ask the one who gave me the jar. I didn't want to talk with him any more than I had to. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a poster of Chewbacca and Hans Solo that brings back so many memories my eyes fill with tears. Yes, cry. I try to turn toward the voice, but he is behind me. Moving my head makes it pound. Rahim, what happened? What did you do to me? He walks in front of me and leans on the child-sized desk, Danny's desk, and looks at my face closely. Sorry I had to knock you out. I wasn't sure how to do it right. I don't have a lot of experience with that kind of thing. Get out of this room.

Let me out of this room. I pull on the duct tape binding my hands to the the chair. No, I need your tears. Elizabeth needs them. You can't use them. So let me have them. I glance towards my pocket, but Ryan sees me and raises an object in each hand. My almost full accrimatory in one, his almost empty one in the other. I know I'm taking a shortcut here, but I don't care. And you might not believe me, but I am sorry to do this to you, to take a of all the effort you've put in. I just don't have the kind of time that you had to slowly fill your jar. Elizabeth doesn't have that kind of time.

I struggle against the duct tape handcuffs while trying to ignore my aching head, and I stare at the image of Danny, kneeling in the front row of his soccer team picture. He'd looked to me for approval after every save, every goal he made. A tear trickles down my cheek. cry for an hour or so as Ryan paces in and out of the room. And I realize not all my tears are tears of pain. I laugh, cry a bit as Ryan turns the pages of a photo album filled with chubby baby Danny in front of my face.

My tears come from love, not from pain. And my only consolation is that Ryan can't use all of those tears. The whispering man can't have them. There's more sweet than bitter in there. Those tears are just for me. He holds our jars up to the light and compares them. What are you doing? Using the shortcut I told you about.

I'm taking the tears you've collected and adding them to mine. You've got enough to fill my jar up. If not all the way, then pretty close. I'll be able to bring Elizabeth home soon. I watch. My teeth clutched as Ryan prized the lid off his lucrimatory. first. He struggles to remove it, twisting and pulling on it, his face red from effort. Finally, the lid, more of a stopper, comes off with a strong pop that sounds like a gunshot, and Ryan reacts

to the sound by jerking back like he has been hit. He drops the lid and jar on the desk with a clatter and frantically rubs his eyes in a panic. He turns to me, and I see in the dim light that his eyes are bleeding. Great red drops trickle down his face like tears. At first slowly, then quickly one after the other, landing in a pool on the carpet. He falls to his knees, moaning and holding his head. At this point, there's no reason to clue Ryan in on the number one rule on the dark web bulletin board about the crematories. The one rule everyone seems to know. Never, ever, ever open a lecrimatory, ever.

That much concentrated pain is not for us to mess with. I can be forgiven for not giving him that tidbit of information when he really needed it. Ryan tries to cram the lid back on, but it's no use. He staggers to his feet and runs from the room with shallow sobs. It takes me 20 minutes of hard work to wrestle my way out of the duct tape securing my hands. I grab my own the crematory and look for Ryan, but all I find is a trail of blood drops leading out my front door. I never did find out what happened to him,

but I have my suspicions. Life goes on after that, going to work, attending the usual support groups, and having sad conversations with my ex. I don't see Ryan at that particular group anymore, but new faces come and go, leaving their bits and pieces inside the ancient container in my pocket.

Until that one morning when I wake up, ready for work, and go to get the jar from the drawer, and it isn't there. I turned toward a noise coming from the kitchen, my heart racing. I stand in the kitchen doorway, breathless, as I watch my son, Danny, sitting there at the kitchen table in a clean, stainless Batman shirt, pouring milk onto his churias before taking a bite.

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