The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E15

Episode Date: May 24, 2020

It’s Episode 15 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about the places we live and the horrors within. “A Reflection on Self-Portraits” written by C.A. Linné (Story starts around 00:05:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Margaret – Jessica McEvoy, Young Guy – Dan Zappulla, Mom at Station – Alexis Bristowe, Voicemail – Nikolle Doolin, Therapist – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Portrait – Addison Peacock “Loft Conversion” written by Mark Diggles (Story starts Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi, I'm Penny Scott Andrews, voice actor for the No Sleep podcast. What can be said about mental health that isn't already being talked about right now? As we continue through one of the most difficult times in living memory, there's constant discussion about mental well-being. It makes it quite easy to tune it out, in fact. It's such a hot-button issue right now that we start taking it for granted and don't notice when we're not following the advice and looking after our mental wellness. It's important to pay attention to how you're doing and reach out if you need it.

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 your own licensed professional therapist. You can start communicating in under 24 hours. It's not a crisis line. It's not self-help. It is professional counselling done securely online. There is a broad range of expertise in Better Helps counsellor network, which may not be locally

available in many areas. Better Help service is available for clients worldwide. It doesn't matter when you need help, day or night. You can log into your account any time and send a message to your counsellor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses. Plus, you can schedule weekly video or phone sessions, so you won't have to sit in an uncomfortable waiting room, doubly important right now during the pandemic. Plus, you can even chat and text with your therapist between sessions when you need to talk

about things. It allows you to take control of when you feel capable of opening up, instead of being put on the spot, if you're someone who finds that hard. BetterHelp is committed to facilitating great therapeutic maximum. So they make it easy and free to change counsellors if needed. It's more affordable than traditional offline counselling and financial aid is even available. So whenever you need some help,

visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep 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% of your first month at BetterHelp. dot com slash no sleep. So don't just assume you're doing okay. Listen to yourself and if you need to reach out to a helping hand. BetterHelp can offer that helping hand.

So remember, visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% of your first month whenever you need it. 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 places we live and the horrors within. You know, we're extremely lucky to have so many great artists on our team who create the illustrations for each episode. One of them, the artist known as Sabu, has created some of our iconic movie posters for productions like The Whistlers, Boraska, and our Christmas and Halloween episodes. Well, Sabu is back and ready to create another stunning poster for us. But this time, we want you to pick which story we've done on the podcast to immortalize as a movie poster. Here's how it's going to work. In the show notes for this week's episode, you'll find a link to a form where you can submit up to three of our stories that you think would make great posters.

We'll tally the results and pick the five most requested stories to be finalists. I'll talk about the contest once we have the finalists, but for the finalists. For now, check out the link to the form and submit the stories you want to see as a movie poster. Turn our audio nightmares into visual ones. And speaking of audio nightmares, we have a fine selection for you right here. Now, close your eyes and embrace the magic. In our first tale, we meet a painter going through what must be one of the hardest things to experience, the inability to paint due to rheumatoid arthritis.

The loss of her passion has left her struggling. But in this tale, shared with us by author C.A. Linnae, the artist nonetheless finds a way to express her emotions. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Dan Zepula, Alexis Bristow, Nicole Doolin, Sarah Thomas, and Addison Peacock. So by all means, put yourself. into your work, but be mindful of how you feel when you're doing so. Otherwise, you might face uncomfortable truths when you study a reflection on a self-portrait.

I'm 23 years old. I'm an artist, a painter. My mother's name is Mary. My father's name is Tom. I can get out of bed. I can go to the bathroom. I can brush my teeth. I can go to my appointment. My familiar mantra runs through my head. My therapist told me that, on the hard days, on the days that my hands curl into feral claws with straining sinew, on the days my muscles scream and refuse to cooperate,

on the days my thoughts begin with, I'd be better off and end with dead. On these days, she says I should take my day one step at a time to focus on who and what I am, where I've come from, what I'll do, anything to combat the pain, the depression, the furious anger. I roll to my side and use the twisted clubs that pass for my hands to push myself up and sling my legs over the side of the bed. I tip myself onto my feet and stumble to the bathroom. I piss. I yawn. I glance at the toothbrush waiting patiently in its holder. Bristles dry and stiff after numerous days without use. Opting for the already uncapped mouthwash instead, I take a swig. Swishing the

wash in my mouth, I let my gaze float around the back. bathroom. It's definitely seen better days, but it's definitely seen worse. Besides a pile of dirty laundry, some scummy shower tiles and an overflowing wastebasket, it's not too bad. Definitely not the level of gross I know I can make it. Forgoing the mess, my eyes settle on the spotted mirror and the photos stuck to it with tape. Me and my parents laughing into the camera, arms flung around each other with me sandwiched in the middle. Tom, Margaret, my cousin's bachelorette party, a gaggle of girls with their eyes closed, arms in the air, mouths open and silent cat calls and shrill screams. Me and sit, crossed eyes and bulging mouth.

I'm out posing like spies, kissing. I spit the mouthwash into the sink. I should take her down. I should remove the reminders of us. If it's not an inspiration to work through my depression and anger, then it's an obstacle and should be removed. I should take it down, but I leave it up. The alarm clock by my bed reads 537.

