The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E06

Episode Date: March 22, 2020

It’s Episode 06 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about the intoxicating allure of new experiences. “Forever, a Drug” written by Nick Moore (Story starts around 00:05:35) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Graham Rowat, Scott – Peter Lewis, Jared – Jesse Cornett, Old Man – David Cummings, Him – Mick Wingert “Midnight at the Acid Light Dance” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 00:23:00) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jess Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi everyone, David Cummings here. The problems the world is facing need no introduction right now. Quarantine, sickness, fear, suffering. Many of us are self-isolating with no idea how long the situation will last. It's a scary time, something that no horror fiction or entertainment could prepare us for. All across the world, people have been coming together to help each other. Now, more than ever, despite our social distancing, it's important to support each other, whether through providing entertainment or simply friendship and emotional closeness. But in such scary times, some people may need a little extra bit of help. That's where services like BetterHelp can step in. If you need someone to talk to or just to listen, they're a great option. Better Help will assess your needs and match you with

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and join the over 500,000 people taking charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. No sleep listeners, get 10% off your first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So, yes, the world is scary right now, but even with self-isolation, you don't have to be alone. In a time when we're encouraged to avoid direct contact, it's still okay to take a helping hand in this way. Services like BetterHelp can offer just that.

So remember, reach out to that helping hand by visiting BetterHelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% off your first month. In our world, there is magic in the darkness. Sorcery and incantations which bring us

closer to the essence of the night. Come enter our black magic shop where we will conjure up tales to frighten and disturb. This journey will be spellbinding.

Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome, visitors, to the No Sleep Magic Shop. I'm your proprietor, David Cummings. This week, we conjure spells for you about the intoxicating allure of new experiences. We here at the No Sleep Magic Shop hope everyone is staying safe and healthy as we go through the upheaval of our usual routines. I'm sure all of us know that fictional horror, can help us forget about real life for a while. To that end, I hope all of you are aware of our efforts to provide some free distractions during times of self-isolation. Last week, we put 15

stories on our SoundCloud page in a playlist we're calling Stay Sleepless at Home. These are stories from past season past episodes. That's almost 10 hours of storytelling right there. Just go to SoundCloud.com slash the no-sleep podcast or search for the no-sleep podcast on the SoundCloud app for our stay sleepless at home playlist. And by now you've probably seen the release of our free pandemic bonus episode, five tales about plagues and pandemics from past season past episodes, which the team and I share from our no-sleep headquarters. Almost three hours of infectious storytelling there. So it's with our best wishes that we share. with you those 13 hours of distracting horror.

We hope you and your loved ones enjoy the tales and share them with others. As we like to say, stay safe, stay sane, and stay sleepless. But no pandemic will keep us from continuing our regular episodes, fingers crossed. So let's keep casting our magic with this week's episode. Now, close your eyes and embrace the magic. In our first tale, we meet a man whose partner has just left him. Naturally, he's pretty depressed. And just as naturally, his best friend wants to help with that.

However, when that help comes in the form of getting an experimental, recreational, recreational drug on the black market, it might not be so helpful after all. In this tale, shared with us by author Nick Moore, it soon becomes quite clear that taking mystery drugs isn't the way to get over a relationship. I join Graham Rowett, Peter Lewis, Jesse Cornett, and Mick Wingerd in performing this tale. Dare you risk it? You could throw caution to the wind and take this mystery pill. It's supposed to be like nothing else. Cast off your hesitations and take a hit of forever a drug. I tonight. Scott was bordering on junkie status, and I was always wary about spending time with him.

normally in the filthy apartment of some dealer friend while he shot up. It seemed like he was bordering on a collapse, and I was scared of doing the same. I don't know, what are you thinking? On the other hand, I'd been despondent since breaking up with Ruth. Maybe something to take my mind off the pain would help. I knew she was better off without me. I was just holding her back. Meet me at Gerrits.

He said he wants to try something new. This made me feel a little better. Jared was probably the nicest dealer Scott knew, and his stuff was generally sourced well. Plus, his apartment was at least somewhat clean. You know I don't fuck with needles. Yeah, man, it's fine. Nothing like that.

I showed up at eight with three beers in my system that had failed to calm the nervous energy I was feeling. Whatever, it's fine. It's going to be fine. Jared was happy to see me and poured me a whiskey. I felt a little weird and sad. down at the table. He put three black pills down in front of us. I get this from a trusted contact overseas. Is it like nothing else?

He smiled. I thought that three of us could test drive it before I put in an order. See if it's really worth it. Stuff is called forever. Scott laughed and downed a pill. Jared and I followed suit. I sat down and stared at the TV, waiting for it to kick in. It was fine. I felt really mellow and sort of like the room, and me with it was stretching in a weird way. We all wound up falling asleep.

I woke up the next day feeling fine, and we parted ways. No big deal. Certainly nothing life-changing. Years passed. I never left town, never really did anything. Could never kick smoking seeds. cigarettes either. Wasn't a surprise when the doc told me the blood I was coughing up was cancer. Shit. Too late to do anything. I was alone when I took my last breath. I woke up back in

Jared's apartment, sun streaming through the window. What the fuck? I hallucinated an entire, sad life? What was that drug? I mumbled something at Jared and Scott and walked outside. What a weird dream. I decided I could do more. Maybe that was a wake-up call. I applied to a job I didn't think I was qualified for and got it. Stopped screwing around. Quit smoking, married a nice girl, had a kid who loved to play ball outside. He didn't even see the truck coming the day he chased his ball into the street. But I did. Probably never moved that fast in my life. Fast enough to push him out of the way. Not fast enough to get myself out of the way. Oh, well, what a way to go, protecting someone you love.

