The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E16

Episode Date: May 31, 2020

It’s Episode 16 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about those things which have terrible control over you. “Night of Darkness, Flames of Blood” written by Josh Gauthier (Story starts around 00:05:00) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Bartender – Dan Zappulla, Partygoer – Mick Wingert, Dancer – Jessica McEvoy, Prospero Quast – Graham Rowat, Cyrilla – Sarah Ruth Thomas “Plastic” written by Austin Gragg (Story starts around 00:25:15) TRIG Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hello, creative reason media. All rights reserved. What's that? You want to speak to Mo Ron? Hmm, I don't recognize that name, but, uh... Hey, is there a moron here? Wait, why you little... How dare you prank call me? Now I look like a fool in front of the entire No Sleep podcast team. Ah, sometimes I get exasperated by having a cell phone.

Being able to be contacted 24-7, constantly pranked by Nerdy Wells. Ah, but then I remember all the upsides to it. And I also remember what it was like before when I was with a different provider and how little I pay now to use my cell phone. Have you looked at your wireless bill lately? You're probably paying too much. It's 2020. Network coverage is better than ever, no matter your wireless provider. So why pay more for the same service? That's where Mint Mobile comes in. They can cut your bill down to 15 bucks a month for the same premium coverage. I know what you're thinking. This is too good to be true, but these guys know what they're doing. I've had great coverage for a while now, regardless of my provider. But it was

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What's that? You want to speak to David Cummings? You're not getting me that easily. That's not a real name. It's rude to say that word. David. Well, the joke's on you, sucker. Wait a minute.

Ah, whatever. Just remember. Go to mintmobile.com. No Sleep. 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 those things which have terrible control over you. How's everyone doing? Are you okay? We try to keep these shows somewhat evergreen

and not tie them to a particular date and time. But I feel like we all need to look after ourselves and each other during this unsettling period in our life. If you're looking for some distractions, I'll remind you about our YouTube channel. We'll have 10 No Sleep live streaming performances on there by the time you hear this. And we recently did our first episode of Inside the No Sleep Studio, where we discussed the story, Whitefall. Check out all that at YouTube.com slash the no sleep podcast official. And don't forget the 10 hours of stories we have on our SoundCloud page at soundcloud.com

slash the No Sleep Podcast. We hope you and yours are staying safe and somewhat sane. So let's delve into some creepy tales. What do you say? Well, I say, now close your eyes and embrace the magic. In our first tale, we've secured an exclusive invitation to one of the hottest parties in town. No, no, it's not the final party. It's a function at Imperial Tower. Everyone wants to attend. And in this tale, shared with us by author Josh Gothier, we meet a man who's even more desperate to attend than everyone else. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Dan Zippula, Mick Wingert, Jessica McAvoy, Graham Rowett, and Sarah Thomas.

So put on your best frocks or coattails and get ready for the soiree of the century. Get ready for the night of darkness. flames of blood. I have seen it remains strange that the sole difference between an eccentric and a lunatic is the amount of money possessed by each. Having made his fortune in banking before making another fortune in chemical waste disposal, Prospero-Quast is of the first category. Five months ago, after noting what he called the unrest,

growing in our city, Quast secluded himself in his 90-story monstrosity named the Imperial Tower. Among the upper class, Quast is known to offer an open hand to anyone he considers a friend. As such, Imperial Tower has become something of a refuge for the rich and famous, a place for them to revel in their status and escape the concerns of the world outside. But admittance to the Imperial does not come easily, and it does not come cheap. With time, Quast's parties have grown longer. They began as a way to pass an evening, then a day, then a week. It is expected that the next will last ten days, and this time I secured my invitation.

Even with what I have heard, the sight of Quast's rubek. revelry suite surprises me. It ranges over seven levels of the Imperial. Each floor offers its own decorative theme, its own amusements. They are connected in a way that threatens to turn the mind in circles. Staircases run from the fourth level of the suite to the second, from the second to the fifth. One elevator does not stop on the sixth level, another elevator only reaches the first, the fifth. It is a maze of diversions, and Quast's friends throw themselves into it with glee. No one asks my name as I linger at the edge of the first level. Quast has declared this party a masquerade. It is a game these luminaries enjoy playing. I smooth the creases of the white

suit I had tailored, especially for this event. My mask as well is white. Simple. The perception of anonymity has strange effects on people. It is a fact I see playing out around me. An aging actress straddles a state senator on a couch in the corner. She's married, he is separated. No one looks their way. At the bar, the district attorney swallows a handful of pills. No one acknowledges who he is. They play the game, as do I. The district attorney shuffles away as I sit on one of the barstools. The bartender has black hair gathered in a ponytail that hangs halfway down his back. The tattoo of Imperial Incorporated on his forehead marks him as an employee with a lifetime contract. What'll you have? Do you know how to make a bloody vengeance?