7 a.m. Almost time for my appointment at 7 o'clock. No point going back to sleep to get up in a few minutes. I don't bother getting changed. I didn't undress for bed yesterday, so I'm really already dressed, right? I spot a sweater laying on the top of clothes at the foot of my bed. I grab it with my wrists and bring it to my nose. I take a cautious sniff. Doesn't smell bad. At least not to me. I throw it on the bed, mash my bald-up hands into the bottom opening

and try to bulldoze my way into the rest of it. I mostly succeed. It's a bit lopsided. Fuck it. And fuck anyone who cares. And fuck everything. And fuck Sidney. I slip my arm through my bag hanging off the post of my bed and make my way to the front door.

The perk of being in a studio apartment? No doors besides the front door need to be opened or shut. Not even the bathroom when you never have company anymore. I never locked the door last night, so I go ahead and try to take the door knob between my forearms. My bag slides into the crook of my elbow. My arms slip off the door. knob. Readjust the bag on my shoulder and try again. The bag slips down my arm. The doorknob won't turn. Mother. I refuse to start over. Contorting my body, I force my forearms

closer together and twist my whole torso over to the right, willing the damn door open. The knob finally turns. I hook the ajar door with my foot. and swing it open. Once out in the hallway, I turned back to close it. When Sid had moved out, my dad tied a string onto the handle so I could pull it shut myself. I try to slip the string between my frozen and gnarled fingers. No go. I sigh and drop to my knees. My arm not carrying the purse goes to the door. I gently twirl my arm until the string is. wrapped around my appendage and pull the door shut. I climbed to my feet and take a deep breath, letting the string unravel from my arm. Twenty-three years old. I'm an artist. My mother's name is Mary.

My father's name is Tom. I can go downstairs. I can leave the building. I can catch the light rail. I can make it to my appointment. I briskly walk to the elevator. When it comes, it's blessedly empty. I hit the buttons G and two with my elbow. Two buttons instead of one is okay, but at least I hit any at all. My therapist would be proud of me, looking for the silver lining. I ride the elevator down and shove my way out the front door,

used to use the handicap button except to enter. Once outside, I plunge my hands into my pants pockets. If I do that, no one even notices my mangled hanged. I walk the four blocks to the light rail. I sit down so I can mall my way through my bag until I find the lanyard that has my pass. It falls just as I see the lights of the arriving train pull in. I kneel on the ground and try to retrieve my pass

Pick up a dime on the ground Substantial enough to be hopeful you can pick it up thin enough to slip through your fingers each and every time Step off the train Third try Third time failing and to board the train My breathing starts to pick up And my heart thuds against my ribs

I can feel heat to flood my cheeks. Force of fail. A pair of feet halting right beside me. A voice. Here. Let me help you. A young guy. Maybe my age.

Good looking. Jean jacket. Messy man bun. Beautiful eyes. Messenger bag. I snarl at him. I snap at him. I take his offer of help, break it in half, and spit at him.

I got it! I grope at the lanyard, which by now is laughing at me, taunting me. Just pick me up. Science? Just pick me up. Failure for a fifth time. His shoes are still in my field of vision. He kneels down beside me. His fingers gently close over the lanyard. He holds his hand out to me.

I try to snatch it from him, but my hands aren't any more cooperative just because I'm being humiliated. I paw at the lanyard, and it drops back on the ground. I said I fucking got it. Are you deaf or something? Jesus, back the fuck off.

His eyebrows draw down. His complexion darkens, the gentle hands, the lithe fingers, tighten and harden. Fucking bitch? His condemnation is sharp and final, almost as ugly as my curling claws. He turns and walks away, boarding the light rail car just as the doors snicks shut. The train pulls away, and I'm left off. alone on the platform. It collapse onto the bench that still holds my purse and take a deep brown.

The name is Margaret. 23 years old. I'm an artist, a painter. My mother's name is Mary. My father's name is tall. I can pick up my lanyard. I can go home. I can kill myself, want to be here anymore.

I don't want to go through life with hands that can't paint, can't hold a toothbrush, can't even pick up a god-damned lanyard. I want out. I can't even do that without help. I know. I've tried. My old workplace was tall enough I could throw myself from the top of the bed. building, but I couldn't open the door to the roof. And it turns out that even if someone else opened the door, well, it's really awkward to fling yourself off a building with a bunch of smokers

standing around and chatting like life is just such a funny thing. I tried running a bath and plugging my toaster into the outlet. My apartment is old and doesn't have a change. GFI, so it could have worked. But my hands. I feel like an idiot even thinking of them as hands anymore. Couldn't keep a grip on the toaster. And I wound up dropping it into the toilet and breaking it instead. I can't take pills without assisting arms and hands.

I can't pull the trigger of a gun. And it's not like I own one, or like I'd even know where to get one for that. that matter. I can't hold a razor firmly enough to slice through tendon and vein. I stare at the ground and my pass. I just want to be anywhere but here. Want to shut everything out. But I can't even bury my face in my hands. My stupid, useless, traitorous hands. Honey? Honey? It's a woman with a baby carrier strapped to her chest. She swoops down and picks up my lanyard like it's not the most difficult task in the world. Part of me wants to kill her for making it look so fucking easy.

Just a bit. Did you drop this? She holds out the lanyard to me with a smile. I just stare at her. Her smile fades and she looks me over. her gaze resting on my hands. She settles her eyes on my face and then tucks my pass into my still open purse.

