The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E17

Episode Date: June 7, 2020

It’s Episode 17 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about those things which go horribly wrong. “A Low Spirit” written by Mark Towse (Story starts around 00:05:50) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Andy Cresswell “Bitter” written by D. Williams (Story starts around 00:16:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Brian Mills – Kyle Akers, Gary Howard – Elie Hirschman, Concert-goer – Atticus Jackson, Adelaide – Addison Pea Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi, I'm David Cummings, the host of the No Sleep podcast. You know, it feels like every day at the moment some new terrible event is happening in the world. Disease, acts of violence, of bigotry and hatred. It's hard to cope with everything that's going on. And it's not a one-off brief period either. Things like racism and bigotry and violence are things that people deal with all the time, whether it's in the news or not. And these things affect everyone.

No matter who you are, you're not immune to the, the toll that real life can take on your mental health. And there's no magic solution, no way to snap your fingers and make it all go away. But there are ways to ease things somewhat. 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. Now, this is not a crisis line and it's not self-help. It's professional counseling done securely online. There is a broad range of expertise in Better Helps counselor network which may not be available locally 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 anytime and send a message to your counselor. You'll get timely and thoughtful responses. Plus, you can schedule weekly video or phone sessions so you won't ever have to sit in an uncomfortable waiting room. Doubally 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. Better help is committed to facilitating great therapeutic matches, so they make it easy and free to change counselors if needed. It's more affordable

than traditional offline counseling, 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% off your first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So no matter what's going on, remember it's okay to look after yourself too. reach out to a helping hand. Better help can offer that helping hand.

So remember, visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep to get 10% off 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 those things which go horribly wrong. If you're a regular listener, you know that we will. want this podcast to be an escape from real life, but there are some issues which demand a response, issues which can no longer tolerate silence. I want to affirm that the No Sleep podcast always has and always will welcome people of color on our team, but I do understand it can appear that our team is disproportionately white. We have never turned away anyone based on the color of their skin.

Be they voice actors, writers, or illustrators, we gladly collaborate. We gladly collaborate with all people who want to share their talent in creating fictional horror. But recent events have shown me, me, the person ultimately responsible for this podcast, that more can be done. We are seeing continual, horrific, and entirely intolerable acts of violence against the black community. And I want to work harder to bring people of color and black voices to our show. That means more voice actors of color, but it also means reaching out directly to black writers. Writers who have told us that they sometimes feel they should be writing white

for the show instead of reflecting their ethnicity, race, culture, and background. Horror is a universal emotion, and when we choose to allow it to stir our minds for entertainment or distraction, it can be a positive and uniting force. We will work harder at making sure our horror community reflects the many faces of our society, and we will be all the all the better for it when we do. Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. Now, close your eyes and embrace the magic. In our first tale, we join a man contemplating what went wrong.

It can be a difficult thing to have to deal with when your idyllic life has fallen apart. So much to mull over and search your soul for. And in this tale, shared with us by author Mark Tau, the decline of this man's family ended so tragically. Performing this tale is Andy Cresswell. So keep a close eye on your loved ones. Pay attention to how things are going with them. Otherwise, you might find yourself in a low spirit.

Under the moonlight, the raven's feathers gleam like fresh paintwork. It watches curiously as my hands claw at the ground. I am getting nowhere. A single tear spills down my cheek, and the cool breeze accentuates its path, but it never makes it to the earth beneath. I only have myself to blame. The bird lifts its head, and its beady eyes offer no consolation for my guilt. I sit back on the damp ground and reflect on how it came to this. She used to be so good with the children. It's hard to watch them struggle and hurt in the way they do. Lucy is having nightmares again, and the words I offer do little to comfort.

She's always been a worrier, asking questions that should never be on a young child's mind. Do you still love mummy? Why do you get sad? Why does mummy cry sometimes? It's Tom, I worry about most, though. He's not talking at all. I walked in on him a few days ago and caught him crying into his pillow. On his drawing pad on the bedside table, there was a picture of the four of us holding hands and smiling. I feel helpless. Even more so sat here in the middle of the cemetery when I should be at home with the children.

I bid farewell to the raven perched atop the stonework and set off home. I want her back. I want to hold her and have another go at making her happy. We used to be. The first time I saw her, I knew I wanted to be with her. Intelligent, altruistic, complex, generous, and very stubborn. My ever so stubborn English rose. I loved her.