A frown flickers at the corners of his mouth. His eyes meet mine. He hesitates. I do. Then I will have one. He turns around to mix tomato juice and five types of liquor in a glass. When it is ready, he slides the drink toward me with a napkin beside it. He leaves immediately to talk with the patrons at the far end of the bar.

I lift the napkin to find out. memory stick beneath. I slip the stick into my pocket and taste the drink. It is vile. I leave it on the bar. The nearest staircase leads from the electric blue glare of the first level into the dim, purple glow of the second. Purple lasers slash designs through the gloom. Black lights illuminate everything, casting the scene into obscure silhouettes and lurid phantasms. Black pits stare from shimmering masks. Grotesque performers writhe on elevated platforms. Two conjoined, mostly human forms dance beside the bar.

Their internal wiring exposed in clumps. Near them, an animatronic half-goat, half-woman, offers assorted drugs to guests. It is not always clear which performers are human, which are machine, which are both. Near me, a young woman with a deformed face and no arms hangs from a loop of broad ribbon attached to the ceiling. Her eyes are closed. People throw money that she cannot catch, and they leave the money on the floor where it falls. I recognize the type of the type of of burns that have deformed her. Doesn't she look hideous?

I turned to the speaker. The man is thin, skeletal, with sunken cheeks and hair so thick it could only be artificial. His suit is an orange color that glows far too brightly under these lights. His half mask is that of a young girl, exaggerated with large eyes and full cheeks. There are many terrible things in this world. Only some of them are on display here tonight. He has been watching the woman. Sorry, what was that?

Nothing of consequence. Here, let me get you a drink. He waves at a mechanical waitress who glides across the carpet. What will you have? Tequila? Whiskey? Nothing. From within her chest, the waitress produces a glass. She opens the tip of her left index. finger and from it fills the glass with scotch. The man begins to drain his glass. You know, I looked

out the window earlier. He chokes a little on the drink. How's that? The window. I, I peeled back the covering to look outside. Why would you go and do something like that? To see what is happening. Would you like to know what I saw? That sounds lovely, but I need another drink. He walks away. I turn back to the girl on the ribbon. Her eyes are open now. They are milky white.

She cannot see me, but she can sense when I stand beside her. The hour is nearly struck. May it strike true. Her voice is her rasp, as damaged as her face, as her dancer's body. She twists in the ribbons, twirls, elicits a few cheers from the crowd. Her bare foot brushes down my arm. I turn my hand, open it, and receive a computer chip between my fingers.

No one recognizes the exchange. Make them pay for all their sins. She wraps herself in the ribbon rising up, away from the crowd. The next staircase takes me to the fifth level, which is decorated all in white and illuminated with such violence that the people within wear mirrored shades over their eyes. I do not linger, but take the next staircase. This goes only to the third level, which is dimly lit and decorated entirely in shades of green. This is wrong. The blueprints provided to me with. inaccurate. The mistake is an inconvenience. The servers on this level are human. They are clothed only in scraps of leather. The leather appears real, but the illegality of this fact goes unacknowledged by the

present company. The electric tattoos of the servers illuminate patterns of vines across their arms, their stomachs, their legs. Lights ripple along the design. lines ripple, a shimmer, fade. A cheer for our host! That is when I see quothed on the far side of the room. He gives a wave. His thin voice barely carries over the chanting coming from the speakers. Good people.

Eat and drink your fill. Embrace your fantasies. For today is all we have. Make the most of it. The crowd obeys with gusto as Quast disappears into an elevator. I brush a hand against the arm of a passing girl. When she turns to me, I see she is young, maybe 18, and the birthmark on her forehead. She is the pop star, the newest one-hit wonder.

What do you want? Your name is Cirilla, correct? She frowns at my breach of decorum. I don't know who that is. Do you know the quickest way to the seventh level? Why do you want to go there? Do you know or not? She sways a little.

She tries to focus her eyes on my face. That elevator. She points. I don't like it up there. I am not going for my amusement. Then why go? I leave her behind. I do not like elevators.

They are too contained, too restrictive. But this one opens at the press of a button, and it does connect to the seventh level. I step inside, roll back my sleeve. The display in my arm tells me it is five minutes to midnight. The door opens on the seventh level. The room is deserted, and it's not hard to see why. The ceiling is painted black. The floor is black tile.