I feel more than see her smile. I feel her mouth undulating, writhing, groaning, crackling with pity. She adjusts her carrier with ease and walks away. I don't remember the walk. hole. My wrist stings from where I throw it against the square blue button that slowly swings the door to my apartment building open. I wait impatiently as the elevator stops on the second floor. This time, I see no silver lining to punching two buttons. I step off onto my floor, take the hall to my apartment. I try to open my door.

And again, and again, again, again, again, again. I hammer the door with my forearm and kick it with my feet, ignoring the shooting pains that arc up my leg and the heightening sensitivity in my arms. I shriek and flinged myself at it ferociously. Open up, you st! My screams trail off and I slide down the door, sobbing and cradling my already bruising arms in my lap. I try to calm down and take a shaky breath.

My name is Margaret. I'm 23 years old. I'm an artist, painter. My mother's name is Mary. My father's name is Tom. I can stand up. I can try again. I can focus.

I can open my front door. I don't move. Not for a long while. When I do, it's not to open the door. My phone has fallen out of my bag and shows one missed call. My therapist. I shove the phone against the door long enough that the button on the side activates my voice assistant. Once I see the microphone pop up, I speak.

Check voicemail. Please let me know how your rheumatoid is doing. Take a deep breath and get onto my knees to try again. Maybe the thousandth time is the charm. After several more attempts, I finally make it into my apartment. I shuffle my back against the door until it closes with a soft click. I walk to the bathroom and stare into the mirror. My hair is a scraggy brown mess.

Still pulled back in the ponytail my mother had put there for me two days ago. Blurry smudged eyes from makeup also done by my mother the same day. There's a stain on my sweater I hadn't noticed. And the tag is sticking up in the front, pointing at my hair. chin, advertising the brand and Excel size to the world. I have crusty, dry skin wringing my nostrils and a smear of blackish-red paint above my right eyebrow from yesterday's painting attempt. The brush is still on the floor where I threw it. Paint hardened, tool ruined. The canvas on my easel is ruptured where I put my clubbed.

fists through it. My old self and Sidney taken my appearance derisively from their photo on the mirror. They cross their eyes at me. They smirk in seductive poses. They kiss to show what I'm missing. Like I don't already know. I turn my focus back to my appearance and concentrate only on my face, trying to make everything else fade away. The lights in the bathroom are dim. My breathing slows, and I take in my pale complexion, high cheekbones, sunken eyes. I stare after a minute.

It's like it's no longer me looking out from the mirror. My skin is deathly pale, cheekbones gone to be replaced with a brooding and brooding, wide-set mouth, cracked and blistered. My deep-set eyes sink into my face and grow in sighs until they blot out my entire forehead. Black, glinting, and stumble back from the mirror. When I look back, it's me again. Margaret, a painter who has both a mother and a father, and should be so happy that things aren't worse. But I look at the pictures again,

and am filled with a sudden choking fury. Better off. Better off dead. Better to be that thing in the mirror than be a useless sack of flesh quickly burning through life with righteous anger. Then I wouldn't have to look at the hideous photos from a previous life.

My knuckles scrape the painted glass in an attempt to remove the photo booth pictures of me and Sydney. I claw. The two girls are still kissing, and I hear my sobs tearing like a hacksaw. I clumsily upend the full-waist basket and hurl the heavy ornamental receptacle at the mirror, and the trash can clatters onto the sink. I lifted with my forearms and toss it at the mirror. again and again and again until jagged pieces of glass frame the damning photos. I use my sinuous hands to paw and brush the fragments away, blood welling and dripping onto the

countertop. I think again, better to be sure finally comes free. My hands are ragged and useless for shredding the photo, unable to rip their stupid, goddammed faces in half. I hold the picture between my clenched hands and put the glossy paper to my mouth, teeth gnashing down on girls now smeared red. I tear them apart, shredding them with my teeth, ripping over and over and over. How long I've been sitting on the floor, shuddering with exhaustion and shutting down from an overload of emotion. I become distantly aware of my mantra running like a teleprompter in my head. A painter. My mother's name is Mary. My father's name is Tom. My name is Margaret. I'm 23 years old. I'm an artist. A painter. My mother's name is Mary.

My father's name. I suck in a breath and another and another until, I can draw a full and deep breath. I resolutely restart my mantra. Begin at the beginning. My name is Margaret. I'm 23 years old. I'm an artist, a painter. My mother's name is Mary. My father's name is Tom. Can hear something. I hear whispering. Comes from. From everywhere. I haven't repeated my mantra aloud, but it's been answered all the same. The very real voice sounds like dry leaves stuck in a spider's web and rustling in a soft wind. My breath is barely wheezing through my parted lips.

Has anyone ever said so? imagery. I start around the room. Where is it coming from? recognize me? The voice stops fluttering about like a breeze, and I can hear it coming from a shadowy corner. I focus and see two very large eyes in the dark. Black, I glance over at the canvas I'd destroyed.

It's a ruin of bright colors. The self-portrait my therapist had suggested I paint had turned garish and grotesque. when my hands wouldn't steady enough to make precise details. I had let my hate fuel me, and, in a temper, I had blotted out my eyes, black circles growing larger and larger before mashing the blackened brush into the red and tearing into my mouth. The distorted face that looked back at me saw the light of the small apartment for no more than ten seconds, before I threw the brush and mutilated the canvas. I slowly drag my eyes from the canvas and back to the corner.