I woke up in Jared's apartment. Fuck me. What the hell was happening? I had to short-circuit this. I must have been tripping. I decided to throw myself off the bridge down the street. When I got there, I found I physically couldn't do it. Something stopped me, so killing myself was out.

I had to go home and figure this out. I wasn't paying attention as I walked up the stairs to my apartment. If I had, I would have noticed the neighbor's kid had left a toy car on one of them. When I slipped and tumbled, I knew it was going to be bad. I woke up in Jared's apartment. Maybe this could be fun. However long this lasts, I can do anything, and it's not real? Like lucid dreaming, but it lasts for decades?

I tried a life of crime, got shot coming out of an electronics store. or not cut out for that, it hurt like hell. Screwed around, partied too much, overdosed. Back to Jared's when it all goes to hell. I'd lived to 10 or 12 lifetimes when I saw her. Ruth. It might seem weird to have forgotten her, but you have to remember we'd broken up probably 300 years before.

She was older, divorced, sad. She married the wrong guy after our breakup, got abused for years. I was so depressed after our... talk, I just walked for hours, thinking about how sad her life had turned out. I thought I was helping her. Found myself in a rough neighborhood. When I got jumped, I didn't hand over my wallet. That was a mistake. I woke up in Jared's apartment. This time, I could fix it. I bought a bunch of flowers and went to Ruth's. She took me back. We got married, had a family. We traveled the world, best friends. It was incredible. The best life I ever had. I died a happy old man,

surrounded by family. I woke up in Jared's apartment. I bought a bunch of flowers and went to Ruth's. If I was going to be stuck in this groundhog day shit, I knew what to do. You know what isn't boring? Living the best goddamn life you can. Twice, three times, ten times. The rough edges get smoothed away. You learn when bad news is coming, when you need to sidestep a bad argument. Just absolute happiness. If you get to choose happiness, you choose it every damn time. Then one day we were in Paris celebrating our 30th anniversary. I'd taken this trip with her 20 times. She walked down to the cafe to get me some breakfast. A car jumped the sidewalk and killed her. That had never happened before. The next lifetime.

was worse. We made it 12 years after our wedding before she got some weird flu variant and died. The next one, she was diagnosed with cancer a year after marriage. We never had kids. The next one, her building had burned down the night I spent at Jared's. I stood outside with flowers in my hand, staring at the smoking ruins. A filthy old homeless man walked up next to me as I stared in disbelief. I thought you could cheat it, did you? Thought he wouldn't know. But he did. He started laughing as he walked away.

But he did. He turned back from time to time to smile at me. My lives turned dark. Friends were killed in horrible accidents. Serial killers struck peaceful towns and ravaged the families of those I loved. Overdose, disease, murder, death. Everything was wrong.

The world turned two. Dictators came to power. Wars broke out. Hatred rose. Cities burned. Country shattered. The world bled. The old man would appear from time to time,

though centuries would sometimes pass between sightings. He always laughed at me, told me that he had me now, always smiled at me. I drifted from one dying port town to the next, finding work where I could, drinking away shitty lifetime after shitty lifetime. I was sitting in a bar in the capital of East Scotland, watching some cable news about a genocide in some country that hadn't even existed in most of my lifetimes.

The bartender laughed, and I looked at him clearly for the first time. It was the old man. He smiled at me. Who the fuck are you? I've seen them longer than you. He sees you now. Where do I go to find him? You go to Samar in the Philippines.

Not now. In your next life when you're still young. Find Bearingen. He waits for you there. He smiled at me, and I stumbled for the door. I lived another dozen years before a boat I was on went down in a storm. I woke up in Jared's apartment. This time, I immediately started looking for a way to get to the Philippines.

I sold my car and walked to work for six months, eating the cheapest food I could find. I arrived confused. Turns out Beringen isn't a real place. Or maybe it is. I found work under the table, making money however I could. I asked about the invisible city of local folklore. I asked questions about the local folklore. I asked questions about the local.

lore behind it. I learned how many people who have seen it are victims of demonic possession. I searched for it, every chance I got. Years passed by. I lived an invisible life, like the invisible city I saw it. The world rotted away, but I still searched. One night I was walking home, and a car stopped next to me. I heard a familiar laugh through the window. I looked in and saw the old man. He smiled at me. I got in the car. We drove for hours. The gas gauge

never moved. Finally, in the distance, I saw a gleaming city of light. He pulled over and gestured. You have to walk from here. He's waiting for you in the center of the city. He smiled.

I got out and walked. It felt like I walked for days, but the sun never came up, and I never grew thirsty. I walked into a gleaming, deserted city. I felt drawn to a giant tower in the center of the city. It glowed with light, despite having no windows or obvious source of illumination. I wasn't surprised to find a single door at the bottom of the tower. I entered and began to climb. As I went, I heard a voice, deep and old. I couldn't make out the words. I climbed. I forever, finally reaching a door.

I opened it and stepped inside, facing a giant black abyss. The voice was everywhere now. Every word ripped me apart. I watched you as forever. I screamed. The abyss closed, and I realized I was staring at a giant mouth. It opened again. I thought of Ruth.

The world went black. I woke up in the hospital. Scott jumped up from the chair in the corner. Oh, dude, I'm so glad you're awake. What happened? He looked over his shoulder. We were just about to take those pills, and you threw up all over them, and then collapsed, you had this crazy fever.

How long have I been out? Four days. Ruth keeps chasing me out of here, thinks I did this. He glanced at his shoes. Nurses don't like me much, either. Why is Ruth here? She's your emergency contact, dude. Hasn't left your side even to go home and sleep.

She's just getting coffee now. He paused and shifted awkwardly. Do you have any cash? Jared is kind of pissed. You puked on his stuff. I heard an excited shriek and barely managed to turn my head as Ruth launched herself at me. I was in the hospital for another four days before getting discharged.

Doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, said it must have been a freak infection. Getting discharged was great. Ruth was picking me up and bringing me to Scots so I could go with him to his first NA meeting. Seeing me almost die scared him, and he was trying to straighten himself out. Then Ruth and I had a special date planned.

Things were getting figured out. We were thrilled for another chance. I walked out to the curb and waited for Ruth to pull her car around. I stood there in the sunlight, feeling alive for the first time in, I guess, millennia. A nurse rolled another patient in a wheelchair out to the curb, locked his wheel, and walked inside. I felt the breeze on my face and smiled. The old man in the wheelchair laughed. I stared at him, and he winked.

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Senior prom, the stuff that dreams are made of, the party to end all parties. The single most important event in anyone's high school career. It's supposed to be a night of magic and memories, romance, and good times. But in this tale shared with us by author Marcus Demanda, we hear about a prom which was memorable for wrong, terrifying reasons. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Kyle Acres, Alexis Bristow, Jeff Clement, Mike Delgado, and Addison Peacock. So regardless of how excited you are about the special night, watch out for students acting strangely, and Whatever you do, avoid the punch.

Otherwise, you'll never forget, midnight at the acid light dance. Here she comes. I dropped the cigarette onto the concrete and checked my swatch. 7.10. Still 20 minutes before first period. I lit another one, winking through the open glass doors at Mr. Sims, my guidance counselor, who frowned at me with disapproval. Bus number 22 trundled in behind two others and squeaked to a stop.

Its door hissed open, allowing the freshmen and sophomores of Woodbridge High to file out in a bustle of bleached jeans, skater shirts, neon rah-rahs, parachute pants, and big hair. These were the underclassmen, the kids who still had to ride the cheese to school. And also Delaney Woodruff, who was a senior. Like me, Delaney didn't have a car of her own, not even a broken down piece of shit like my boyfriend Stevie had. Nor did she have any friends with a car. Nor did she have any friends, period.

Don't look at her. Stevie plucked the smoke from my lips and stole a drag. Brittany, don't. She'll think you want to be friends or some shit. As if, I felt bad for her. secretly, I really did. She stepped off, her greasy black hair adhering to the sides of her face like lumpy finger paint. Her pale skin surrounding sunken black eyes that seemed to register shock.

Only, it wasn't shock. It was abandonment. The deliberate and ongoing shunning we'd all participated in since freshman year. If she were to catch sight of me, I'd look away. mother an apology to the boyfriend for the accidental contact. Only today, she didn't do that. As soon as her mismatched sneakers left asphalt and hit concrete, she turned back to the bus. Today, for once, she wasn't the last one off. A boy, tall and shambling, and with a battered golfer's cap shadowing his face, followed her. He shuffled to her on nerve. He shuffled to her on

his darkened eyes upturned to the building like a wary animal sizing up the lair of a predator she took his hand squeezed his shoulder looks like somebody made a friend i stole my cigarette back and found it smoldering to the filter i flicked it away disgruntled no way oh no no that shit will not stand. But the soft laugh caught in Stevie's throat. The boy, whoever he was, looked up right at us, and that didn't make any sense. We were too far away for him to have hurt us, yet he did. And his face, now dully visible under the soft fluorescent lights of the bus tunnel, was ruined.

Half of it anyway. The right side of his face was fine, almost handsome even, a kid our own age or slightly younger. He had a shaggy growth of blonde hair so light it was almost platinum, which made the darkness of his eyes downright unnerving. But the left side... Oh my God, Stevie. What happened to him? I tried not to stare. Stevie was a little bit of him.

as instantly fixated as I was, but he managed to shrug. He didn't answer me. There had to have been a fire or something. The skin was uneven, patchy, crisscrossed with white lines of raised scar tissue. His lips were shrunken to near non-existence. Bright white teeth showed through a gap near the corner where his mouth didn't quite close. He drew his cap down further over. the ruined half of his features best he could. The hand that did so wore a black, fingerless glove. The other one did not. He allowed Delaney to move him toward us, then passed us toward the entrance. He took short, unsteady steps, as though he wore leg irons. Stevie and I, and everyone with us in the cramped corner of brick and concrete that made up the smoking court,

drew back from them reflexively. But when they made it to the entryway doors, he glared back over his shoulder at us, like we'd done something wrong. Delaney took his elbow, guiding him forward again. Come on, Deggs. Forget those people. They're jerks. They don't... Jerks, I thought. That was us all right. The word was actually kinder than the one I might have used in those rare moments of reflection when I've been.

bothered to think on how we treated Delaney Woodruff, on how I treated her. But as for the they don't matter, that was almost funny. I was the head of the student social committee and the first non-male vice president of the student council ever elected at Woodbridge High. I'd just gotten my acceptance letter from Virginia Tech. Stevie Harker, well, maybe he hadn't yet figured out what he was going to do with his life, but in the meantime, he played bass in an up-and-coming metal band that had opened for kicks at hammerjacks. He was popular, funny, beautiful. We both were. Everyone loved us. Delaney Woodruff, by contrast, was less than nobody. It wasn't just me and Stevie who ignored her. The entire school did. From inside the building, the warning bell.

And from Stevie's pocket, a short staccato beep. He pulled out the pager and smiled. Five-day vacation if you get caught with that. Stevie shrugged. He turned it in his palm to show me the readout. 20 tab 200. God, Stevie, I don't know if I like this. And that message is like so obvious if you get busted with that thing.

The readout was a quantity and a price. At tonight's senior prom, I'd be in charge of the early setup, including the dance mix and the punch bowls. My date, Stevie, would be in charge of the acid. I'd never done LSD before. Apart from Stevie, none of my friends had either. It'll be fun. Come on, girlfriend, we better go.

