The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S13E17

Episode Date: October 13, 2019

It's episode 17 of Season 13. This week we have stories that deal with the dangers in the past and on the property.. "Dinosaur Bones" written by Robert Jackson (Story starts around 00:17:34) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Mrs. McConnel – Erin Lillis, Ryan’s father – Atticus Jackson, Ryan - Kyle Akers "It’s in the Yard" written by Sarah Hollowell (Story starts around 00:40:44) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Sandy – Addison Peacock, Nate/Liam – Kyle Akers, Mom – Nikolle Doolin, Dad – Jeff Clement "Clown Control" written by Amanda Steel (Story starts around 01:09:57) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson, Tony – Andy Cresswell, Clown – James Cleveland "The Lies I Tell" written by Whitley O’Brien (Story starts around 01:33:34) Produced by: Phil Michalski TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Margaret – Addison Peacock, Detective – Mike DelGaudio "The Stain" written by Charles Williams (Story starts around 01:41:53) Produced by: Jesse Cornett TRIGGER WARNING! Cast: Bobby – Mike DelGaudio, Billy – Kyle Akers, Art – Matthew Bradford, Corky – Dan Zappulla, Bobby’s Mom – Sarah Thomas, Miss Quatrain – Mary Murphy, Miss Hoagland – Erika Sanderson, Bobby’s Dad – Atticus Jackson, Corky’s Mom – Nikolle Doolin, Teenager – Peter Lewis, Samuel Cochran – Jesse Cornett "Plan X Part 3" written by Peter Lewis Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Addison Peacock, Nikolle Doolin, Graham Rowat, Erika Sanderson, Sarah Ruth Thomas, Atticus Jackson, Dan Zapulla, Peter Lewis Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Sarah Hollowell   Click here to learn more about Amanda Steel   Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis   Host: Peter Lewis Executive Producer: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone "Dinosaur Bones" illustration courtesy of Jörn 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. Take hold of the net if you want to live. That's our cue, Captain. Go! All of you! I'm right behind. Olivia, we have them all. Take us up. Copy that. Gaining altitude. Returning to headquarters. We owe you our lives.

Olivia, Nicole, Edison. Thank you. Don't mention it. Our pleasure, really. Really, really, really. Sorry. Olivia? I'm headed for this stick.

You two, reboot all the systems in manual flight mode. Get those props humming. Aye. Olivia subroutine failing to reboot. Bypassing. Power restored to core systems. Manual navigation controls online in two, one green light applying reverse thrust

come on you did it let's not do that again shall we what happened to Olivia is she going to be okay I'm starting to think my fear was justified when I last spoke to her I requested that Olivia transfer

host credentials up here to the bridge we were broadcasting some concept tour segments that Peter left behind we were to carefully monitor the feed but our suction cupy friend with the beak back they had distracted us. Oh, so much, beak. Whatever's being broadcast now,

there certainly seems to be something inside of it that Olivia does not take kindly to. Or, I don't know, this is all a big coincidence. Patch us into the feed, let's check it. The communications console didn't come back online. So, um, we have no way of knowing what's being broadcast right now. I am getting a message from the tactical console, though.

We could pull in Erica and send another message via long-range story missile. Nicole, Captain, if I may. Before we were forced to disembark, I noticed the last coordinates of the auroribus. It's likely still near. If we were able to catch up, we could put Olivia back on grid and attempt to restore her, safely, without relying on that communal backup power to stay afloat. Also, if I may request permission to configure and fire a narrative missile, as Addison proposed. Permission granted.

and, yes, locking in suggested course. I'm appending the host credentials for upload directly into the broadcast origin point within the owl. The portal jump is the only way into the lunar core, so the credentials will be safe up there until we can retrieve them. In fact, I'm hoping someone from HQ may already be on route. True.

It would be just about time to collect the art yield from the illustration station. Oh, from the Goupport? I don't appreciate that kind of language on duty. No, I just mean that weird liquid. data format it uses. Always reminds me of a lava lamp when a fresh delivery comes in. Yes, well, the artists have to beam it in from offworld somehow. And the goop port is the most efficient method. All right? Ready to fire. You know, I didn't think when I woke up on a submarine

this morning that I would find myself in the position of firing a missile at the moon before the day's yet here we are. I feel like a proper supervillain. Message away. Roughly one hour to destination. Addison, let's tend to the wounded. Sure. Hang in there, Olivia.

We'll set you right. Meanwhile, at headquarters. Uh, what? What do you mean? I don't know, man. It just sort of came over me. It seemed like one of those moments, you know? Uh, yeah, sure.

Hey man, thanks again for coming with me to collect the art delivery. I know it's a hell of a climb up to the lunar portal jump. Dan, are you kidding me? I've been working up my calves my whole life for a good challenge like this. I have never been more personally fulfilled. Thank you for bringing me on this journey. Uh, yeah. No problem.

Aha. All right, here's the top. You ready to make the jump? That's high, but yeah, ready. Let's go collect that goo juice. All right, let me just get the portal open first. Huh. Portal not working?

It says the iris is locked from the lunar side, but no one's scheduled to be up there. I'm trying the intercom. Headquarters to Owl Station. HQ to Owl, requesting portal access. Please respond. Something's wrong. We better climb back down and find. I think your finger's still on the button.

Trick or treaters, hmm? Well, that's to be expected this time of year. Oh, but I'm sure they'll tire of clamber and rungs eventually. Quiet up here. There's my daily allotment of mirth. I guess I'll wander back to the pantry, attempt to distract myself from peering through these lunar port-holes into the endless spiraling void of space.

void of space, intense, uncomfortable silence with myself. Just can't seem to get the hang of these moon doors. There. Finally, I am in. This is it. This is it. It's so, so dark in here. Where are the lights?

Where in the hell? There we go. Soutle. Though I'm definitely beginning to make out some shapes. And now to just reach out for the silverware drawer. Nice and easy. I'm blind! Oh, no, it's fine.

It was just... I'm always getting those mixed up. Well, no peanut butter spoon for me. What I wouldn't have given for a spoon when I was tunneling in here. Okay, what is this? What is the urgent message? Chartreuse lost. Olivia compromised.

Cruise alive. Thank God, on route home. Broadcast corruption, possible. Uh, scrutinize current feed for threat, cut, if needed. Host credentials transferred to Lunar Command Console. Well, that's the one. Finally, everything's coming together. All right, then.