I have thought for I was only ever looking out. Not that you were ever seen you. Satisfying being this way. I shudder. Stronger. My eyes shut. This isn't real. I glanced down at my hands.

Blood is still steadily. dripping, pooling on the floor. I rationalize is all a hallucination from blood loss. I painted the portrait last night and that's why my mind is grabbing onto it right now. I'm having a breakdown. People have those. That's what I'm having. That's it. My life is so full of shit right now, I just can't take it anymore. I take a deep, Is Margaret 23 years old? I'm an artist, a painter. My mother's name is Mary.

My father's name is Tom. I can stand up. I can fix my hands. I am not going crazy. Break down or not. Crazy or not, Margaret. You should really... I stand up.

I look to the bathroom. I don't know where to start. The bandages below the sink. The antiseptic is in the medicine cabinet. I laugh. It sounds higher than normal. But I stumbled toward the bathroom, leaving small drips of blood in my wake. My hands are slightly looser.

My muscles are not as taught as they were this morning. I'm able to, very ineptly open the cabinet and grab the bandages. I don't bother with the antiseptic grumbling. I grab the hydrogen peroxide and using a mixture of my hands in the mouth, I open the bottle and dump the liquid over my hands, letting it drip into the sink. It stings a little, but I can barely feel it. Next, I wrap the bandages around. around my hands. It's not a beautiful job, but I'll have to change the wrappings in a few hours anyway.

I feel groggy, far away, but the suggestion is logical enough. I drag my feet over to the front door and fumble with the lock before turning it with numb fingers. The room is slightly hazy on the edges, and my mouth, feels dry. I'm not sure what's happening. I try to sit on the floor, but I fall instead, landing on my back. My head swims. I turn my head to the shadowy corner. A long, spindly arm dips out of the darkness like a paintbrush tracing watercolor. The rest of the body follows. A second a long, Spidery arm pokes out from the torso, jutting sideways. Fingers, grotesquely lengthened,

curl through many joints. The knuckles knock on the ground as she drags herself further into the light. Her body is horizontal with the floor, raised on the front arms and two back legs that protrude from the sides of her hips. Stringy brown hair hangs in her. Stringy brown hair front of her pale face. Beyond that curtain, her lips stretch across her face, split and caked with dried black blood. I squeeze my eyes shut and desperately cling to my mantra. This isn't happening. Breakdown. I'm having a breakdown. My name is Margaret. I'm 23 years old. I'm a 23 years old. I'm a artist, a painter. You're not an artist anymore?

You don't even try. I'm an artist. A painter. My mother's name is Mary. My father's name is Tom. You don't deserve the love of your parents. My name is Margaret. I feel her rank breath on my face, humid and warm.

My eyes open when I feel gnarled hands press into my shoulders. Sharp elbows angled back like wings. Three years old. Her mouth, gaping and raw, lowers. They slow. A thin line of spittle dripping onto my cheek and bleeding. My body feels light, peels away, layer by lanced mine, and I feel them become soft. Supple, artist.

She pulls away with a sigh. I stare up into her enormous dark eyes, glistening and reflecting the light from the room, reflecting my fading self, canvas, and cracked watercolor. Is Margaret. Her hair, no longer stringy, brushes over my face. I am 23 years old. Fair skin softens.

and her arms rest gently against mine. I am an artist. Fingers with the correct joints curl painfully inward. My mother is Mary. Her dark eyes, smaller and lighter, sharpen and flare with pain. Finger spasm against my crumbling shoulders. My father is Tom.

calming. Can stop this. I can't. Further and further away. I am the faintest trace of a setting sun on the sky. The last vestiges of light. My name is Margaret. I'm twenty, twenty-three years old.

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Owning your first house is a thrill. Not everyone can be a property owner these days, so those that are no doubt feel grateful, even if the house is a little bit of a fixer-upper. But in this tale, shared with us by author Mark Diggles, there's something a little off about this gentleman's starter home. You see, every other house on that street has an attic, but his has no way to get in. Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell, David Alt, and Penny Scott Andrews. So check the space upstairs, even if it means knocking your way through, and be prepared for what you find.

After all, there's likely a reason it was hidden away, and keep that in mind if you're going to build a loft conversion. Whilst the builder was talking to me, I found my concentration waning. I was focusing on his shoes, specifically on how dry the paint spatters on his boots were, and whether or not the drops were likely to roll off them and so. I broke irreversibly into my newly laid landing carpet. Why is it they never take shoes off? Yeah. Do you see the problem? The builder pointed up. I refocused.

What problem? You don't have a loft hatch. We've done a few loft conversions down this road and the hatch is always here. We both looked up at the landing ceiling. A smooth, unbroken expanse of plaster greeted us. I shook my head. I've no idea. It was like it when I bought the place. How'd they do a survey at the roof void?

They didn't. I couldn't really afford that, too. I should state at this point that I'm not a total imbecile. Okay, well, maybe I am, but you need to understand that I didn't have a lot of money. It was all I could do to save up enough to buy a very small late 1900 Victorian terrace in a vaguely okay part of town. It was either proceed without the cost of a survey or sign on for another year in my rented shithole. Given those two options, I decided to forego the survey. Maybe not that smart, but a decision far more prevalent in my generation.