Don't want to be late to class. At study hall, fourth period, I saw them together again. In fact, I confess, I spied on them. The new kid was still wearing his hat. The rule against having them on in the building apparently didn't extend to burn victims. And he seemed quite at ease at the card catalog cabinet, thumbing through the thin pull-out drawers with a familiarity that was a hallmark of nerds everywhere. Every now and again, he'd pull a card, flash it to Delaney, and off she'd go, soon to return with another book, which they'd add to the pile on top of the shelf.

From halfway across the library, I surreptitiously watched over the rim of my glasses as they moved their pile to one of the tables. As soon as they sat down, side by side instead of across from each other, all four of the other kids who had been sitting there, first of the other. gathered up their things and moved to the next table over. The new kid opened his half-ruined mouth as if to protest or question, but Delaney only took his good hand and patted it. It's okay. I couldn't help being curious. By the time 15 more minutes had passed in relative quiet, broken only occasionally by their

unintelligible whisperings, I didn't even know what I was reading anymore. Delaney and her mysterious new friend, however, appeared to have found something. Delaney tapped a page, and the boy leaned over it, nodding. Then she got up, drawing him up after her and leading him to the corner cubby with the micro-feash readers. There she left him, sitting in front of a blank screen and staring at it with an equally blank expression, as she hurried out of sight into the closed-door film archive. Had he never seen one of these things before? Their table was unoccupied, their books abandoned.

I gathered my things and strode past it, ever so casually. I stole a glance at the covers. Worst disasters of the 20th century looked cheerful. There was also the ten deadliest fires in U.S. history, and changing the code, how tragedy inspires law. The books were old, outdated by decades. I was surprised they hadn't been purged from the library's collection by now. Delaney's boyfriend, the unburned half of him anyway, didn't look older than 16.

The door to the film archive opened, and Delaney emerged. Two black, fist-sized, plastic rolls of newspaper reprints in hand. She pulled up a chair next to him, guided him through the threading process, process and scrolling. Then she kissed him on the cheek, the ruined cheek, and got up to leave as the bell signaled the next change of class. I heard the phantom voice of Stevie whisper in my ear, even though he'd be halfway across the other side of the building right now, leaving Trigg on his way to government class. He's pariah, girlfriend, just like Delaney. Also, he's fucking heinous. I went to him, stood over him, resting my arm on top of the reader.

His eyes never left it. From here, the top of his hat shielded his whole face from me. What's your name? Why do you care? His gaze remained fixed straight ahead. He turned the knob, scrolled ahead by a page. It was from the Fairview Register, and almost, local paper from just two towns away, but the byline of the article placed the story in

Collinwood, Ohio, in 1908, March 5th, to be exact. He clicked the screen dark before I could read any more than that. Because usually, when I warn people they're going to get killed, I like to know their names first. And that's exactly what's going to happen to you if you keep hanging around with Delaney Woodruff. Really? Somebody should. I'm overdue. But forgive me.

My name is Diggery Addington. And you are? Diggery? Addington? Was the kid even for real? Then I recalled Delaney, referring to him as Diggs. Okay.

Weird. but okay. I'm Brittany. Brittany, and I'm serious. Sooner or later, somebody's going to jump your ass if you stay friends with that walking disease.

Thought you should know. Why do you think that is? Because she's been like selected for exclusion, Diggery. She shouldn't be here. He turned to look me full and the face. I literally caught the gasp by putting my hand over my lips, but I made myself keep looking at him. I knew that what I was doing was shitty, petty and awful in the worst possible way.

Later, I'd feel bad about it. But it was also right. It was true. The kid was heading for a major beatdown if he didn't fall in line fast. Made that decision. You? No. I honestly hadn't. I had no idea where the idea originally came from, but it had been in place since day one freshman year.

What her mother had been thinking, allowing her, or making her, come to school here, was anybody's guess. It's just the way it is. Delaney can't have friends at Woodbridge High. You wouldn't understand. I might. Perhaps I understand better than you. I moved in next door to her last week. We have had conversation, Brittany.

Dude, you're talking like an old man. Cut that shit out. And I've shared this building with that sad sack of shit for four years, so... Know her well to you. The two of you are friendly. Cardio. Cordial with the daughter of Edwin Woodruff, the longtime Woodbridge Senior High Guidance counselor

who'd taken up the summertime hobby of luring students into his car to murder them in the woods? Not likely. I wouldn't say so, no, but... You needn't worry. Delaney Woodruff won't be your problem much longer. And if you know anyone who might be good enough to kill me, Please tell them to wait until after the dance.

I won't fight. He looked down, studying his hands, which were palm up, both the unburned one and the one he hid in the glove. And I won't let them if I'm still here. Whoa there, Dix. I hardly noticed I'd adopted Delaney's nickname for him. When I had used the word kill before, I'd meant it as hyperbole, but he had taken it literally and welcomed it.

Let's take a step back from the whole death thing for a sec, okay? I can't step back from it, Brittany. His eyes closed, hands bawling into fists. I am well acquainted with death. I thought, easing back a few steps of my own. one with the night and all that. Got it. Can't say I didn't warn you.

But by then, I didn't think he was talking to me anymore. I had no idea who he was talking to, but whoever it was seemed to exist only in his mind. Stop yelling at me. My turn. I turned from him, started away from him at a brisk stride, a pace just shot. of running. I returned to the table where I'd left my things, his voice fading to a memory by the

time I was halfway there, and I hauled ass out of the library using the nearest exit, not wanting to come nearer to the thing that called himself Diggery Addington than I had to. Let's someone else deal with that bullshit. Not my problem. That decision, cowardly as it was, didn't stick long enough to even accompany me to fifth period. I'm already late, I told myself, letting myself into the guidance office without invitation or summons and demanding to see Mr. Sims. Like, now.