Black curtains cover every section of the wall. There are no lights, no lasers. Instead, iron sculptures hold bowls of projected fire. These bowls shine red, red as blood, red as death. As the light flickers across the walls, it casts everything in shades of violence. At the far side of the room I see my prize. The great-grandfather clock, black as its surroundings, towers from floor to ceiling. I cross the empty floor to reach it.

There is no music here, and every footstep is like a cry of pain. The front panel of the clock is sealed but slides open when I insert the memory stick specially programmed with overrides for every lock in the building. Behind the panel is a computer console. The console connects to the clock, the clock to the building. It is my first goal. Password, it prompts. I slide the computer chip into the console, accepted, says the screen, override enabled.

The program on the chip runs automatically. As the clock hands swing to midnight, the chip does the work it was programmed to do, and below me, I know the music has flown. fallen silent. The lights of the party have been replaced with the red glare of emergency lighting. The security doors at every exit from the revelry suite have locked. Providing the seclusion the rich and famous played at possessing, I am halfway back across the room when the elevator door slides open. It is co-washed with four members of his security team. They hold stun batons as they rush me.

I slip the bone knife from my sleeve. The security forces and I dance together. They are poorly trained, clumsy. I am not. I twirl and lunge and glide and four men fall to the tile. The elevator door has closed. Frantic, Quast enters his override. code into the panel.

He is not fast enough, no. I seize his shoulder and pin him to the wall. What do you want? Justice. He does not understand. I have inserted an override that will open your system to the outside world. Your jury has been provided evidence of your crimes. What jury?

With my free hand, I pull the mask from my face. In the light of the fires, it is scarlet. It is the color of blood. Quast's eyes widen and I smile. I know what he sees, the scars, the chemical burns that twist my face into a nightmare visage. You see now the chemicals you miss him. have become our burden to bear, but you cannot outrun your sins. I fling him to the floor. As he lands, I grip the nearest curtain and tear it from the ceiling.

Behind the curtain is a window. The window looks out on our city. Maybe half the buildings have power. Fires burn unchecked. Crowds flood the streets. carrying torches, carrying weapons, the scarred, the dispossessed, the mighty. Look on your work, Prospero. Quast rises to his knees and looks out on the scene before him. I want him to weep. I want him to feel our pain. His face is pale, washed red in the glow of the fire. He turns.

wide eyes to me, eyes that hold anger, hold terror. I... Look outside! I advance as he turns back to the window, to the fires, and the mob. Watching, he tries to speak. I didn't! I bury my knife in his spinal column. And he is dead as he falls.

I insert the memory stick into the... console beside the elevator. The door opens and I descend to the next level. The elevator is mirrored inside. In the emergency lights, my suit is red. It is spattered with blood. The spots nearly black against the scarlet hue. My face scarred, wild, might scare even me if I was still capable of fear. I draw another bone knife as the door opens on the sixth level. The violet furnishings are dull under the red lights that now illuminate all seven levels of the suite. People stand unmoving, afraid, and perhaps confused. They draw back from me, but do not flee. Like animals, they are unsure how to respond to an unknown threat.

I look on my prey and smile Here in the red darkness I am death And I hold a dominion overall Hi folks, short break from the horror here I want to talk to you today about a sensitive subject Erectile dysfunction There's no shame in saying it

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platform works. So if you're struggling with ED, stay at home and go to get roman.com slash no sleep for a free online visit and free two-day shipping. That's get roman.com slash no sleep for a free online visit and free two-day shipping. Moving back into your childhood home after the death of a parent can be difficult. There are all sorts of memories and things that trigger nostalgia. The ghost of your loved one seems to wade around every corner. But in this tale, shared with us by author Austin Gragg, Lily is plagued by especially bad memories and nightmares.

Performing this tale is Addison Peacock. So explore the old family homestead, but keep an ear out. What's that sound? What's it leading you to remember? Do you really want to find the truth of what you're being led to discover by the rustling of plastic? At 3 a.m., Lily shook in a cold sweat, leaning against the kitchen counter she used to sit on as a kid. The same dream put her here at about the same time every night since she had returned home. Each night, she'd snap awake, as instant as the drink she was struggling to make.

now. It took two hands to keep the kettle steady and pour into the ceramic mug. The water didn't taste as good here as it had at home in the city. She wanted to laugh at that word, home. This was home now, once again. The last time she remembered leaning over and shaking against this ugly green countertop was decades ago. Her pants had been yanked down around her ankles as her father, bandished a wooden paddle behind her. The paddle had holes in it, so it would leave welts. It was an artifact left over from his days as a school administrator. But her daddy never hit her.