The builder opened his mouth, but stifled his surprise. His face, however, said it all. Moronic millennial. I understand that'll put the price up. The thing is, we don't know what the condition is. of the loft spaces up there. If it's bad, it'll really start to add up. I wasn't interested by this point. I just wanted to get more space out of the tiny two-bedroom townhouse, so I'd saved up for years to just afford. If I hadn't been so desperate, I might have paused for a moment. However, I didn't.

Okay, well, can't you just open it up and then quote me? That way, if it's too much, I'll just get a ladder put in, and then I get access. And if it's all okay, we'll go for the conversion. Can't do the conversion for a while, but I can open it up next week and we'll see what we see, I guess. He wandered towards the staircase. My eyes followed his boots, relieved to see my carpet no worse for wear. In hindsight, I'd have done the loft conversion before laying fresh carpet. In hindsight, I'd have done a lot of things differently.

It was actually two weeks and many chasing phone calls later before the builder returned with exuberant labourer. I watched in dismay as they took out devastatingly large sledgehammers and inelegantly swung them upwards into the ceiling, passing effortlessly through the plaster as though it were parchment. Bits of broken plaster rained down into my hallway and a thin film of plaster dust started to settle. I watched horrified for several minutes as the carnage continued, as they put down the hammers and climbed onto ladders with a saw that looked equally disproportionate for the job. I decided then that watching my newly acquired property being partially demolished was too much for me. I'm not adding much to this.

If you could give me an estimate once you've checked it out, that'll be great. I've got to head off for a bit. I didn't wait for a reply, just ran downstairs, grabbed my jacket, and headed off to the pub to wait out the chaos. When I opened the front door a few hours and several pints later, it was with a tinge of dread. I wondered what awaited me, half expecting to walk into a snowy wonderland of plaster dust. I, however, was pleasantly surprised.

The dust had been cleared up, the stairway, the hall, and the banisters all spotless. On the kitchen counter was a brief note. Not as bad as it could be, I'll get you a quote. Loft does need to be emptied first, though, so I've left you our spare ladder. I was surprised. I had assumed the loft was probably just filled with insulation from some government scheme designed to improve the efficiency of old properties or nothing at all. However, the note implied there was something in the loft that needed removing. I hadn't put anything up there, and in any case, why would you put something in there and cover it over?

I was curious to see what they'd found. I walked upstairs, pleased to see the landing had also been hoovered clear. I was also amazed at the neatness of the hole they'd cut into the ceiling, a neat square with what looked like perfect 90-degree corners, completely belying the blunt instrument used to make it. A paint-stained ladder ran from the void down to the landing. I stepped up and poked my head into the darkness. I quickly realized this wasn't like my parents' far newer and more modern house, and wouldn't have a light fitted, so I descended again and grabbed my hiking head torch. I flicked the beam on as I poked my head into the roof space. To my pleasant surprise, the loft had already been boarded,

albeit a long time ago from the looks of things. Dark wood floorboards ran the length of loft space, which was far larger than I was expecting. It was also devoid of insulation. Instead, the space was largely empty, save from tapestries of cobwebs that hung in drapes from the ancient purlins. At the very far end of the loft, I saw what the builder had been referring to, a pile of objects under a sheet. I walked over to them. On closer inspection, they weren't a pile of objects. Rather, it was a chest,

a lamp, and something lumpy with an old blanket thrown over it. I opened the chest and looked inside. It contained more blankets thrown over an old pile of books. I picked one up and looked at the title. Jewish mythology. I idly flicked through a few pages before tossing it back into the pile. Retelling this now, you're probably wondering why I didn't look further. But I've never held a lot of stock with the mythical. I'm a data analyst. I deal in facts. I'm from a science background, which is partly what makes retelling this story so much harder. Believe me, I wish I'd done more digging. If I had, my life would have been very different. Once I'd closed the chest, I pulled at the blanket-covered lump.

The blanket, which turned out to be more of a dust sheet, slid off easily, causing a gas cloud of dust to mushroom into the air, stinging my eyes and causing me to cough. Once settled, it exposed something that caused me to hold my breath and take a few paces backwards. An antique wooden settle was sat before me. it was sat a tailor's mannequin. It looked old, made to last in a way that anything modern just wasn't. It was carved out of a heavy hardwood. It was probably worth a fortune. Two things about it unsettled me. The first was that it had a face, nothing detailed, just two holes

for eyes and a stoically straight line for a mouth, all crudely scratched into the wood with a sharp implement. The second thing was that the mannequin's forearms were strapped to the arms of the chair with strips of heavy leather, braced with metal buckles. I cautiously approached the chair. At this close proximity, I could see one last detail that I'd missed. Three small letters been scratched into the mannequin's forehead. Together they read, Met. They gave it a lopsided appearance, I realized because they were very off-center. This upset my OCD no end, and I leaned in to look. I could just make out some rough scarring of the wood to the left of the word and a slight depression, where it looked like somebody had crudely sanded it. I licked my finger and ran it over the wood.

As the dust came away and my saliva darkened the wood, I could just make out the signs of the letter E. Idly, I scratched the outline of the letter, wondering who'd done this. I reached out and cautiously tugged at one of the mannequin's arms. It was heavy, but moved easily, as though recently oiled. The old leather fastenings creaked as the limb pulled against them. What was this? My scientific brain struggled to think creatively as to why someone would put this up here. I felt nervous.

the sinister overtones not lost on me. I was also hopeful. I'd been stretched pretty thinly, financially speaking, when buying this place. If this mannequin was as old as it looked, despite the obtuse vandalism, I might be getting a payday. If my university daytime TV had taught me anything, it was that shit like this was collectible. And if it was collectible, it was worth something. I found myself tugged sharply into consciousness. I rolled over in bed.