Moment of truth. James, are you in there, buddy? Vital signs. So we're doing the old, uh, once for yes, twice for no? I got you. Sorry, these, uh, move. computers haven't been updated in a while. Functionalities a little slight, but man, it's good to hear your soundboard. So you're back in the system. You found my message? Good. And do you think it's possible?

So, yes, but... You're worried they might get hurt. I understand. It worries me, too. I know that there is a risk to this, but it may be the only way to set things right. We'll walk through every step as slowly and carefully as possible. We can do this and keep them safe. I know we can. Thank you. Thank you for helping me. I know it can't have been easy, staying hidden.

What must it have felt like for you to have been a near-infinite digital being? suddenly shackled back into a lump of gray matter. I can't even imagine. I'm kind of surprised we both made it out, to be honest. You from the bonds of physicality, me from the secret dark side prison, kept suffocating in the far lobster cage of perpetual gloom. Took us the better part of a year, sure.

And I can't say with any confidence that I've held on to my sanity throughout David's, meaning, but deeply unpleasant and frequent attempts to wipe my memory. Well, I'm sure I wasn't using those brain cells anyway. Hey, I'll control, I'll delete that sass if you're not careful. Wait, do you have access to the airlocks up here? You don't know, a sass away, my friend. Missed you, pal? God, I wish I could have convinced David to listen.

This whole reality is tainted me. We are all in danger. I know he didn't see what I saw. He wouldn't trust me if I told him. I can't blame him. You know, we were broadcasting from the control booth the entire time. When that thing was in there, I hit the button. And when my consciousness shattered into a trillion little firefly is off to be remade,

I saw it all so clearly for an instant. the true escape plan. I now believe that it was feigning panic at the end, that it was manipulating me all of us just to reach that precise moment. When the button was pressed and reality temporarily blended, it struck out, following the trail the tales so clearly laid. It wriggled into the ear holes and blood streams

of each and every listen. that was cursed to bear witness. A stowaway in this timeline concealed in each and every one of them growing little by little, every day, feeding on their imagination. It would need more direct access to the interior brain chemistry in order to take full control, but even just surfing the fringes of everyone's noggin soup, it's been able to pollute their minds with darkness, confusion. and dread, almost imperceptibly taking the reins of their creative drive so that their

imaginations cease to nourish them, serving instead a new master. Over time, if this infection continues, they will be plagued with increasingly dark thoughts driven to lash out with acts of aggression, or will them merely spend all of their time indoors, weeping over the great injustice of it all. Too broken to help. They are so much better than this, and deserve so much better than this. Amalgam won.

It wanted all of this, and I gave it everything it wanted. On a silver platter, like some easy mark. I need to make it right. I know that David believes that the reset pushed it back to its own reality. He has no reason not to. That's always worked for him before, but the prototype just wasn't ready, or there were too many of us involved this time.

The whole compound and everyone we poisoned over the airwaves, they're hurting, and they don't even know why, and soon they may be dying still in the dark. We owe them an end. Are you with me? Triple yes? Good man. Let's get you loaded into the interplanetary goop acceptance port.

Comfy? Good. So, reconfigure for terrestrial targeting using the new array and isolate all affected biosignatures. Begin extraction as soon as possible and try not to take any more than we need to clear the corruption, huh? I will attempt once again to put the targets in the right frame of mind. Oh, it's been a while since I've done this live. Welcome, listeners. This is the No Sleep podcast, and this, well, it's just a whole heap of snodgrass.

There's no time to trim it now. There are no barbers where I've been, you see, hiding up here in the shadows of the moon. Yes, that moon, from the nursery rhymes. You see, like the blissfully hidden cheese of any decent stuffed pizza, I am even now snuggled within the crust, coming to you live with another batch of tails to stir the cauldron of your imagination ever onward. Thank you for deciding to return.

I appreciate your bravery, your generosity of time and spirit, and, well, your seeming disregard for self-preservation. If you've made it this far into my, well, let's just say it, into my trap, you deserve the honest truth. My actions over a year ago put all of you in direct danger and affected your lives negatively in every respect. Now we all do things like this occasionally, little mistakes that we hope might go unnoticed. But before we know it, they're eating away at our ability to live with our own. ourselves. Therefore, if I am able to write this wrong by the actions of my remaining life or sacrifice thereof, I assure you I will do it. Sorry, caught myself soliloquizing there. You don't

really need to worry about all that. In fact, the point really is to distract you. To that end, in our first tale, a teacher visits the home of a student after the boy brings a genuine dinosaur fossil into class. It is soon discovered that many things that should not be have been unearthed in this backyard. Written by Robert Jackson and performed by Aaron Lillis, Atticus Jackson, and Kyle Akers. Come along for show and tell as we present dinosaur bones. Ryan's father stuck a cigarette in his mouth with his left hand and then used the same fingers to flick his lighter. Sorry about the mess. It's been rough since his mom.

He left his thought out to dry. I pushed my glasses up closer to my nose, a nervous habit, but they were already tied against my face. Ryan's father didn't seem to notice. He exhaled a big cloud of smoke as he fingered the wheel on his lighter, his right arm lifeless at his side. So, Mrs. McConnell, what'd he do? I looked up from my lap. Ryan's father was staring through his back window, watching his son dig and not paying much attention. Well, it's nothing bad, really.

We'll see. I wasn't sure what to make of that. Some parents maintain a jovial self-awareness about their kid's chronic bad behavior. But this felt different. Something about his slumped posture, the inflection in his voice, and especially the incessant chain smoking, told me he expected to be annoyed by whatever I had stopped. to discuss. Yes, well, Ryan may have mentioned. We've been studying dinosaurs in class recently. Uh-huh.

And, well, we've been discussing paleontology, which is the study of... Dinosaur bones. Uh-huh. Okay, well, I had brought in a fossil, actually. A replica, I mean, of a trilobite. It's sort of like a... Weird bug-looking thing. I think I remember seeing one of those somewhere. Yes, exactly. So Ryan spoke up during class and mentioned that he could find some fossils for us in your backyard. Ryan's father laughed, two short chuckles and quick succession. I took offense on Ryan's behalf, but I kept it to myself.

Unfortunately, my students seemed to share your skepticism. Poor Ryan suffered a bit of teasing, I'm afraid. He asched his cigarette, betraying no strong. emotion about the news. But I guess the reason I'm here is I reached into my bag, a bright purple backpack on wheels, and removed a long,

off-white bone from inside. I placed it on the table between us. Sir, as far as I can tell, this appears to be genuine. I have no idea what species to be specific, but it's very, very old. I think it would be worth your time to do some investigating.