Instead, he screamed for her mother to get her ass in the kitchen, or so help him God he'd use more than the paddle on both of them. He'd give her mother the paddle and tell her to swing it. He was never satisfied until Lily's skin broke. Lily poured her instant coffee and prayed it would cover up the coppery taste of the water. She looked out the kitchen window, stirring her drink with a thrift store spoon. She didn't own good silverware anymore. The backyard glowed yellow under the dim, pole-mounted floodlight at the far end of the yard.

The property line was sharp where the dead grass ended and the thick ozone. dark forest began. The art itself was a dull open space with a single tiny shed for tools. Tools her father refused to let her touch because hammers are for boys, Lil. You're no good for these things. Well, they were her tools now. It felt wrong to complain about her inheritance, but it had come with too much land. What would she do with all of it? Her parents should have sold some of it a long time ago. Maybe the last few years would have been less costly if they had. In-home care had been expensive, but her father wanted more than anything to die in his own home. Now that he'd passed, Lily could finally look at moving mom into a rest home.

Somewhere she could make a few friends and exercise what was left of her mind. Marcus, Lily's soon-to-be ex-husband, would have loved the old. old family house. Quaint, he would have called it. Just like he called everything, their old silverware set included. He threw the word quaint around like he threw his fists at her.

Like he threw around the word divorce over the last year as if the whole thing was somehow her fault. Marcus would have loved all the yard space, though. He'd talk and talk about planting a garden come spring, but he'd be too busy fucking his tutor students too,

get around to it. In truth, it was probably only the one girl, but he fucked her good enough because she sounded like a squeaky toy when Lily walked in on them screwing in the living room. The dumb girl's textbooks spread around them as he gripped her from behind. The Ti-84 calculator 10 feet away with its batteries scattered across the hardwood floor. Lily's hardwood floor, the one she'd picked out with Marcus four years ago. Yeah. Marcus would have loved the house, just like her father had. The sudden sound pulled Lily from her thoughts. The shutters on the house needed to be nailed down or ripped off.

Something her father never lived long enough to do, and her mother never seemed to mind in the first place. Not that her mother minded anything anymore. She spent most days either in her room or staring out the front window from the deacon's bench. It was storm season in Tornado Alley, which meant even when Lily could manage to fall asleep in her childhood bed, skull crammed against the bright red headboard and feet hanging off the edge.

She never slept well. Gales of wind brought the house to life. In whispers, whistles, and the clatter of shutters, smashing themselves against the walls of the house like foul toddlers throwing fits. But tonight, her dream. dreams were louder than the screaming wooden children. In Lily's dream, a dead man laid on a bed. His throat was bruised black and stained red.

It was her parents' bedroom, and the dream filled her gut with anxious guilt because she was never, ever supposed to go in there. The childhood rule had become a permanent part of her, like the scars on her backside. She watched the dead man rot away. way as time hazily flew by in the dreamscape as if someone had punched fast forward on a VHS tape. Someone joined her in the dream, appearing in the doorway. She knew the man standing there, but couldn't place his face.

No, couldn't remember his face. Did the man have a face? She could feel his anger, a sticky static in the air. It seemed no matter how many times Lily sipped her coffee, she couldn't coax her mind to remember what had led her dream self to the only forbidden room in the house. And even halfway through her coffee, the man's face remained shadowed in memory.

She may have been forbidden to enter her parents' bedroom growing up, but she knew what happened in there. Mother and father would go in, and only father would come out. Mother would be gone for hours, sometimes days, and when she fully emerged from the dark bedroom, her wounds had only begun to heal. Something moved outside the kitchen window.

A shape raced out of the woods at the edge of the property and was headed towards the house. Lily's heart pounded as she set the mug in the sink, burning her hand as she did. She was more than 30 miles away from the next house. A dog, maybe? She leaned closer to the glass and squinted. Wind sent the shutters roaring again.

The shape's movements were both smooth and jarring. Was it running or flying? The floodlight on the other side of the property shed just enough light to show how fast it was coming out of the woods and straight for her back door, as fast as someone running full sprint. It was unshapely. It was flying.

It was... It was a plastic bag. Just more trash blowing around in the heavy June air. She poured out the rest of her coffee. If she was going to have more nightmares, she didn't need caffeine fueling them. She smelled the salt of her own sweat

as she wiped a wet brow. The house didn't have central AC, just a few window units, despite years of her offering to help pay for central air. Now, being a single income, that wouldn't happen. But her mother stayed nice and cool with the window unit in her room, quietly reading, we're watching Gilligan's Island with the volume maxed for her failing ears.