My mobile phone rolling down my chest and falling onto the floor with a gentle thud. The movement caused the screen to light up, a glowing rectangle on the floor, illuminating the room in a green hue. I leaned over and looked at it. The time was half 2 a.m. The last thing I remember was internet searching for the value of antique mannequins before, as usual, falling asleep with my phone still clasped in my stupid hand. I laid in the dark and wondered what had woken me.

Probably the train line. I'd not realised when I bought the house how near the train line it was. With viewings organised seemingly around the train schedule, I hadn't found out until too late. Anyway, it was my house and I loved it. However, as my clouded brain started to work, I realised the trains weren't running at this hour. I listened carefully to the noises

of the house at night, trying to hear something different. It came. I heard a tapping and a creaking coming from directly above me. All went silent for a moment, causing me to question my hearing. Then it came again, only stronger this time, followed by a wooden scraping sound. All became silent. My heart pounded, and I listened past the tinnitus-inducing roar of blood. pumping through my head. I heard nothing. Probably just mice, I placated myself. Maybe they'd been disturbed by all the moving around in the loft. I probably should have gone to look, but I didn't. I just laid in the darkness, listening to more sounds before finally drifting back into a fitful sleep. After a sluggish day at work, I'd built up the courage to investigate the noises in the loft.

I donned my head torch and climbed the loft ladder. All looked normal. I mentally measured the dimensions. I came to the conclusion that the settle with the mannequin was sat directly over my bedroom and most likely responsible for the noise. I studied the mannequin for a moment. The dull, unseeing eyes gazed at me. I felt myself drawn to it, so beautifully crafted as it was.

The limbs, I studied them, carved. from a rich mahogany. The arms ended in beautifully jointed hands, contrasting to the legs which cut off abruptly at rounded points, giving them the look of giant wooden pins. I tore my eyes off it and looked at the settle in which it was sat. It looked heavy, oak carved. It was probably worth more than a mannequin come to think of it. I wondered if it had succumbed to rodent infestation, it being the only thing near where the noises had come from. I studied it, but, couldn't see any norholes. Then I made a mistake. I could see a latch underneath where the mannequin was sat and realized it was storage. Maybe that was how they'd gotten in. I unstrapped the mannequin.

The metal buckles fastening the leather initially resistant, and with effort, the wooden frame was enormously heavy. I bare hugged the mannequin out of the settle and placed it onto the floor. The limbs splayed out like those of a grotesque, discarded doll. I pulled back the settles latch, lifted the wooden lid, and looked inside. A few old books lay in the bottom alongside some assorted haberdashery, rolls of cotton, some old scissors, and a very old tin of needles, but nothing else. Certainly nothing rodenty. Confused, I picked up the mannequin and dumped it back into the seat,

before returning to the landing and an early night. I didn't wake up that night. Instead, I dreamed. I'm not usually a dreamer, at least not in the literal sense. But that night it was vivid. I was laying paralyzed in bed, looking helplessly up into the face of the mannequin leaning over the bed. It leered at me,

the previously inanimate face now filled with purpose. The etched line of its mouth twisted into a sneer. I remember how tall it had looked, stretched high into the ceiling on those slender pin legs, filling the room like a giant tarantula. It was leaning over me, focusing on something that I couldn't quite see. I could see one of its hands,

the beautifully articulated fingers pressing down on my chest, and the other arm moved back and forth, But the hand was out of sight. That was all that I remember. At that point, I must have woken up. I'd slept through the night, but might as well not have. My brain felt ruined and my body numb. As I rolled over in bed, every bit of me ache. As I rolled, I felt the strangest sensation, like I was pulling the bedclothes with me, as though I was somehow stuck. I jerked the bedsheets away, from me and felt a sharp pain in my thigh. Panicking, I gently eased the sheet back. I was almost sick. There before me was a line of twenty or so perfect stitches sewing the bedclothes to my thigh.

The skin was red and puckered around them. What the fuck? I panicked, unsure of what to do. How the fuck could this happen? For a brief moment. the same part of my brain took control, telling me I was dreaming. I took a deep breath and tried to tell myself it wasn't real. I looked down. It was real. The stitches were still there, impossibly neat blue thread running through my skin and into the bed sheets. Each stitch hole red-ringed and saw. My brain slammed into overdrive and the room started to spin. I threw up onto the the floor. I pulled myself out of bed and limped to the bathroom, carrying the bed sheet with me. I took some nail scissors from the bathroom cabinet and, with shaking fingers, I tried to snip

the cotton. At first, all I managed to do was get the edge of the blade under the cotton, but the feeling of the thread tugging up my skin and the pull of the bed sheet were too alien. I turned and vomited into the bath, the smell of bile rising to fill the room. I held my breath and tried to stop myself from vomiting a third time. I fumbled again with the stitches, this time making it a bit further all the while fighting off nausea. I finally managed to snip through all the stitches, and then, carefully, painfully, pulled the cut thread out of my skin. I stared at the pile of blue thread with horror, still not believing what had happened. happened. I got up on shaking legs, grabbed my head torch, and made my way to the base of the ladder

leading into the loft space. I looked up, and using what little courage remained, I ascended. It took me a good few seconds before I could bring myself to turn on the beam. When I eventually did, my heart stopped as I stared around the space. The settle now sat empty. The mannequin was gone. I was pretty shocked, but it did at least give my dream validity, in that it was much more than a dream. The thought of this made my veins run cold. I didn't know what to do. It wasn't anywhere in sight.