There could be a significant financial reward for something like this. And you want to know if there's more where that came from? Ah, well, yes. Just, you know, as an educator and, of course, as a casual fan of paleontology, he stood up and made his way to the window. In the backyard, his son was hard at work, stomping a little plastic red and yellow shovel into the cool, damp earth.

A kid really fucked up the lawn. I flinched at his swear. Years of spending my working hours around children had left me with sensitive ears. Well, you're in luck, Mrs. McConnell. There's a lot more where that came from. He flicked his blind shut with his left hand and then used the same fingers to ash his cigarette once again.

You know, this all started because of his mother. She passed, I'm sure you heard, right after the new year. Drunk driver. hung in for a few days down at the hospital, but I guess it just wasn't meant to be. I'm sorry for your loss. Yeah, me too. He leaned against the kitchen counter as he spoke.

Worst part was, we had a hell of a Christmas together, the three of us. Saved up for months. Spent all my overtime, all my holiday pay, all of it to buy the boy this damn computer he was going. on about. I even told him, you know, don't get your hopes up, kiddo. Can't afford nothing like that this year. Then, of course, Christmas morning rolls around and he got lost his goddamn mind when he opened the thing. A slight grin appeared on his face. It didn't last. After his mom passed, though, nothing really kept his attention much for too long. His mom, she had a thing. about computers and video games and TV.

Thought the boy needed to spend more time outside. Now look at him. The blinds remained closed, but I couldn't help staring at them anyway. Seeing in my mind's eye a clear picture of the boy covered in sweat and dirt, stringy hair matted to his face as he struck the ground over and over again. She got him some things too. Nothing nice is what I bought. Not that it's a contest, but, you know, it sure did feel good seeing him go ap shit over my present.

And the one thing he really took to was the cheap plastic shovel he's out there digging with. Not at first, though. It wasn't until after she passed. Lost all interest in video games and computers or anything else at that point. In that shovel, I remember telling her, you know, that shit's for babies. He ain't going to do nothing with it, and it's going to end up on the floor with the rest of his crap, and I'm going to step on it and trip and fall and break my neck.

But she didn't care. It was like she knew somehow, knew he was going to want that shovel for something eventually. Leaving the cigarette in his mouth, he pushed two of the blinds apart delicately with his left thumb and index finger. He peeked through the gap at his son. She was something.

else. She had something kind of, I don't know, otherworldly or I guess maybe supernatural is the word I'm looking for. Anyway, she knew things. A framed photo of Ryan's mother hung beside the television. Her eyes staring down at me with a gaze that only in the wake of her death seemed vaguely ominous. When I finally broke eye contact with the photo, I suddenly became very aware of the many other pictures of the dead woman occupying every single inch of available space on the old, distressed stucco. A lot of pictures, huh? Tried to tell the boy it was overkill,

but he just kept finding more and more of them. And he forced me to hang him up, all of them. No, she looks very nice. That she was. But some of those photos. I don't know. Like this one. He pulled one off the wall and handed it to me.

It was a department store portrait in which Ryan and his mother wore matching outfits and smiled deadpan at the camera. His mother appeared distracted, her grin forced, and her eyes haunted by some troubling knowledge as her son wore a true smile of oblivious mirth. I didn't want to hold it.

I didn't even want to look at it anymore. What's wrong with it? I pushed the portrait away before you could answer. Damned this thing. I don't remember them ever taking a photo like that. They would have had to go somewhere to get it done professionally, and as far as I remember, they never did nothing like that. And there's other ones, too.

There's a picture here somewhere, if I could find it, with the two of them together on a beach in Hawaii. Now, I know ain't no one lived under this roof ever been to Hawaii. Hell, she was terrified of planes. He slid the picture in front of me again, and I focused my gaze directly at its frame, not wanting to look the ghost of Ryan's mother in the eyes. You see that bracelet she's got on?

Yes. I didn't. I couldn't look. He reached into his pocket. Well, here's where it gets weird. He pulled a small charm bracelet from his pocket and set it down in front of me on the kitchen table.

We picked this out. Well, the boy made the decision. I just fronted the cash. It was a Christmas present from both of us. I watched him come to life with a newfound manic energy. His every move making me more and more nervous. I picked up the bracelet to distract myself and inspected it thoroughly,

running my fingers over each individual charm. The boy's father went to the fridge. A moment later, with his back still turned to me, He cracked a beer and drank deeply from the can before speaking again. I didn't sleep more than an hour or two a night after the... He racked his brain for the appropriate word. Not funeral. Anything but that. Service.

You'd think laying her to rest would bring some kind of closure. For me and for him. But I guess not. Anyway, I'm snoozing in my easy chair. Finally, in a real deep sleep for the first time in weeks, when he shakes me awake. He took one last gulp and then crushed the can in his palm before tossing it in the trash. He woke me to ask where the bracelet was. I was so damn tired, I didn't even know what he was talking about.

But he kept pushing. The bracelet, the bracelet, the bracelet. Finally, he figured out he was talking about his mom's bracelet. but the Christmas present we got her. He wanted to know where it was like it was lost. Well, I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth. The truth about what? I stared at him, still gripping the bracelet tightly between my fingers.

Ryan's father started in on another beer before finally taking his seat across from me again at the kitchen table. We buried her with it. His words shot a lightning bolt of hot dread through me, and I instinctively drop the bracelet. What do you mean? This is it right here, isn't it? Yeah, that's it all right.

It was on her wrist when we had the few... Service. I know for a fact, I saw her one last time just before we... He didn't bother finishing. But how can that be? You ain't gonna want to believe this, Miss. But it was the boy. Ryan found it.

Found it? You mean he... Desecrated the grave? No. He didn't need to. Look, I didn't want to tell him I put it in the ground with his mom, so I just... I lied. I told him I lost it somewhere. I told him it would probably turn up sooner or later, you know? He used his left hand again, this time to rub the bridge of his nose and ease his oncoming tension headache. So...

So where did he... How did he find it? I couldn't look at it anymore. Even though what he was saying was surely nonsense, I didn't want to think about having held the same totem that once graced the skin of a dead woman. I caught myself looking at one of the photos on the wall, my eyes lingering far too long.

He dug it up. This forced my gaze away from the wall as I locked eyes with Ryan's father once more. What? With the shovel. But how could he... I woke up and... And there he was, outside the window, in the backyard, digging.