In the hallway, Lily turned the yellowed plastic dial on the wall, and the attic fan rumbled to life. The shutters continued their tantrum outside as she made her way back to her bedroom. But halfway down the hall, she stopped. Something whispered behind her. The sound came from the stairs leading to the second floor, empty ever since mom couldn't do stairs.

Lily followed the sound and strained her eyes to see up through the shadows. A plastic bag was caught on the handrailing at the top of the stairs. The current from the attic fan caused it to flutter and flap. She considered it for a mom. moment, then sighed and trudged upstairs. As she approached the plastic bag, she realized she didn't recognize it, not from the farmer's market, the gas station, or even the Walmart. It was a deep blue, like a Royals baseball cap. There were clumps of something black inside, like coffee grounds or topsoil, partially weighing it down. Like a lot of the trash blowing around outside,

It must have been left over from the estate sale. But before she could grab it, the air current took it off the railing and carried it across the hall, trailing bits of black dirt behind it before it stopped on the floor against her parents' old bedroom door. Lily stared at the door

while she scratched her nails against the wood of the handrailing. She stopped when she felt something gathering under her nails and prayed it was just the varnish. A similar sound joined the rustling of the plastic bag. It was a similar but thicker, more forceful flapping behind the door to her parents' bedroom. Millie went to the door and reached for the handle. It felt wrong.

She had to remind herself, this was her house now. She was taking care of mom. Despite not wanting to turn the handle, she must have, because the door clicked and swung open. Inside the room, a large blue tarp flapped and fluttered, covering the queen-sized bed. Like the small plastic bag, it too was brought to life by the attic span current. Was the tarp left over from the sail, too?

There was no way she'd forget seeing a tarp like this one. Not in here. Lily's stomach felt like a dishrag, doused in killing. periscene, rung tight and set a flame. The longer she looked at the tart, the harder her guts twisted and burned. It wasn't left over from the estate sale. She was sure of it. Her face flashed hot.

She'd throw the damn thing in the closet tonight, then in the fucking garbage tomorrow. No, she'd burn it. She'd burn the room down now if she could. She might, after mom was out of the house. Her heart stopped as she saw the mud on the tarp And underneath the blood stain on the bed There wasn't much But there wasn't supposed to be any

She'd been so, so careful There was no way it could be here Had anyone seen it? How many people had come up during the sale? Had one of the auctioneers seen the stain Found the hidden tarp and used it to cover the bed? She'd swear on her father's grave the tarp was buried. Bleach.

She needed bleach. It was still downstairs in the closet. She looked out the bedroom's only window, careful not to touch the steel loops her father had installed above the bed years ago. There were no red and blue lights flashing outside. She was fine. Of course she was fine. For now.

She would take care of this one last thing. then be done with it, done forever. She would be safe. Her mother would be safe. Lily turned back to the door and froze. The small plastic bag floated at eye level in the doorway, and the longer Lily looked, the clearer the shape became through the darkness. There was a body suspended under the plastic bag,

its pale toes gliding inches above the dark birch floor its face wore the bag like a mask its neck was blackened and glistening the plastic drew a sharp whisper as the bag sucked itself tight around the wide screaming mouth of her father his face caved inwards blood encircled his eyes and spread through the tight plastic like roots

racing through soil. He held the hammer she'd used, now caked with mud in his right hand. His face caved deeper, an eye socket vanishing. The head took on a new shape as it had when she'd held him at the top of the stairs

and pressed his twice-struck head into the railing with what she hoped was the same force as an old man falling down. Her father's feet lowered to the floor. And he stepped forward. His ankles ground and his knees popped. They were the same sounds his bones had made as he tumbled down the stairs months ago when the accident happened.

He came for her, spilling blood and dirt across the floor. She had tried so hard to scrub clean. He raised the hammer, just like he had made her mother raised the old wooden paddle so many times. Just like he raised his hand to her mother. Just like Marcus had raised his hand to her. Lily smiled. Because she knew, the hammer would not fall.

She wiped a tear, gathered the tarp from the bed, and stepped through her dead father on her way to find the bleach. When you're an authority figure to a younger colleague, it's natural to often feel like a parental figure to them. You can be their boss, their mentor, and their friend, the person they come to when they need help on the job or off it. But in this tale, shared with us by author Dustin Walker, we meet a conservation officer whose young co-worker

needs some rather unusual help. Joining me in performing this tale is Matthew Bradford. So let's join Dawn as he heads over to help his young colleague Jason. What he's claiming can't be true, can it? He can't really have a wolf in chains. I knew something was wrong the moment I got a good look at Jason. He stared at the living room floor,

one meaty hand wrapped around an empty highball glass. Hunting gear lay piled at his feet, boots, backpack, camouflage pants, and jacket. Jason looked up at me with vacant eyes. something in his gaze wasn't quite right. Sorry, it's so late, but I'm glad you came. Yeah, no problem. So, did you call me over just to watch you get hammered?