I met Stevie by the door to the lecture hall, standing there totally unconcerned while the end-of-the-day school exodus swirled around us like confetti in a wind tunnel. He wagged a reproving finger at me as I came to him. Told you. Get too close to a pile of shit and you're going to end up with some stink on you. Stifle it. I took him by the elbow and marched him across the main student concourse.

Back to the library, a place he avoided whenever possible. Sims had been no help at all. He'd cited student confidentiality, said something about it being only natural that two lonely kids might pair up together, and that I should be happy for them, made half admonitory allusions to the universal shunning of Delaney Woodruff, which was rich coming from him.

Teachers and admin were as guilty as anyone, to the extent they could be and still make a pretense of grown-up concern. I didn't know for sure, but it seemed likely enough that he had known Delaney's murdering father himself. Had they worked together? Had they been buddies?

He had promised, in that condescending way reserved exclusively for adults who think kids are overreacting, to talk to them both. Chances were, he'd said, Diggs had only wanted to get under my skin. A defense mechanism, he'd called it. Retaliation for the social ostracism. Yeah, sure. Diggs had only started school here today and claimed already that he was taking Delaney. to prom. That was some kind of ostracism. If they were really coming to the dance, they hadn't bothered submitting their names for the prom royalty ballot. That much was good. The last thing we needed was for

Delaney Woodruff to go all sissy, space sick and a bucket of blood on us at the last moment. I hustled Stevie through the library doors. And why are we going to the library again? Shouldn't we be getting ready? It's only again for me. I'd already explain this to him in sixth period English. What I wanted to do would not take long, and I didn't have to be at the Potomac Inn ballroom until 7.30. If Digging Up Diggs' research kept Stevie from sealing his own pre-party deal,

so much the better. I don't want to do this alone. Scared? I glared at him. Okay, okay. No big whoop. Lead on. I clicked on the reader.

Threaded the film. I turned the scroll knob past the blank frames at the start of the reel. One, two, three. Seriously, Brit, how do you even know what you're looking? This. I pointed. Then my breath caught. God, Stevie.

I read him the headline. Collinwood, Ohio. March 5th. 1908, Lakeview School Burns, Dozens Missing, Feared Dead. The grainy, black and white photograph that covered half of the page showed a hollowed-out, scorched wreck of a building, hardly recognizable as a school. The exterior had been brick, and much of that had crumbled apart in the blaze. Beneath that, smaller pictures of the disaster as it unfolded,

The all-volunteer fire department and its horse-drawn engines, pitifully insufficient to the task of containing a firestorm three stories high. The frantic newsies, the screaming parents who could only watch and listen as their children burned to death, far beyond the reach of any help or rescue. Looking at the pictures, I felt like I could hear them myself. The parents, their dying children. Why? Brittany, I'm sorry, but why would that waste case give a shit? This was 80 years ago. March 4th.

This article's from the day after. They had to know more later. Brittany, wait. The next article I found, right around 4 o'clock, was dated months after the disaster. I had to go deep into the paper. this time. Three pages from the back. Lakeview fire, terror, hopelessness, no answers. Stevie looked away. I read aloud. Final death toll at 175. Two teachers, one rescuer,

and 172 students between the ages of five and 15. funding provided for the burial of the 19 children whose remains could not be identified. Brittany, come on. This is ancient history. You're torturing yourself. That was true. I had gone for the tissues in my purse already. The tears crept up on me, but I kept reading. Even now, investigators remain torn between various theories, including students smoking in the basement near flammable materials, heating pipes resting over wooden fixtures, and the possible liability of the school's head janitor, Fritz Herder,

for running the boiler too hot. Stevie sighed, took my hand. Stop. Please? The brick exterior of the building, which only had two exits, turned the entire structure into a giant sheet. chimney, incinerating its wooden interior over a period of three hours. Open stairways and the lack of fire escapes are believed to have only increased this effect.

When the fire blocked the front door, children rushed the back door in a mob. But when the passage bottlenecked at a vestibule divided by partitions, they could only scramble and pile on top of each other, forming a blockade that... Stevie turned off the reader, ripped the film spool from under the projection lens. Enough, okay? Yeah. It was more than enough. It was too much. I jammed the tissues back into my purse and stood. I think I get it now.

Get what? You still haven't said... You've seen him, Stevie. You know? He's crazy. I think he thinks... All right, all right, I get you. Go ahead. Say it. I think he thinks he was there.

And you're right. He stood after me, taking my hands again, kissing me. He's crazy. Case closed. And so is the library in like 10 minutes. Can we get back to our lives now? A night tailor-made, for memory, an evening of meticulously orchestrated magic. God knows I'll never forget mine.

I almost didn't go. I nearly called Kelly Tamaris to cover my duty at set up. I held the kitchen phone in my hand for a solid five minutes after explaining everything to my mother and listening to her squawk about how much the dress rental had cost before making up my mind. The guilt, a sailed me harder than ever. The newspaper images of the school fire hovered in my mind like retina burn when I shut my eyes and tried to squeeze them out. As distant as those events were, in terms of time and place, I somehow connected them to my own transgressions. The four years of abusive neglect I had participated in with Delaney, the intrusion into the sick, twisted mind of her new friend. How desperate they must have felt, each clinging to the other in their loneliness and

confusion. I was to blame for some of that. And they would be there. Diggery had said so. I saw no reason to disbelieve him, other than finding it doubtful Delaney would have had the money to rent a prom dress. She was on reduced lunch at school. She didn't have nice things. Didn't even wear makeup. Hell, she hardly even cleaned herself. Just go, I finally decided. And don't be an asshole tonight. Don't let the others be assholes either. But this decision, I think with all the wisdom of a little age and a lot of hindsight,

was mostly selfish. In the end, you only get one senior prom. Junior prom, which was held two weeks earlier in the school gymnasium, and with half as many chaperones as students, would have been easier to skip. But the last great shindig of my high school experience celebrated five miles from the school itself and with only a token presence of adults on hand, just wasn't to be missed. If I did, Stevie might dump me. So, at 7.30 exactly, I found myself lining up the stacks of cassette tapes, all stopped to exactly the right place for the best tracks, next to the mixing board and the speakers. Then, trying not to trip over the white satin of my dress, or spill anything on it, I carted over the punch bowls to the refreshment table and got to mixing. From the back of the ballroom, chatting with friends, Stevie Winkley.