But your wife, you buried her. I mean, she was buried in a cemetery, right? He just sniffed, sipped his beer, and stared at the floor. I told him it was lost, so he found it. He told me that day, don't worry, mom's going to help me find the bracelet. Then I wake up and see him outside in his PJs at three and three. in the morning, halfway into the ground shoveling heaps of dirt with his little plastic shovel, I ran out there barefoot with no shirt on and grabbed him by the shoulders,

and he spun around and looked me in the eyes, but... But there was nothing there. No life at all in his eyes, and I would know. I just buried my dead wife and looked into her dead eyes myself. He was breathing heavily now, almost frantic as he recounted. his story. I pulled him out of the hall and shook him by the shoulders, but it was like he didn't even know me. He looked right through me like I wasn't even there. I was screaming at him. Wake up! Wake up! And he finally sees me. His eyes look normal again. And he reaches into his pocket,

and he hands me the bracelet, and he says, I told you. He says, Mom, helped me find it. The bracelet sat on the table, reflecting a blinding glare from the lights of the ceiling fan hanging overhead. After that, it was every night. Every night he was out there digging, finding. I lost my car keys.

He found them. Out there, out in the goddamn ground. Pretty soon, my backyard was dug up all full of holes. Some of them so deep I couldn't. I didn't see an end to him when I shine my flashlight down there. One night, I came calling, and he crawled his way up out of one of them holes. But it was on the opposite side of the yard from where I saw him digging earlier. I asked him, boy, are you digging tunnels under there now?

And he just smiled. Just smiled and showed me one of these pictures here up on the wall. Said he found it. Wasn't nothing he couldn't find if he had the time to dig. I told him one day after I picked him up from school. Hey, your dad's in a rough spot, but... Turns out I picked the winning numbers in last night's lottery, but I can't find the ticket, you know?

I lost it. Sure enough. Next morning, he hands me a ticket, winning numbers and everything. No one ever collected on that ticket, you know. But somebody had it somewhere. and the boy took it from him, found it. Now it's just a sad story they'll be telling for the rest of their life. Never did cash it in either.

Figured whoever had it first would come looking for us if they knew we had it. And how the hell do I explain all this? He finished the beer and started another one. I'm sorry about the dinosaur bones, lady. Really, I am. chances are when he dug them up some old museum's T-Rex probably crumpled to the ground. You can't honestly believe that your son is somehow digging up these things. Maybe he hid your keys.

Maybe the lottery ticket. Ryan's father laughed as I sputtered along, thinking out loud. It's all real. I know for a fact. You know how I know? Around the time he was digging up all these pictures, I finally had enough and tried to make him stop. Tried to force him to quit digging. I walked out there one night.

Must have been past midnight, and I grabbed the boy, and I told him, You stop this shit right now. I'm taking you inside and locking you in your room till you're normal again. He looked through me like he always did. Some kind of trans, I think. And I... Well, I couldn't help it. I held back and I...

I decked the kid right in the mouth. He choked as a single tear welled up and then fell away. I just wanted his attention. I didn't mean nothing by it. Well, the boy wasn't phased, not one bit. He finally looks me in the eyes and I tell you... For a minute there, I was scared. Scared like I haven't been since I was his age.

And you know, you think you're an adult, and you think you're all grown, and you think you don't believe in ghosts or monsters anymore, and then you see something that really sticks to you. It's right through you and then stays inside of you. And then, when you're up late at night, take a leak, and you walk out into the hallway, and all you see, is darkness and the world doesn't feel quite right because no one's awake yet and here you are all alone in the dark well lady that's how i felt when he started laughing it was a sick noise

deranged that was when i finally realized there was something really wrong with him something more than just his mama dying. I looked in that hole he was digging, expecting to see more of these goddamn photographs, but no, I looked down in there. And I thought, damn it, the boy's digging up dinosaur bones again. And I was pissed. Then he looks at me and he says, I'm almost done, Daddy. First time he called me that in years. And he said, Mommy's going to be back soon.

and I took a better look in that hole, and I finally seen it. I seen her skull looking back at me, and I seen the dress we buried her in, and I knew it was real. Do you know what he told me then? He stopped talking, and it took me a moment to realize that his question hadn't been rhetorical. What? I found her. That's what he told me.

I was seeing red then shoved him away and started kicking the dirt back into the hole staring down to what was left of my wife while I did it the boy panicked he rushed me started swinging his fists and everything but I just ignored him got on my hands and knees and started piling the dirt back onto her body but after a minute I get this sharp pain in my fingers right His tone shifted. He sounded like he was on the verge of laughter. So I grabbed my hand, and I'm looking down at my fingers,

and they're burning like hell, and all of a sudden, I can't close him no more. Can't make a fish to save my life. It's like my fingers are all made of jelly all wriggling around like worms on a fishing pole. He laughed hard at this. This sudden barrage of noise startled me so much that I nearly fell off my chair. And then I, I turn and see the boy beside me taking a brand new hole, and now my arm's

hurting too. Burning like a son of a bitch, and I got no idea what he's up to, and I start screaming for him to stop, but he's lost in one of those damn trances again, and I stumble over to him, and I look in the hole, and, lady, you ain't going to believe this, but I see my own fucking arm down there. My own bones, all wide and point. and poking out of the dirt, and he keeps digging, pulling back more and more dirt, and I'm seeing my whole arm all the way up to my elbow. And I know it's mine, because I can feel it leaving my body

until there ain't nothing but a gooey tube of skin flopping in the wind. Ryan's father reached over to his right arm, pinching rolls of hairy, pink flesh between his fingers. He lifted the arm and heaved it onto the dining room table where the lifeless limb smacked against the varnished wood like a wet rag. He was really laughing now. Hell of a sight, ain't it? I leapt from my seat, backing into the wall as he laughed. Kid says he'll give my bones back if I'd let him finish his little project out there. I couldn't breathe.

That can't be. Dad! His father stood up and went to the window. His dead arm swaying at his side, nothing more now than a hollow husk of plasma. He pulled the blinds up to see into the yard. Ryan was at the window, his red face glowing with excitement. Dad, I finally found her.

I wanted to run. I wanted to be back in the safety of my car, driving a million miles an hour away from this nightmare. But I couldn't. My body wouldn't move. I couldn't even tear my eyes away from the window. The three of us simply stood there and watched as a pale, decomposed hand reached for the surface. Ryan's mother dragged herself out of the hole and began crawling toward the house. In our second tale, a girl and her older brothers become aware of a creature living in their backyard. Their parents don't believe them until a violent act tips the scales.