I smiled before easing myself into one of the duct-taped recliners. I considered the half-empty bottle of scotch waiting on the coffee table. Maybe later. He had called me at about midnight, just a short, simple request to come over. So I did. What else does a middle-aged bachelor like me have to do? Plus, Jason was a good kid. A tad weird at times, maybe.

But he had a good heart. And after a few more years, I'd make him into a damn fine conservation officer. Everything all right? I could tell things weren't. Stress lines creased his chubby face. He rocked back and forth slowly, just watching the floor. I don't know, Dorn. It's Chris.

Yeah, where is he? I thought you booked off today so you guys could bag a deer or two. The sound came from the basement. What was that? Jason looked right through me. I'll show you, but you have to keep an open mind, all right? I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I nodded. Sure, pal, no problem.

He heaved his bulky frame off the couch and lumbered towards the basement door. Forgetting something? I held out Jason's glasses. I knew he hated them. Might want to put him on if you're heading down a dark staircase after hitting the booze. Oh, yeah. Still getting used to wearing the damn things. He offered a thin smile and slid them on.

Not a good look. They made Jason appear more like a computer geek than an outdoorsman. But hey, better than the kid breaking his neck. Should I get my gun? No, it's fine. He's chained up. He's chained up? Ah, shit. I wondered what kind of strange pet Jason might have tied up down there. The kid opened the basement door and hit the light switch.

A single flickering bulb bathed the wooden stairs in dull tungsten. Each step groaned under our feet as we descended. The acrid stench of piss filled the air. Jason nodded. toward the cold room door. Okay, here we are. So, what's in there? I could feel my face turning flush.

Jason could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. He walked over and wrapped his hand around the knob. Remember, just try to keep an open mind, okay? The kid yanked it open. I jumped back as a snarling face lunged toward me. I threw up my hands and... stumbled just as the wolf snapped back against the force of a thick chain connected to an even thicker leather collar. It's Chris. I heard what Jason had said, but it didn't really sink in.

I was too absorbed by the snarling animal that leapt in the air and thrashed around. Drops of quivering saliva clung to its jaw. How the fuck did that get here? Can't you tell who this is? Look at his eyes. They just looked like regular wolf eyes to me. It's my brother. Can't you tell it's Chris? Jason gestured toward the snarling animal. I paused, trying to take it all in. Jason had a weird look about him, glassy, sort of disconnected.

I had seen that look before. My uncle Jake had it after he came back from a tour of Vietnam. It was a look people get when they see something no one should end. never have to see. Have you gone nuts? It's a wolf for Christ's sake. It is a wolf, but it's also Chris. Remember when that film crew came here a few years ago?

I shook my head and sighed. Oh, not this again. Those guys were researchers. They were convinced Yellow Point had a were wolf roaming around. And I believe them. That fucking beast got Chris. I know it did. Jesus, Jason

I rubbed my temples as a headache crept in Come on, man, we've been through this werewolf shit before. There's no such thing. He ignored me. The United Paranormal Research Society, they said it was only a matter of time before more people in Yellow Point were infected. That's what Dr. McLean told the filmmakers.

Jason, those filmmakers were just some college punks working on a school assignment. This is ridiculous. Too ridiculous, in fact. I started to wonder if the boys were playing a prank on me. Maybe Chris would hop out from behind the water heater the moment they thought I was buying into this nonsense. Jason was more likely to fall for such gags than plan them,

but Chris had a bit of a mischievous streak. Dawn, it's him. Jason pointed at the growling wolf. It backed further into the tiny room, dragging the thick chain in with him. I know it's Chris. Just hear me out, that's all I ask. I figured I'd let myself get sucked in.

Like I said, an aging bachelor doesn't have a whole lot of ways to spend his time. And to be honest, being part of a prank was better than being alone. And I liked Jason's company, even when he was acting a bit nutty. All right, I'll listen. But you better grab that bottle of scotch. We went back upstairs and collapsed into separate chairs. Jason's hand trembled as he poured us each a drink. I knew that Chris had never acquired the heartiness most people in this town grew into.