Our friends were shocked at how we would speak to each other at times, but I don't think they ever truly understood how comfortable we felt in each other's present. We would joke and roast like best friends, love like adulterers, and talk all night about anything under the sun. That seems like such a long time ago now. A streetlight casts its warm glow on our house, but inside the light dwindles and it only makes it up the first three steps of the staircase. I creep up the board slowly,

half expecting a loud creak and subsequent cry from Lucy, but the house remains mute. I pass the photo on the wall that portrays a lie. It's a recent one, a van on her 40th trying to smile, as though she had forgotten how. Depression had finally rooted itself. Pangs of guilt wash over me again as I run my finger over her forced smile. The makeup helps disguise the sleepless night, nights and taut face, but the eyes offer nothing but despondence. The isolation was unbearable, and I know that comes across as selfish, but I was trying to hold everything together. After a while, I felt the cracks appear. My work was suffering. I was snappy at Lucy and Tom, and I used to get so frustrated with Anne. On occasions I felt so rigid

with rage, I feared what might happen. Those times I would drive to the beach and cry or scream, or both. She seemed so adamant on self-destruction. I tried, but there is only so much you can do on your own. Admittedly, I was afraid to tap into that part of her mind. It would be like trying to defuse a bomb, and if he didn't know which wires to cut, boom. She had to be. She had to battled waves of it over the years. Sometimes it would last days and sometimes weeks, but she had always managed to fight her way out in the end. It was exhausting for both of us, and I couldn't help but feel that sometimes I made it worse. I used to think that perhaps if she was with someone else, they could help her unlock the unshakable sadness that I couldn't. My patience grew thin over time,

and I shamefully started to throw around desperate ultimatums, threatening to leave and to take the kids. I couldn't reach her. She would happily take the drugs, but not the advice, and the pills she had started taking encouraged even more disconnect. Gently, I stroke Lucy's cheek. She looks peaceful now, and I hope some light is getting through to her dreams.

I want to scoop her up and squeeze her. She kept me going through a lot of the hard times, and I feel as though I have let her down too. I peek into Tom's room and see the drawing of the four of us still sat on his table. He is curled up in a ball as though in self-protection mode, and he looks so small and vulnerable. I want to wake him up and tell him everything is going to be okay. I kiss him on the forehead and whisper I love him. before moving to our room. I wanted a happy ending, back to where we used to be. I begged her countless times to see someone. I had nothing left to give at the end. The dresser that used to be

packed to the brim with bottles of colourful tablets is now almost empty, apart from the ripped open envelope and letter cast aside. I have read that first line so many times now. Dear Mrs. Jones, this is to confirm your booking with psychologist Dr. Lorpa on the 17th of September at 10am. There is a small groan behind me, and I turn to look at my wife in bed and watch her until she settles once again. The envelope is postmarked the 4th of September, the day before I locked myself in the garage with the engine running. She never said a word about finally seeing a psychologist. Maybe she was frightened of failure. I will never forgive myself.

The raven has watched me helplessly claw at my grave many times. Punishment enough, perhaps. I'm Atticus Jackson, hapless miscreant and long-suffering brand deal advocate. People know me for enjoying such things as voice acting on podcasts, voice acting on YouTube videos and playing video games. But there's a lot more to me than just that. I also like eating food. Now, this may shock you.

How do you balance all these hobbies and insurance atticus? You're asking? Well, there are two simple secrets to my success that I can share with you all. The first is DoorDash. DoorDash delivers food right to your door without you having to spend time going out, avoiding autograph seekers or meteors. But how can you have to be?

have a wide range of exciting meals without going out. Again, DoorDash. In 2020, delivery is more than just pizza. With a selection of your favorite flavors from across the globe, you can order delicious, interesting meals from the comfort of your living room. Ordering is easy. Open the DoorDash app, choose what you want to eat, and your food will be delivered to you wherever you are.

Not only is your favorite pizza joint already on DoorDash, but there are already 310,000 restaurant partners in 4,000 cities. so you might find a new favorite too. With door-to-door delivery in all 50 U.S. states, Puerto Rico, Canada, and Australia, you can order from your local go-toes or choose from your favorite national restaurants like Chipotle, Wendy's, The Cheesecake Factory, and more. With DoorDash, you can have an elaborate meal or a quick snack straight to your door, allowing you and your family to stay safe.

There's no need to start chowling down on household items just yet. And right now, our listeners can get $5 off their first order of $15 or more when you download the DoorDash app and enter code no sleep. That's $5 off your first order when you download the DoorDash app in the app store and enter code no sleep. So don't feel restricted. Give your taste buds a world tour without even leaving your living room. Oh, and the second secret?