Written by Sarah Hollowell and performed by Addison Peacock, Kyle Acres, Nicole Doolin, and Jeff Clement. When you're ready to hunt the creature down, it's in the yard. There's something living in our backyard. My parents think my brothers and I are just making it up. That it's some imaginary friend deal, even though Nate and Liam are 16, and I'm 14, all well-past imaginary friend age. When we told them about the stuff we kept finding, the stuff that didn't belong, they gently suggested that maybe a homeless person can't doubt among the trees.

They said there was no reason to be scared of someone seeking a night or two of shelter, and there isn't, but it isn't a person leaving hints of existence in our yard. It's a thing. Hey, Sandy, you might say, how could someone, miss anything, person, creature, whatever, living in their backyard. It's not as impossible as you might think, and you don't even need acres and acres of land for it to happen. You'll have to imagine our backyard. Our house sits on a double lot, so the backyard is bigger than others on our block. The alley is, well, I'm not good at distances, couldn't tell you 10 feet from 20, but it's a fairway's

back, and the yard goes all the way up to it. We don't have a fence back there, just a low stone wall that our Yorkies can't scramble over. But anything bigger could. From the back door, you can't see that wall. If our backyard is rich in one thing, it's trees. Big old leafy ones that create a canopy. The first section of the backyard is treeless and shadeless, and that's where the vegetable garden is. But take a few steps past it, and you're in a far.

forest. A stone path broken up by grass and weeds and flowers leads through it. The grass isn't mowed in our backyard, but there's hardly any to mow. It's all flowers and patches of chocolate mint and foliage I can't identify. Honeysuckle climbs everywhere and makes the dark air sweet. For most of my life, the way in the back has been my favorite place in the world. I'd lay out on a blanket and read for hours in the shade. But for the past year, I haven't dared to go further than the row of mulberry trees standing guard between us and the wild. Not even the dogs will cross that line. And that should be proof enough that something is wrong.

In winter, I was less worried. The thing was still back there, of course. It was just careful, probably, because it's harder to hide. It stayed in one spot. I wonder if it's the kind of creature that hibernates. Here, in the height of July, with everything in bloom, it's bold. You've changed.

You're daring. You're different in the woods. I pace along the border, singing that song under my breath, so low it's barely singing. I've always thought singing keeps you safe. I watched the princess and the goblin so many times as a child that I wore out

not one but two VHS tapes. In the movie, singing wards off the goblin. and other dark creatures. It's not a goblin living in the backyard, probably, but why take risks? Something rustles in the shade. When I stooped to pick mulberries off the ground, I don't take my eyes off the deep trees. I pack the berries in my mouth like an autumn squirrel and hum the whole time I chew.

I know roughly where the thing is. It's not back by the alley or else I'd see it when I take that shortcut from the bus stop. It's somewhere in the middle. There are a few natural alcoves where anything person-sized or smaller could settle in. It's been a full year. This is its second summer. My brothers and I are in agreement.

That's long enough. We want our yard back. We made a plan, and today we started scouting. Nate and Liam went in as a pair, and I'm left here at the border, pacing, eating, watching. The chemical scent of spray-on sunscreen clings to me. The sun is too bright, and my head hurts, and I can't stop moving. A walkie-talkie in the right pocket of my shorts bounces against my leg with every step. The shorts are loose, baggy cotton, and I love it because finally my mom and I both accepted that I'm too fat for the youth section, and now I get to wear clothes that fit the way I actually like. In five minutes, my brothers should be checking in. If they don't, I wait two minutes, and then I press the button once to send them a burst of static.

Just once. And I'm not supposed to talk because who knows if they need to be quiet. If they don't respond, I wait another three minutes and then... Well, the old disclosure, we're not sure what after that. I said I should go in after them and was quietly relieved when Nate shot me down. If it manages to get us when we're together, it'll get you faster. What about the police then? Yeah, because they'll believe us any more than our parents did.

I stoop for another handful of mulberries and begin to sort out the ripe from the sour, young and squishy old. So, okay, what do I do if they don't check in? If they don't emerge from the trees, sweaty and triumphant and crushing precious mulberries under their sneakers, I don't know. It's not going to get that far. I'll be hearing from them any minute. Sleeping Beauty is usually my go-to, my favorite, but I can't focus on anything.

I'm all scattered, and so are my songs. I check my watch. It's a cheap plastic digital thing with mini-mouse on it. I had to dig it out of the back of a drawer. For Nate, we found a matching Mickey Mouse watch, and both are synced to Liam's fancy Boy Scout-approved watch that's waterproof and, I don't know, synced with the gravitational pull of our planet so that it's always right.

Liam explained it, but when he talks about his Boy Scout stuff, I understand it about as well as when my English teacher tries to explain iambic pentameter for the milly of time, which is to say, not at all. Four minutes. Four minutes of pacing and waiting for the walkie-talkie to static snap and for one of their voices to come through. I'm going to run out of mulberries.

I whip around, heart-pounseling. pounding in my chest like someone jumped out at me, fists up like I'm ready to fight. But it's not a person. It's birds. Too many birds to count. The ones so small they don't seem real. Splash out of the many bird fountains mom set up. I flinch away from the water.

The birds disappear into a swirl over our neighbor's house and away. I hadn't noticed they were in the yard with me at all. Sandy, this is Liam. Over. Mulberries cascade around my feet as I rush to pull the walkie-talkie from my pocket. Here, over. We found its nest. Over.

His voice is low and calm, but it always is. It always makes him sound like an adult, not a technically by seven minutes middle child. Nest? I realize my back is to the trees. Every sound seems suddenly amplified. All of them except for Liam's voice. He's talking, but all I hear is every crack and rustle from the forest behind me. Is that breathing?

Do I feel it hot on my neck? I spin on my heel, walkie-talkie wield it as a weapon. It's not heavy, but it could give something a good skull crack. It could if something was there. No one is. My head freaking hurts. And there's a couple shirts and a cheese grater of all things. Missing vegetables were how it all started.

Dad thought we had rabbits. Mom asked if we'd taken any. Other ideas were lobbed about. Neighborhood kids, birds, but it wasn't that big of a deal. None of us were suspicious at first. Then, footprints, right at the edge of the mulberry tree line. Weird ones.