You could tell the kid was frail just by looking at him. Made him an easy target, I suppose. Their drunk-ass dad would often wallop on Chris after their mom left a few years back. After a while, Jason wouldn't stand for that. So he busted his hand on the guy's foot. face. I think that was the last time the boys saw their old man. It riddance. So, I guess you have a story to tell. I tip back the shot. The cheap scotch sent a comforting warmth to my gut. Jason nodded. His gaze returned to the floor. We went hunting like we'd planned, just the two of us down by

Silver Creek. The snow was thicker around there, and it really held us up. We didn't see a deer day and it was already starting to get dark. So Chris had to take a leak. You boys boozing it up out there? Not a drop. We were gonna head to beavers afterwards for a few. Anyway, you know Chris, he won't piss with anyone else around, so he stumps off into the bush somewhere.

I keep quiet, thinking I might spy a buck just outside the tree line. Jason downed his scotch. The kid's voice had a slight slur to it as he continued. So I'm standing there, waiting. When I see a big-ass five-pointer wander into the clearing out of nowhere, I'm thinking that I hit the freaking jackpot. I get them in my sights and pull the trigger, just as it suddenly bolts into the bushes.

I stand there wondering what spook the buck off, and then I hear Chris screaming. I run into the woods looking for him. Suddenly I hear a wolf howling from somewhere in the trees. It scares the shit. out of me. And then I see Chris laying there, groaning and holding his chest.

Jason's bottom lip quivered. Things got kind of fuzzy after that. The next thing I remember is looking up at the full moon and then down at Chris. Only he wasn't Chris anymore. He had changed on.

I don't remember it happening. I must have blacked out or something. His human body was gone and instead there was a fucking wolf just sitting. there, staring at me. I could tell by his eyes that it was Chris. Tears slid down his face. I couldn't just leave him out there like that.

So I remembered the tranquilizer gun still strapped to the snowmobile from when we dealt with that raccoon in town. I ran back and grabbed it. There was just enough light out that I was able to hit him with a dart before he took off. Then I carried him back here and put him in chains. I didn't know what the hell else to do, so after a couple hours thinking on it, I decided to call you.

I didn't know what to say. How should I react to a crazy story like that? Under any circumstance, I would have sworn he made it up. But the conviction in his eyes convinced me he had actually believed that was what had happened. Once the sun comes up, you'll see. Then we can take Chris to Dr. McLean. He's a paranormal researcher.

Maybe he'll know it. to do. Just wait until tomorrow, Dawn, when the full moon's gone. I got up and pulled open the blinds covering the big bay window. The round yellow moon hovered above the trees. Pale light soaked the snow-covered bushes, giving the yard an eerie glow. Jason, come on now. If your brother is lost somewhere or hurt, we need to organize a search party right away. Damn it, he's chained in the fucking basement. For once, quit thinking I'm just a fat before. and realize that I'm telling you the truth.

That hurt. I never thought of Jason as a buffoon. Oh, shit. Did he think I treated him like one? Please, Don, try to realize there are things we can't always explain right away, just this once. I stared at the empty glass in my hand, too ashamed to make eye contact with the kid. I was tough on him sometimes, often razzing him for his interest in all that monster crap. But I never wanted to make him feel like an idiot.

You're not a buffoon, Jason. I put the glass on the table. And I never thought you were one, not for a second. You're a good kid, a good conservation officer. His anguished face softened a little. Then believe me, Dawn, just for tonight. The sun would be up in a few hours. If this all really was some strange prank,

then I guess I'd play for the first. fool for a little while longer. At the very least, it would show the kid that I trusted him and that he could trust me too. I like being the guy he called on when shit hit the fan. Okay, pal, I believe you, but just for tonight. Wolf attacks are pretty rare, but Yellow Point is smack in the middle of some of the best wolf habitat in North America. It's terrible, but wild animals do attack sometimes. Nothing supernatural about it. Both Jason and Chris were fascinated by werewolves. Not surprising, I guess,

considering all the bullshit stories that had spread around town over the past decade. Those two boys talked about wolfmen all the time, went on and on about the old movies and stuff. And damn, did Jason know a lot about them? He was midway through explaining the finer points of why silver bullets hurt werewolves when he looked up at the ceiling. A big smile crossed his face.

When we were kids, me and Chris would tromp through the woods trying to find us a werewolf. That empty look in the kid's eyes disturbed me. I'd have my cap gun, but he always carried a stupid broom handle with him. I asked him once what that was supposed to be, and he said it was a silver sword. A guy can run out of silver bullets or Mrs. Target, he said. And if that happened, I'd need someone I could trust to wash my back while I reload. His eyes welled up again. I mean, people say I always looked out for him,

but they don't realize he was always looking out for me too. Jason wiped away tears. I fucking hope he'll be okay, Don. I need him to be okay. He will be, pal. He'll be fine. I tried to smile and look confident in what I was saying. Deep down, I had a sick feeling that Chris wouldn't be. that Chris wouldn't be fine at all. But God, I hope my instincts were wrong. We were quiet for a while

after that. At some point, I fell asleep, sprawled out on his couch. Now, I'm not much of a dreamer, but that night my mind was filled with flashes of razor teeth and blood-caped claws. I remember only bits and pieces of the nightmare, but I do recall looking into the kid's bathroom mirror, horrified as coarse gray fur sprouted from every pore in my face. Don't. Hey, don't it. The kid's voice woke me up. Sunlight streamed in from between the dirty white curtains. My ears strained, trying to pick up any noise from downstairs.