What if it comes back? I still couldn't believe this was real, and so struggled to take any action at all. Rather, I chose to stand in the middle of the loft, brain boiling over. I finally figured that rather than letting my scientific brain dismiss the chest of books, I'd better have a look through, given that it was my only link to the mannequin. I opened the lid and rifled through a few titles. I came across Jewish mythology, magic of the golem, and sorcery, invocation and conjuring. I started to see where this was going, and I didn't like it.

But after last night, I was starting to believe it. Flicking through the books, I came to some bookmark pages. The first of these was in Magic of the Golem. The book was very old and the language hard to follow, but it seemed to illustrate how to create a magical servant from inanimate objects. There was an etching on the opposite page that illustrated someone drawing four letters onto the forehead of a clay man. Emmet, it read, which according to the manuscript meant truth in Hebrew.

Alternatively, Met, translated to dead. What had I done? I thought back to my interference with the creature. But none of this made any sense. Why would you go to these lengths to build something like this? Something so unnatural. I found the answer to my question a few minutes later. when I picked out one last book from the bottom of the chest.

It wasn't ornate like the others, just a simple, plain, leather-bound diary. I pulled it out from the trunk, sank into the now vacant chair, and started to read. It was mostly banal miscellania. It told me very little other than a previous occupant of my house had been a tailor. But it got more interesting in the last few pages. The entries stopped discussing. fabrics, onerous commissions, and fussy customers. An incident was mentioned, vague, but it implied that it had left my predecessor unable to work properly. Further entries talked

about failing to deliver on orders and loss of business. Some entries after this were just long ranced, cursing bad luck and looming poverty. I assumed written whilst drunk, given the legibility of the handwriting. They went on like this for a while, until they stopped altogether for a period of two weeks or so. When they started up again, the tone became far more optimistic. The entries started talking about a solution to the problem, a way of getting a helper that wouldn't need to be paid. A few more entries passed,

but they were all cryptic and increasingly paranoid. They didn't go into detail, but they kept referencing chapters in books that concerned things like correct construction materials, and the importance of simple commands. Given the kind of books I'd found in the trunk, I got no prizes for guessing the chapters the diary mentioned came from one of those.

The diary's author was coming across less like a tailor and more like Victor Frankenstein. The final connection to Shelley's novel was made when I came across a diary entry that simply read, It Lives. At that point, the entries stopped. A golem. He made a fucking golem.

I leaned forward in the settle and stretched. My back was starting to hurt, and reading by head torchlight was starting to hurt my eyes. I rubbed them and gave them a break for a few moments. I cast a quick, careful glance at the loft hatch, half expecting the creature to be peering at me with its inscrutable gaze. It wasn't there. Instead, I saw only the loft's dust moats drift. in and out of the torch beam. I refocused on the diary, eager to see what the hell I'd gotten myself

into. I flicked through empty pages until I came across three final entries several weeks later. They first sounded panic. Whatever it was had started to exhibit odd behavior, sewing obsessively, and not just the tailor's fabrics. I read further and went cold. The entry read, It appears in my room at the dead of night. I don't know what it wants, but it won't respond to me anymore. It has a mind all of its own. This is no longer the creature that I created.

There can be no other explanation. I think it has been possessed. I quickly moved on to the next entry. It won't die. I took matters into my own hands. Nothing to do now but undo this abomination, but I can't. I approached it quietly when it was working and hit it with my hammer. It tried to turn and I hit it again.

I kept going until I couldn't lift my arm and it lay still on the floor. I left the room only momentarily, and when I came back, it had gone. I need to consult my books. I can't go on with this heathen under my roof. The final entry was shorter, and unfortunately for me, cryptic. My occult research has paid off. I finally found a solution. That was it.

I flicked through the diary, my disappointment growing with each empty page. I looked over at the pile of occult literature I dragged out of the settle. If the problem came from those books, it's likely the solution came from them too. I studied the pile. and reasoned that the only title that was strictly occult was sorcery, invocation, and conjuring. I picked it up and started to flick through, looking for a clue. I got to about halfway through the book, and as I turned the page, a small square of black fabric slipped out and drifted to the floor.

I looked at the page. It was titled, Immobilizing an Errant Spirit. I skim read the page and realized quickly that this was the solution the diary had referred to. I hoped it would work for me too. According to the book, I needed to draw a pentagram on the floor and read some words that the book quoted. I should add that these meant nothing to me, and reading them to myself then I felt kind of foolish. But if they were all that stood between me and a psychotic, automaton seamstress, then I'd read them. Hell, I'd have read the shipping forecast too if that would have helped.

I made my way back downstairs and grabbed a marker pen from my bag. The book didn't state what to draw the pendergram out of, and I'm pretty sure that marker pens weren't a thing then, but I was all out of sheep's blood, so it would have to do. I went into the bedroom and looked down at the fresh carpet I'd had laid as I moved in. I dropped my hands and knees and started to lift it. I should add that whilst this was a desperate time, the carpet wasn't cheap, and I still had a student's frugality running through my veins.