at me. On the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, just under the bright red rose he wore on the outside, he had a sheet of 20 acid tabs. This he kept sandwiched between two square-cut sheets of perforated window screen with a small leaden fishing weight to keep them submerged. He promised it would be a light trip, diffused thin under all that punch, shared by so many people. Most of the kids have had no idea. Some of them had never even smoked grass. At 7.50, he met me by the punch bowls. They'll find it. After it's over. They'll know what happened. So what? God knows I didn't do it, right? The cherry punch was darker than the lime. He dropped it in.

Care for a drink? I didn't. I wasn't even looking at him. I was. watching the doors. Ten minutes early, they were opening. Delaney and Diggery had arrived. She wasn't beautiful, but she was striking. Her dress hovers in my memory more clearly than my own, silky, satiny red, off the shoulders, with a black orchid for a corsage that matched her hair and her eye shadow perfectly. She was a portent, a preview of the the goth era to come in the 90s, a scarlet thundercloud threatening an imminent storm. But that storm never came, not from her. Delaney Woodruff never hurt anyone in her short,

pitiful life. As for Diggs Addington, he arrived in a suit with actual coattails, as well as the standard cumberbund. The cuffs of his shirt had gold cuffling. real gold, I thought then, and still believe now. He had money, even if she didn't, and yet his appearance could not help but register as ghoulish. He was like a corpse dressed for a funeral, one in which the coffin should have remained closed. They came into the ballroom together, hand in hand, looking straight ahead, as though daring us to throw them out. And by their very presence, of course, they were. Stevie, remember, you promised.

They're early. I don't think they're here to help decorate. That was fair enough, but it was only by ten minutes. There were already 30 or so others in the ballroom with us, milling around and chatting, waiting only for the music to start so they could step out onto the dance floor. You promised. This has gone on long enough. We're almost done with school. Whatever her father did, it's not her fault.

Time to let it go. You told the others? He shook his head, but in regret, not disagreement. I got the word out, yeah. For you. Only for you. Jesus, look at him. Fucking gag me, but those two are fucking perfect for each other.

Also true. I stroked his arm, turned his face back my way. Then let them have each other. And don't worry about it. I'm right here, Stevie. Let's focus on us. It shouldn't have been too hard. Others were filing through the doors now.

Our shop teacher, Mr. Hennessy, had already taken up his post as DJ and was running his finger down the song list. RAP, Mrs. Gray, greeted the newcomers, complimenting all on how wonderful they looked, pronouncing a few couples even as positively fetching. The corner of Stevie's lip curled in an agreeable smile. Care for a drink, my princess?

He hooked his elbow for me to take. According to him, Mr. Hennessy had even asked which punchbowl would be safe, acknowledging that the spiking of at least one of them would be inevitable at a senior prom. What would he think, I wondered, if he knew the secret ingredient was LSD and not just cheap vodka. I sighed, intertwined my elbow inside of Stevie's. Just one. When the music starts, I want to do it. dance. And at the end of the night, I want to be able to walk out of here. Thompson twins, Duran

Duran, Run DMC, Ario Speedwagon. Mr. Hennessy dutifully did his part and played everything I asked of him, sneaking in the occasional back-of-the-rack track from his own collection of Hendricks and Joplin just to amuse himself. Stevie and I dance to it all. Everyone did. alternatively hopping around like fools to the top 40, or swaying under the glitter ball to the occasional power ballad. For Stevie, this was more an indulgence for my benefit. This music was not his brand. But still, I think he had a good time.

At least in the beginning, my eyes kept returning to the ballot box. It was hard not to hope Stevie and I would win, even though our friends Carissa and Mikey were a virtual shoe-in. They were just as good-looking, just as popular, and better dancers than us. I didn't think they'd hold it against me that Stevie and I hadn't voted for them, nor had we succumb to the temptation of a joke vote for Delaney and Diggery, who sat together at a table with their hands held as often as dancing. And when they did dance, it was too.

decidedly awkward. They had no idea what they were doing. No, Stevie and I had broken the rules and voted for ourselves, same as anyone with half a chance. And apart from the bubble of space that continued to surround Delaney wherever she went, the occasional pointed finger or derisive laughter or unkind word, the Woodbridge Senior High School class of 88 left her and her freakish boyfriend, alone. At 10 o'clock, the acid kicked in. Maybe it started a bit earlier. I'm not sure when, exactly, the sparkles and the glitter balls started to linger after I looked away from them, nor when the music took on a faint echo effect. But when Stevie laughed at me right in the middle of a slow dance, without his mouth even moving, I knew something was definitely up. I had to

heard him say it, but his lips were out of sync. I saw them form the shape for the laugh I had already heard. My boyfriend was on a visual tape delay. Happy thoughts, Brittany. You're spiking. Just go with it. It'll calm down. His hands brushed my face. Jesus, you should see your eyes right now. And I did. I saw them reflected in his, until the reflection of them grew so large, his own eyes weren't even there anymore. My beautiful. Yes.