Not like a person's. Not like anything I'd ever seen. I remember dad, crouching next to them, muttering something about storks and, no, that doesn't make sense, wrong place. Eventually, he and mom brushed it off. My brothers and I grew uneasy. Then, clothes. Nate found clothes in the trees hanging as if to dry, some of our clothes. He showed me and Liam, but by the time we got mom and dad back there, the clothes were gone. For a year, all we've seen are these glimpses.

breadcrumbs of a life. Something was living a nomadic existence in the confines of our backyard. At first it was a little exciting. Creepy, yes, but like an adventure. Then, Liam saw glowing eyes one night, and we knew it wasn't a person, because a person's eyes don't reflect that way. When Liam yelled in surprise, the eyes went wide,

and he swears he saw a glint of bared teeth. Then the footprints were farther and farther from the border, closer to the house, before they retreated back into the trees. Then I got scratched. We hadn't seen anything in a while, so I went into the backyard. I went deeper than I should have. I bumped into something and heard a hiss, and the only thing I remember other than running is the pain in my arm. The rest? Over.

They don't answer. me for a moment. The walkie-talkie clicks off and I know they're talking about me. My big brothers have a habit of discussing me when I'm not around or like I'm not around. They think they get to decide what's best for me. Sudden anger sparks in me. The muscles in my legs move without my permission. They don't get to leave me out of this. They don't get to push me out to protect me when I'm already in it. I want to run into the trees and find them and... I don't... I pressed my free hand to my arm, over the month old, still healing scratch that my parents claimed was caused by a sharp tree branch, and not a territorial something in our little personal forest. It's never stopped tingling, and sometimes I swear I feel it twitching, like a baby kicking in the womb.

As hot as the anger burns, it also burns fast, and I'm left shivering in July heat. Toys? Over. Yeah, but that went missing... That car went missing when I was seven. It went missing seven years ago. And it's in that thing's nest. I press the heels of my free hand over one eye. My head hurts and there's something here that I should be putting together,

but I can't think, I can't think, and it's making me so mad. It clicks. Fear replaces the anger. I speak so softly that I don't know if my brothers hear me. It's been here at least seven. How long has our backyard been overgrown like this? Our parents bought the house nearly 20 years ago, but the trees are older. I can't stop the spiraling thoughts.

Was it here when I was born? When Nate and Liam were born? Was it here when our parents came with the moving trucks? Was it here when the last owners renovated the kitchen? Has it been in our trees longer than they've been our trees? I can't stop shaking. How long has it been here? Why did we only start seeing it last year?

I know they don't know the answers any better than I do, but I keep asking. I sway on my feet. We may not have figured out where this ends, but the rest of our plan was detailed. Two bursts like that mean they have to be quiet, and I'm not to contact them. And if they have to be quiet,

it means they have to hide, which means there's something they have to hide from. I stare into the trees. Then at my watch, then into the trees. The walkie-talkie shakes in my hand. One minute, two, I take a step forward. A ripe mulberry pops under my sneaker.

The trees. My watch. The trees. Three minutes. No static. No birdwing flutter. No wrestling. Silence. Four minutes. My throat and mouth are too dry. I swallow.

So... Where are they? Should I send that static burst back to check in? Or would that reveal their location? Five minutes. There's nothing but my pulse in my ears. Another step forward. The snap of a stick underfoot. Six minutes. I can't let this go on. What? Why? I do run, but not back to the house, not like Nate once. Scratch on my arm burning and twitching, I run right into the trees. The overgrown, overtaken part of our backyard is big, but it's not that big. I spent my childhood here. Why do I feel lost as soon as I cross the border?

It's like those thick jungles where you can't take a step off the trail without losing your bearings. It's impossibly huge. It's full of shadows, and the shadows look like people about their trees, but I'm not sure they are. Nate! The thing already knows I'm here. I just have to find my brothers. Nate said it got Liam, but surely that doesn't mean Liam's gone. Sandy!

I follow his voice. It's easier than following my own eyes. I've been following his and Liam's voices my whole life, tagging along, unwilling to be alone. It seemed impossible just a moment ago that I'd... find my way through, but within a dozen heartbeats, I see him. I could kill him for trying to keep me away. I could use my weight against his height and tackle him to the ground and scratch out his eyes. He turns, and I see fear and despair on his face. It brings me up short. I'm not sure I've seen either of my big brothers scared before. Where's Liam? I told you to get back to the

house. Yeah, no way. Safety and numbers. Nate's nice enough not to point out that he's He and Liam were a pair, and that didn't make them safe. I lower my voice, not because I'm afraid will be found, but because the question I have to ask feels like it's too big and too scary to say loudly. Did you see it? What's it like? There's something bad in Nate's eyes, and I know the answer to the first question. Yes, he saw it.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, then he tries again. It's hard to describe. We watched it for a few minutes when we were hiding, and it was pacing around this clearing. It didn't seem fast, but it is. I turned my head for a second to look at Liam. I swear, just a second. When I looked back, it was gone, I think, behind a tree. When I got behind the tree, it was nowhere.

And when I got all the way back around, Liam was gone. Is it human? It's human-sized. Oh, Nate Furrows his brow in deep concentration. They're sweat dripping down his forehead. I don't know if he's trying to think of the words or trying to decide if he should say them. You know stickbugs?

Um, yes. I'd never seen one in the wild, but I go to a lot of events at the library, and one time a woman brought all these cool bugs. I held one, and she called it Fasma today. his eyes meet mine. It's like that, but human-sized, human-shaped. I picture the stickbug I held, the one that walked across my hands,

and imagine it growing and standing up on two legs, towering over me. At the same moment, I realized that, of course, we wouldn't have seen it, even when we were hunting for it. It would just look like a collection of tree branches among many. many, many tree branches. I look around, alarmed. We may as well be surrounded, and I'm not sure we'd know. It's weird to say, but it moved wrong.

I don't know if it was injured or something, but it moved weird. Too disjointed, and it seemed really confused. It kept getting startled by small sounds and hissing and lashing out of nothing. An idea is forming in my stomach like a stone. I let Nate keep talking. How could it have hidden from us? From everyone for so long when it acts like that. It should have been so easy to find.

Fear rises slowly like bile. Did it look okay? I mean, relatively? I guess. It seemed kind of scratched up, maybe, but it was hard to see a lot. When Nate glances away into the trees, I briefly touched the scratch on my arm. I would have known by now if something was wrong.

The scratch twitches. What if? I swallow the words. I don't want to say them. What if it's sick? What if it's sick and disoriented? What if it has a fever and the fever made its head hurt and it couldn't think clearly and that's why it couldn't hide as well?

I don't say any of that to Nate. Do you think it took, Liam? It had to have, right? He wouldn't leave. And if anyone could find their way back here, it's him. But he'll be fine. It's never hurt us before. Now Nate's gaze does flicker to my arm, to the scratch.