After some heaving, the carpet came free of the tax holding it down. I rolled it back so that the room's threshold was clear, exposing the newspaper beneath. I grabbed this up in handfuls to expose bare floorboards. I studied them for a moment. I could just make something out in the dust. I brushed the dust away, trying not to choke on the billows of it that filled the air. As I peered through streaming eyes, I could see a rough, very faded pentagram drawn in the floorboards, in what I assumed was chore. It was faint, but clearly there. I guessed this was his bedroom, too.

I wasn't sure if the pentagram would do the job as was, so I took my black marker pen and followed over the lines until it was a thick, bold outline on the floorboards. I spent the rest of the evening trying to get the time to pass. I read books, watch TV, played video games, and anything else I could do whilst keeping one ear open for the tapping of the Golem approaching. Eventually, it got to an hour where it didn't feel ridiculous heading up to bed. I'd spent a few weeks in the US when I was 10.

One souvenir from the family holiday was a heavily polished Louisville slugger, baseball bat that my dad bought me. It had been hanging on my wall and was now lying next to me under the bed, along with the occult book, opened in readiness at the right page. I'd pulled the covers up and laid quietly in the dark, waiting. I woke up with the start. Moonlight shone through the gap in the curtains that I'd only half pulled. I'd failed at my plan to stay vigilant. I couldn't see a clock without moving, but guessed the time was. about 2 a.m. I listened for the sounds that awoken me. It was coming from the hallway. I gently pulled the covers down until I could see through the open door to the hallway beyond. It was there,

mostly in shadow, but I could see the moonlight glinting off its pin-like legs as it tottered obscenely towards the room. I held my breath as it came lumbering into the doorframe and out of the shadows. Its face twisted sideways and it gazed at me. It went to step in and I readied my book to get up and start reading. Its step, looked down and stop. It stared at me, and its roughly hewn mouth pulled into a thin line. It turned and disappeared down the hallway. I fell back into the bed and stared up at the ceiling. I woke up at eight with the morning's sun having replaced the moonlight shining through the window. I lay thinking about the creature.

I hesitate to use the word golem. It doesn't match the mindless description the books had portrayed. However, I agreed with the tailor. The creature may have once been a golem, but it was more than that now, and clearly I couldn't rehash old techniques. I needed a new one, and by tonight. Luckily for me, if my university days had taught me anything, it was how to urgently motivate myself when the need required. Obviously, this was usually cramming for an exam and not trying to not die.

It took me most of the day. I paced around my house, watching nervously as the sun grew deep red in the sky. But eventually, I found the answer, or at least what I hoped would be. I then spent another hour rigging it up, by which point the sun was. sun was almost setting. Pleased with my handiwork, I grudgingly tried to force down some dinner before heading to bed to wait. I'd laid the carpet back down, and the way into my room was now free of clutter, leaving free passage from the door to my bed. I fucking hope this works. I checked my laptop one last time and climbed under the duvet, taking the remote control with me. It came earlier that night, as if I had a frustration with its previous failure.

Also, this time, I hadn't drifted off to sleep. I was ready and waiting. Unable to see it from my position. I could only hear it approach. I could see it now. It had bent its lanky frame over to fit into the door frame, giving it the impression of a tangled wooden arachnid. Its face scanned the floor of the room momentarily before it brought its gaze up to me.

It lurched forward across the threshold, skittering inhumanly into the room, the moonlight casting elongated shadows of it across the walls. In one articulated hand, it held a needle and thread. It cocked its head and looked at the bed as a nurse would regard a patient. I went cold and felt my heart freeze in my chest. It ends now, I told myself, trying to will my panicking body into action. Finally, I hit the power button on the remote control, and with a gentle whirring sound, my projector span up into life. I'd strung it up from the ceiling with a lattice of garden twine,

the lens pointing at exactly the point in which the creature was stood. The lens flared to life and cast the shape of a dark black pentagram onto the beige carpet. I climbed out of bed, all concerned now leaving me, and picked up the book I'd squirreled under the bed, face down on the appropriate page. I started to read aloud, praying I'd got the pronunciation right. When I'd finished, the creature was stood motionless. It had dropped the threaded needle, the slight quivering of the beautifully articulated mahogany fingers, the only sign of movement. I guessed the lack of complete mobilization was to do with my clumsy recital of the incantation. Not wanting the creature to regain its mobility, I stepped forward and, whilst trying

not to vomit, grabbed my file from the bedside table, and sanded away at its forehead, until there was a smooth patch of mahogany where the letter E had been. Well met, my friend, I thought, as I felt its animus fade, and fingers falls still. I turned off the projector, and as the pentagram disappeared, the mannequin fell to the floor with a thumb. At the same time, the wave of nausea came over me, and my legs, equally weak, gave up on me, and I fell back onto the bed. The young couple stood in the brightly lit loft space and asked me the same question that all the viewers Why doesn't the loft space run the whole length of the house? And I answered with the same response I always gave.

Just the quirk of these old houses. I think the space was sealed up after the water tank was removed. I don't tell them about the false wall or what is behind it. No one ever needs to know. 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 Media, Inc. All rights reserved. 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.