Oh yeah, you're fucking awesome, Brittany. Carissa and Mikey did win. Their names were red at 1025, and they shared their moment on stage being crowned until 10.30. Their dance, during which time I could have sworn their long shadows on the floor twisted to their own strange erratic rhythms, took us to 1040. I hugged them both, shared a wide-eyed laugh over nothing with Carissa, then cried with her. What's happening?

She shook her head, the vibration of the motion rather fast and jerky, like she'd broken her neck and twitched from the injury. Yet she was still smiling, tears of joy damp on her cheeks. The trip did calm down, but when the next fast track came on, I found I had to sit. I'd caught myself passing my hands in front of my face too many times for it not to be obvious, watching them stretch out and trail over my line of sight like spreading paint. Just sit down. It'll pass. When I did, I saw Mrs. Gray taking her leave at the door, sharing a final word. with Mr. Hennessy, who was young enough that he could easily have been mistaken for a student.

I couldn't be sure, all things considered, but it looked to me as though the cup in his hand was filled with red punch, not green. He was telling her it was okay. He had it covered. Don't leave. Something bad might happen. But she did leave. Why not? Just about Everyone in the room, except maybe Diggs, was 18 years old, full-blown adults under law. No one had made any trouble, not even with Delaney Woodruff and the freak-show and cufflings and coattails. Hell, a lot of the kids had already left as well, some with dinner reservations at the nearby outback, others doubtless unnerved by the effect of the punch, the unexpected onslaught of the LSD. Now, time seemed to fast forward while I sat unattended at one of the tables near the ballot box. It was suddenly 1130.

The dance floor was still mostly full, even as the clock ticked on to 1140, 1150, 1155. A collective gasp on the dance floor. An unfamiliar voice, too young for any of my friends. No, I'll show you breakdancing. And Stevie was dancing with someone else. A girl, but a girl wearing Diggery's clothes. They sagged off of her, several sizes too big for her. Her limbs bent in impossible directions.

Even as Delaney Woodruff twirled around them both, arms spread like the wings of an angel. Her red sat in dress, lifting and floating like ocean waves of blood. The girl's arms hyper-extended, then her knees, as she gyrated and twisted opposite Stevie on the dance floor. They crackled over the music, bones crunching and snapping. Her head went all the way over backwards, looking at me upside down over the top of her back. She laughed at me. I laughed back.

This was so not like an ordinary pot-hye. This was unreal. Carissa screamed. Mikey uttered a half-strangled curse under his breath and ushered her away, right through the doors of the ballroom and out. The king and queen, it seemed, had abdicated. Others followed. I heard crying, swearing. At the tape table.

Mr. Hennessy yawned, sipped some more punch. I went to them, to Stevie and the uninvited pixie contortionist who'd stepped in to fill in for me as his dance partner. And just who the fuck are you, pray tell. She spun away from him, disappearing in a blur of arms and legs, then reappearing in front of me as Diggery Addington, gold cufflings and coattails and all. Stevie's bloodshot eyes,

practically all pupils by now he was so gone, widened with amusement, not fear. Behind them, the slow tolling of midnight, as if the ordinary plastic analog clock on the wall was an amplified grandfather clock. Diggery took my hands, starting the same strange, up temple waltz with me as he had with Delaney,

who twirled around us, watching us, giggling. He winked at me with a filmed over eye of milky white, the scorched skin of his face hardly wrinkling. I was Diggery Ray Addington. I was apprentice to Fritz Herter, head janitor at the old Lakeview School in Collinwood, Ohio. He was unkind on March 4th, 1908. When I was 16, I overheated the boiler in the basement and burned down the building.

I killed them all. I killed myself. And I repent. Then he whirled away from me, rising half a foot from the ground, and fucking floated. back to Stevie. But by the time he was there, he'd become the pixie girl contortionist again. She folded herself over him and wept, hanging from his shoulders, clinging like a four-legged spider, heaving and panting. I was Chelsea May Smith. They made me work in the factories

14 hours a day. On December 15th, 1910, I jumped to from the fifth story window, and I repent. The fuck you do! Get the fuck off me! Demon-ass monster fucking bitch? Jesus, what the fuck are you? And he threw her a full three feet or more from himself. There she hung, suspended in mid-air.

Her face up turned to the ceiling, both laughing and crying, limbs dangling. There screams. Girls and boys stampeding for the door, almost everyone in the ballroom jolted to their flight instinct by reflex. Only a few, maybe ten all told, counting myself, remained fixed where we were. At the tape table, Mr. Hennessy slumped forward, murmuring to himself. And there he lost consciousness completely, the punch cup spilling from his hand, A thin pink froth dribbling from his lips.

Stevie lurched forward, stopping half a foot from the phantom suspended in space. What did you do to him, you fucker? Nothing. That was Mary Beth. Didn't you see her? Oh, I suppose not. What are you? Answer me, bitch! She bent double at the spine, bones crackling.

until she looked up at him again between her own knees. One of one thousand. The voice came from a multitude, but also from her. I could hear diggery in that voice and others. Too many others. Delaney strode to the punch table, drew a chair up in front of it, and then a second, sat with her hands on her lap.

And for the first time I'd ever seen in the time I'd known her, she smiled. Chelsea straightened herself, stood up properly, feet on the floor. Again, she changed. Her hair receded, darkening. She grew, widening at the hips and shoulders. She became male again, a boy like Diggery, but not burned like him. The figure standing before us had tousled black hair, perfect blue eyes. He filled the suit jacket perfectly, too.