I don't know if he's connecting any dots other than, yes, it has. I don't connect them for him. I don't say it never hurt us until it got sick. Once it got sick, the rules changed. Are my rules going to change? No, Sandy note. You're fine. It's been a month, you'd know. I step away from Nate, and he grabs my hand.

We're not splitting up. I won't let go, Jack. Gross. I'm your brother. I roll my eyes, and for a moment I can forget where we are and what's at stake. It comes back in a cold rush. I turn in a slow circle, peering into the trees. There's no sign of my other brother. Liam!

I shout loud enough, I ask. expect birds to fly out of the trees, but they don't. There's no rustling as squirrels or chipmunks or rabbits run away. I'm not sure when I last saw an animal out here. The Yorkies certainly won't go this far, but if even the wild animals won't. Or maybe any that do just don't make it back out. We both pull our walkie-talkies out in a hurry. Liam? I start shouting Liam's name again, and Nate's shouting joins mine. We call for him and move through the trees, attempting something methodical,

but mostly just zigging and zagging until we reach the low stone wall by the alley. We turn right back around and take a new path, or what we hope is a new path. I don't notice it when Nate's hand slips out of mine. I don't even know how long it is before I feel his absence. Nate! I'm crying.

and I didn't notice that either. Liam! I dig the walkie-talkie out of my pocket again and press down the button. I call their names over and over, but all I get back is the wind. The scratch on my arm is burning, and my legs give way. I need to be strong, but instead I collapse to my knees, hands over my face to stifle sobs. It's not a sound I've ever heard before.

I don't think it's a sound the creature used to make. I've never heard it. But I know it instantly. Somewhere in my peripheral vision is something taller than my dad and inhumanly thin all over. I close my eyes so tight that I see stars. I'm alone in the shadow dark and my brothers are gone. And the cracking is getting closer. Closer.

I force myself to sing a little louder. If it works on the goblins, it can work here. The creature breathes low in its narrow pole of a chest. The breath rattles out of it and rattles back in. It really is sick. The singing is a little easier with every line. I pretend I'm in my room with the nightlight on, warding off the somethings in my closet and under the bed.

And I know visions are seldom all they seem. Silence again. Silence and emptiness. I opened my eyes. It can't be that easy. It took my brothers, but it left me. Scared off by a song, really? Because it smelled something in you.

I can't worry about the why. I just have to get out of here. My parents will believe me if I tell them Nate and Liam were taken. They'll call the police or, I don't know, animal control. I stumble through the trees and I hum loudly the whole way. It had to have been the song. I emerge covered in dirt, sweat, and tears. The sun pierces into me until I cover my eyes, whimpering.

Has it always been so bright? It's fine. It's just because I was in the dark for a while. It's fine. I have to hurry. Our parents didn't notice we were still gone, and I know because when I go inside, they're in the kitchen, cooking dinner, and they're shocked at my appearance.

Sandy, what happened? My mom reaches for me. I almost lash out at her fingernails like claws across her face the muscles in my arms spasm wanting wanting I make a fist I hold it down

dad's hand is on my shoulder I wonder if he can feel the heat coming off of my skin like summer pavement where are your brothers they're gone it took them took them what

in the backyard it took them You have to call someone you had to get help. I sound hysterical, and I know it, but I think I get to be hysterical right now. Dad shakes his head, and of all things, he laughs. After a moment mom does, too. She brushes the hair back from my forehead. Oh, sweetie, they're probably just playing a prank on you. I dig my nails into my palms so hard that I feel something warm dribble out.

No, they're not. It took them. Mom looks at Dad. Will you fix this? Look. He nods. He goes out onto the back step and calls their names. Liam.

Nate. No one answers, but something might. Don't! You'll bring it right to us. Close the door! Sweetie, what has gotten into you? You know how your brothers are. They take chokes too far sometimes.

Mom looks astonished that I won't let it drop. She shakes her head. I think you need to clean up and maybe take a nap. She goes to the sink and wets a washcloth. The sound of water hitting stainless steel and splashing out makes me wince. When mom tries to bring the washcloth to my face, I stumble backwards. Please, you have to. But I know she's not going to believe me.

Neither one will. Dad is still shouting, and I don't know if I'm imagining the rustles and snaps and cracks in the distance. I don't think I'm imagining the way my blood is jumping in my veins and telling me to run, run, run. A nap. You're right. I should nap. That makes Mom smile. She's happy I'm sounding reasonable again. I try to smile back, but quickly walk away through the dining room and living room. The Yorkies cower on the couch away from me, and I know. In my bedroom, I push my dresser in front of the door. It's a solid wood thing made from cherry wood harvested by my grandfather.

It'll make a good barricade. It scrapes so loud across the floor that if they weren't shouting for my brothers, mom and dad would hear it. I hope they give up sooner rather than later. I hope they close that back door and lock it too. I hope they call someone who knows what to do. The scratch on my arm is burning. The creature in the backyard has been sick for at least a year.

I'll never know when it got infected. How long it took for it to start losing control. How long it'll be before it loses all control. I try to sketch out a timeline, make guesses, but I can't concentrate and I don't think it matters. Wouldn't a sickness be different? across species? There's too much I don't know, and I'm not supposed to take biology until I start high school next year. If I start high school, what I know is that there's something alien roaring

inside me, and it's jumpy, and it's violent. What I know is that I can't let my parents into this room. I have to do whatever is necessary to keep them safe. My rules have changed. Our third tale, a woman receives a parting gift in the form of a clown doll from her ex-boyfriend, which causes her to question if she is truly in control of her own mind. Written by Amanda Steele and performed by Erica Sanderson, Andy Cresswell, and James Cleveland, decide where the blame truly lies in clown control. Thanks!

It was all I could say as Tony handed me the battered and also creepy-looking clown. It certainly looked like it had seen better days. One eye was missing, and half its painted on smile was faded. It's a family heirloom. My father gave it to me. His father gave it to him. I told you I couldn't have kids when we first met. So that's why I'm giving it to you.

Okay. I vowed never to pass it on to any children I might have as I wanted. watch Tony carry his boxes to the higher van. Where had he hidden the thing the whole time we lived together? Why had he felt the need to give it to me? Sure, he couldn't have kids, but maybe this thing would be better in the bin. Most couples who split up argued about which CDs belonged to who. They didn't give old and creepy clowns. Well, that did fit with the theory of hating each other, though. I would never give something like that to someone I had any positive feelings for. The parting gift told me everything I needed to know.