None. Let's go. We both went into the basement. My heart hammered louder with each step down those creaking stairs. This was it. Jason would see that snarling beast still chained to the wall and realize he was either the target of a major prank or he needed his head examined.

But a small part of me expected Chris to be there, curled up on the cement floor, naked and shivering. I tried to push that thought aside, but it lingered in my head like a sour aftertaste. Maybe the kid had worn me down a little. We still hadn't heard any scratching or growling coming. coming from inside the cold room. I held my breath as Jason went to the door

and put his hand on the knob. He looked back at me with saucer eyes. I nodded. He pulled the door open. A heap of gray fur lay motionless in the corner of the room. The chain was wrapped tight around the wolf's neck. Blood stained its fur. The kid stared at the dead animal for a few seconds.

That's not him. It's not Chris. Relief rushed over me. Okay, I thought. Now we can figure out what's really going on. Okay, pal, so where is he? Where's your brother? The kid looked right past me,

as if staring out at some strange landscape only he could see. Lost, empty eyes. A shiver raced down my spine as memories of Uncle Jake came rushing back. Vietnam had left him with a sick. mind, always babbling about visiting his buddies as if they had survived the war. And he always had that same blank expression, the same look Jason had now. The kid started nervously pulling on the bottom of his shirt. Okay, I know what happened. Werewolves always attract real wolves, so sort of like their minions. Jesus Christ, he really had lost it. When I fired toward Chris with a tranquilizer,

I must have hit one of the real wolves that had followed the head werewolf before a bit Chris. My blood boiled. I tried to stay calm, told myself the kid was not well, but all that werewolf crap got to me. I grabbed him by the shoulder, hard. Just stop it. Stop it now. There are no such things as werewolves. He shoved me away and ran upstairs.

I kept on his heels. Where are you going? Jason pulled on his boots and his bright orange jacket. Back to Silver Creek. He's out there somewhere. Anna's probably changed back into his human form like just a little while ago. I don't care if you come or not. Before I could get another word in, he stormed out of the house and hopped on his snowmobile.

I managed to slide in behind him just before he gunned the sled. Its mechanical screen busted the morning silence. We powered through snow banks and up a couple of things. of steep hills. It didn't take us long to get to Silver Creek. He started calling out for his brother as soon as he killed the engine. Chris? His voice wavered a little, almost as if he didn't want to hear a reply. Where are you, bro? Jason charged into the woods, fast for a big guy. I couldn't keep up with him, but I could still hear him yelling in the distance. My lungs burned as I trudged through knee-deep snow and thrashed against the brush.

After about ten minutes, I couldn't hear the kid calling for his brother anymore. Jason's orange hunting jacket peeked through the trees. He was staring at the ground. A nervous fluttering hit my gut. He was just standing there, frozen. Snought and tears oozed down his red face, eyes wide like a wounded deer. I took a few more steps and then stalked. I spotted what the kid was looking at.

A bright orange jacket, just like his, stood out against the bone-white snow. I lunged through the thick bramble, not noticing the thorns that nicked my face. Then I almost puked. The image came hard and fast. I should have been ready for it, but I wasn't. Frozen blood coated Chris's chest and saturated the snow around me. him. His jacket was open a little. The bullet had entered just below his neck. I did that, didn't I? The kid was trembling. I forgot my glasses again. I didn't know where he was. I couldn't see him.

Christ, his grief-stricken mind just hadn't been able to cope with a shock like that. What better place to hide from all that pain than in his beloved wear. But reality was rushing back to him now, blindsiding the poor guy like a midnight tsunami. I threw my arms around him and pressed his head against my chest. He fell to his knees in a sobbed of eap. I killed my baby brother. The kid looked up at me with wet, shimmering eyes. I did that to him, didn't I?

My heart shattered. I loved Jason, loved the kid like a son. Looking back, I know I didn't do the right thing. But at that moment, all I wanted was to ease Jason's pain. The pain made so much worse by him knowing he had killed his own brother. No, pal. Of course you didn't do that. Sometimes delusions can be kind.

It was the where. 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.

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