Compared to the others, he was, well, normal. Stevie stepped back. I took his hand. We could have run. We probably should have. But we, and a small handful of our friends, remained in the ballroom until it was all. over. We saw everything. We did nothing to stop it. The new phantom ran his hands down his jacket front, smoothing it, passed a hand through his hair, sniffed the rose at his lapel. I was Alistair

Charles Hutchinson. I was lonely. I loved a girl, but that love was not returned. In June 1912, when I was 15, I hanged myself. And I repent. He shook his head, chuckling to himself. There, are you happy? I said it this time. I'm being a good boy tonight. Was this from the LSD? Was I imagining it? Stevie and I, and all of those others still here, surrounded him in a circle. Were we all sharing in the same hallucination? That's impossible. This is real. Oh my God, this is really happening.

Then he addressed us for the first time, taking us in. Why, hello, I apologize for the disturbance. Please, do not look so concerned or offended. Do not be afraid. We have no accounts to settle here tonight. Not while Delaney Woodruff yet lives. We have come only to move the line, to set Diggery free, and Delaney as well. Delaney, are you ready?

I am. Please help me, Alistair. Call her back. Bring Marybeth back. Alistair went to her, pausing only when the circle tightened in on him just as he was about to break it. Listen, I recommend you let me pass.

If you do, soon we will be gone. If you do not, I will pick Just one of you. Remove your head and shove it up your dance partner's ass. The circle made way for him. He passed. Settled down in the chair at the punchbowls next to Delaney. He changed again. He became a little girl, blonde and frail, pale-skinned and withered. Delaney took one of her bony little hands.

With the other, the waif named Mary Beck, Seth dunked a finger into the bowl of green punch and stirred slowly. Quietly, she uttered her repentance. Then she leaned over the bowl and opened her mouth, drooling a bright green line of spittle directly into it. That's it. Come on, Bert, we're fucking gone. Now.

I didn't argue. Outside in the parking lot, it seemed not everyone had gone after all. There remained a fair crowd, actually. A couple dozen guys and gals who, collectively, seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone. Harley Stoneburner made a shushing gesture at me as soon as we were among them. Gary Conway pulled Stevie away from me, whispered something to him I couldn't hear. He held a tire iron in his right hand.

And Stevie nodded. I lunged for him. wanting to tear him away, to hustle him out of here. What we needed to do was call the police, and an ambulance for Mr. Hennessy. Anything else was bullshit at best, and at worst, completely insane. But my girlfriends held me.

As the confessions continued inside the ballroom, dim murmuring I seemed only to hear in my mind, Harley kept her hand over my mouth, while Courtney and Dawn held my arms. I found myself swallowed up in a crowd of no fewer than ten of them, all grimly determined to see this through, to keep me from fucking it up. And Stevie did nothing but play along as the doors opened again. I only saw them together, one last time for a hot second,

Diggery and Delaney at the threshold of the doorway. She lay in his arms, breathing shallowly, her skin ashen, but not yet dead. I do believe that diggery and all the demons that lived inside of him were taken by total surprise. If they hadn't been, things might have worked out differently. I couldn't see much as my friends, classmates. My brothers and sisters of the class of 88, wrenched Delaney from my. the unknown thing that was Diggery Addington and converged on him, pummeling him, beating him, shouting at him.

They never hurt Delaney. They didn't have to. Someone set her off to the side on a raised grass median between two of their cars, as the rest of them attacked a monster none of us understood. It, meanwhile, continued the repentance ritual. changing form, changing voice, lamenting the final sin of a fourth soul and a fifth, on and on,

as I stood trapped in the background and wailed and cried and struggled uselessly to break free and stop it. Distantly, sirens, someone, thank God, had had the common sense to call the police. At the last, The crowd parted.

My girlfriends let me go. I'll never, never forget Stevie's voice that final time. At half past midnight at the acid light dance, I heard his mind break utterly. Is it? What is it? What is it? What is it?

What is it? It was a moment. mound of half-formed and constantly changing bodies. Lins, torsosos, heads, all pulsating, drenched in blood, emerging and retreating back to the shapeless host, heaving like a single organism, scrabbling at the ground, blindly trying to get away, until, lying forgotten on the parking lot median Delaney Woodruff quietly and without complaint, exhaled her dying breath and appeared as one of the heads inside the flailing and suffering host. Get away, so help me, I will kill you all.

We ran, even as the sirens drew closer and closer. It never came for me. the creature that called an end to prom night when I was 18. The police did. So did the FBI, less than a week later. There was a dead teacher and a dead teenage girl, and someone had to account for that. Arrests were made, but none of them stuck. No one but us kids had seen the host body of spirits

who claimed Delaney Woodruff that night, and none of us, so far as the authorities' could pin down, had done any physical harm to her. Also, no one gave much of a shit about her, even in death, except for me. I've been mourning her ever since. I've prayed for forgiveness every night, not for prom night, but for every day and night, going back four years that led up to it. was the monster, and so were my friends. Many of whom, I have to add, are now dead. Strange accidents,

all unrelated. Stevie Harker hasn't spoken a word in 31 years. I hear he's back on solid food now, though. Good for him. Maybe he'll get better one day. Maybe I will too. I'm almost there. I'm good enough to have gotten married anyway. I'm had a few kids of my own. I'm sending my last to her own prom tonight. She's so beautiful, so sweet. And she's a good person, better than I was. I've done everything I can to raise her and my other kids right.

Their father is a good man. There's a car pulling up outside. Excellent timing. It's time for me to see my daughter off, to pray for her safety, to ask God for forgiveness again, because I now know what I didn't understand when I was 18, that the choices we make every day are matters of life and death. I blew it big time when I was a kid, and I repent. The spells are wearing off for now, but the magic.

will linger. The shop will be open again next week with more spells to enchant you. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. This audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Me, Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.