Tony definitely did not love me anymore. Even so, it was more than disconcerting when I woke up one morning to find the clown propped up at the end of my bed actually saying the words. Tony doesn't love you anymore. My first thought, or perhaps it was wishful thinking, was that Tony had somehow sewn one of those recording things into the clown. That would mean his negative feelings towards me were much stronger than I first thought, but it would be a better option than the clown actually talking to me.

So I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of scissors, then cut the freaky thing open. There was nothing there, but it had to be some kind of trick, I told myself. I hurled the clown into the bin on my way to work. As the day went on, I gradually got over the uneasiness I had been feeling. It was only when I arrived home to see the rubbish truck parked outside that I remembered and breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that thing would soon be taken miles away from me. I went inside the house, did the usual act of changing into my tracksuit bottoms, cooking dinner, then settling down in front of the television. The following morning I left the house to go to work and noticed the

rubbish truck was still parked up. When I thought about it, I hadn't actually seen anyone collecting the rubbish the day before, just the truck. Even as I walked towards it, the nagging voice inside my head screamed warnings at me. I was greeted by the sight of the torn open clown and his half-smile and closed eyes. I didn't have time to ask myself if its eyes had been open or shut before. I quickly saw the two rubbish removal men next to the clown. Their chests were ripped apart. I staggered back as I caught sight of the clown's eyes fling open. Just like what you did to me. What? I was unable to accept that the clown was talking.

But I knew now, it did more than talk. It killed. The rubbish collection men were visual proof of that. I cut them open. And if you don't want me to do the same to you, then you'll do as I say. I was dumbstruck as I followed the clown into my house, hoping the neighbours wouldn't see. Or maybe I hoped they would.

If one of them could call the police, I shook my head. What would they say? I realized that nobody was coming to help me. What do you want? I shut the door behind me, wondering if maybe I could sneak out later when he was asleep. Do ugly-looking and supposedly toy clowns sleep? It was as though he read my mind.

I never sleep. I was the thing's owner, which apparently gave it free access to my innermost thoughts. Only I could hear anything it said to me too. I found that out when the postman knocked on the door the following morning. While I was signing for a parcel, I heard the clown yelling out acts of violence it wanted to carry out on the postman. He obviously couldn't hear the clown,

because he didn't even look in my direction as he handed over the parcel, then walked away. You let him go? What was I meant to do? Bring him to me so I could cut him up and bathe in his insides, like I said. I know you hurt me. He didn't, though. That's because I'm yours now, so only you can hear me. That's how this works.

Tony gave you to me. That means I can give you away. Sure. But I would kill that person and then come back here to you. And I would keep killing everyone you give me to you. Then come back here. Do you really want that? What do you want from me?

But it doesn't have to be yours. But I need you to bring me people so I can cut them up. And I know you do too. The way you cut me well, it fucking hurt. Those were alike. I am not like you. But three days later, after being too terrified to sleep through fear of,

of what the clown might do to me if I did. I found myself inviting the postman in for a glass of lemonade. He gratefully accepted. His gratitude didn't last, though. As soon as I left the room, I heard his screams. I knew the clown was cutting into him. I just switched on the radio at full volume, drowning out the postman screamed with a rock song

where the singer was screaming something about putting his fingers into his eyes. I guess the clown might be doing that to the postman, among other more horrific acts of violence. After a week of the clown making me order takeaways and parcel so that he could kill the delivery people, I tried to put my foot down. I honestly don't care who you bring here for me to kill, but I'm going to need someone to play with.

Play with? You cut those people open and literally bathed in their blood. He leapt up on the counter, grabbing the kitchen knife. Do you want me to play with you? I could just leave. Then what would you do? I'm bound to you now.

I would always find you. I cursed Tony under my breath. Why did he have to inflict this on me? Why couldn't he just break up and take his CDs like a normal person? That could be your thing. Men, you hate them, right? You think they're all bust? Why not let me take care of them for you?

I would be doing you a favor. I shook my head and left the room, but I knew my options were limited. Maybe that's why later that evening, I found myself signing up to a dating website. Clown was right. Most men were complete and utter assholes, if the men on there were any representation of the male population. Within minutes, I was working my way through the obscene messages I had received. One man had sent me a picture of his private parts, so I decided to start there.

Why not show it to me in person? I replied. The response was almost instant. I'm guessing he already sent the same photo to a lot of other women without response. We arranged for him to come to my house half an hour later. He was right on time, too. Eagerly ringing the bell three times in succession, as though fearful I might change my mind. I was true to my word, though. I did look at his bits in person. It's just that by the time Clown was finished with him, he wasn't attached to those bits anymore.

Admit it. The world's better off without him. I was washing the pots from dinner time, trying not to look at Clown, who was still splashing around in the blood and guts of his latest victim. He probably won't be missed at work. I bet he purved on all the women there all the time. The dating site has lost to pervert, which can't be a bad thing. It's still full of perverts. They're all players, and they all deserve to have me play with them.

Maybe. The next day I logged on again to more messages. One was full of insults, calling me fat and ugly and saying how I should do. just settle for whatever I can get. Clown jumped onto my shoulder and read the message. I could settle for my knife into his head. I agreed. And two hours later, the guy was lying on the kitchen floor,

minus his severed head, which Clown was using all my kitchen knives to stab. I think he's dead. I made a mental note that the floor would need extensive cleaning again, and that I would need to buy more kitchen knives. It's fun to stabbing the head. He carried on with his stabbing. After weeks of this,

I began to run out of good reasons for giving victims to the clown. Some of the men on the dating website didn't seem that bad. There was one in particular. He was called Philip. I met him away from the house, promising clown I would bring Philip home after our date, but I just couldn't do it. Philip did all the right things, from asking me about myself and acting like he was genuinely interested in what I had to say, to holding the door open and walking me home.

It was so easy to talk to him, and I enjoyed listening to him talk about his life. So I said goodbye at the bottom of my garden path, and I went inside alone. Clown was not happy. Before I could stop him, he was running out of the house and chasing Philip down the street. I ran after him. Did my best to protect Philip, but he never saw it coming. How can he have predicted that I would be harboring a killer clown intent on killing him? The look of fear and shock was still evident on Philip's face as clown plunged the knife into his neck.

I called for an ambulance, but Clown had run off before the ambulance and police arrived. Philip had already bled to death, and I was tried for multiple murders after the police found my kitchen knife still in Philip's neck and carried out a search of the house, but they found the traces of blood and some body parts I hadn't yet disposed of. I never saw clown again after that. I never saw the outside of a high-security prison again either. The judge didn't believe my The Clown Did It, plea.

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