I can freeze time. Ten hours has passed in my reality since I began this ad read. So don't forget, that's code no sleep for $5 off your first order with DoorDash. Imagine the nightmare of being sent to prison for a long sentence, locked in a cell shunned by society, forgotten. In this tale, shared with us by author D. Williams, we meet Brian, a man for whom a series of events have conspired to up-earned, his life. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Addison Peacock, Ellie Hirschman, Atticus Jackson,

Jessica McAvoy, Jesse Cornett, Jeff Clement, and Mick Wingert. So don't let prison get you down. Try to stay focused. Otherwise, you might end up bitter. On television, they called me the carjack killer. They said that I strangled those men out of rage, that I was jealous of their prowess with women. The police and the FBI said that humiliating them as I murdered them gave me some kind of sexual gratification. This isn't true, but no one believes me. A few years ago, that reporter out of New York published a book about my supposed crimes. Metal, mayhem, and murder was the title. Stupid, but catchy. That was probably the point. Gary Howard, one of the guards here, told me all about it the day it was released.

Special ordered it. One day shipping. Stayed up all night to read it. He slipped a peck of cigarettes through the bars of my cell as he said it. I don't suppose it helps that I've kept smoking since I've been in here, but it doesn't matter now. The man on death row doesn't fear cancer, and he doesn't fear more evidence against him. Gary isn't supposed to give me things like that, but he does. I guess he isn't supposed to tell me about things like the book, either.

He's a little starstruck by me, I think. A little overwhelmed. Who doesn't love a good serial killer story after all? I also think Gary is fucking pathetic, but I take what kindness I can get in this place. In the book, the reporter talked about what she called my process. All of it had to be based off police evidence, of course, since so far no one has managed to take my confession. I guess it's hard to take what I don't have to give.

Nonetheless, the evidence itself paints a very clear picture. I would steal a car from the venue parking lot, she said, and follow a man on his way home. At some low traffic point in the journey, I would rear-end him, force him to pull over. When he stepped out of his car, I would bash him over the head, repeatedly, if necessary. The instrument I used for this would vary depending on what was at hand in the stolen car. Most of the times it was a tire iron. Once he was unconscious, I would load him back into his own.

car. Then I would climb into the driver's seat, tape his mouth, and drive away. I kept the tire iron with me in case I needed to use it again. Gary winked at me as he told me that. I'm not a large man. It makes sense that I would have to so thoroughly incapacitate my victims. In terms of the destination, the author speculated that I only required seclusion. Once I found it, I would unload my victim and strip him. After he was naked, I hog tied him with duct tape. And then I waited for him to wake up before wrapping the rope around his throat. She says the truly disturbing part is what you did about tape over their mouths. See, you took it off.

There was tape residue on their faces, but the actual piece that had been there before was wadded up and tossed one side. She says you wanted to hear him die. It's difficult to roll a man onto his back when he's hog-tied. Easier to leave him on his stomach. From there, it's very simple to stand above him. loop a long cord around his neck and pull up. Let gravity and the weight of his own torso do the trick.

This is especially useful when the killer is smaller and lighter than the victim. According to the reporter, the only downside was that I couldn't see their faces as they died. That was why I needed this exclusion. So I could remove the tape from their mouths and hear the noises they made as life escaped them. I would stand above them with the ends of the cord wrapped tot around my gloved hands, arms burning with the effort of lifting their weight. and listen to them choke in their grunt until that last gas before they stoned. This, I expect, is all true.

The only exception is that I didn't do those things. It was someone else. I have always said that it was someone else, but no one believes me. The prison officials here don't allow me internet access. Perhaps I should miss it, but I don't. It is, after all, part of what got me here. I don't remember exactly what I was looking for when I found the first photos online. I was always researching serial killers in my spare time, and I don't mean the general Wikipedia bullshit.

I looked deep for pictures and gore, digging for the most gruesome snippets I could find. I looked into places on the internet where you're not supposed to look. I don't know why I did it. I suppose I just wanted to know. A curiosity that could never be satiated. The things I looked at were frightening. I even frightened myself, I think, but that didn't stop me. I don't know who posted the photos.

There was no way for me to find out. There was only his username, Schechter. Already there was a stream of comments below. He responded to some of them. When one pressed how he'd gotten the pictures, he answered with only two words. From work. The photos were of a dead man. He was naked and his arms and legs were

bound together behind him with duct tape. He was belly down in the mud on the side of the road. His face turned to one side. I looked at the trickle of dry brown blood that ran down his forehead. I looked to the angry red welt that encircled his throat. I looked into his dead eyes and his slack open mouth. I wanted to know who would kill him. I added my comment to the stream below.

Where is this? Schechter answered quickly, naming a city not terribly far from where I lived. Every night after work I went back to the site, went back to the photos of the dead man in the mud. In my mind, I spoke to his killer. I asked him why he had taken the man's clothes, though. Asked him how he had chosen him. I asked him what it had felt like to kill him. I could summon no answer, just an odd feeling in my chest.

A week later, there was a fresh set of photos on the site. Another dead man naked and bound, dumped on the side of the road. Smaller than the first was. dark hair. He was his face down in the dirt. One wide, blank eye was the only feature not obscured. Just as with the first victim, there was no rope around his neck, only the burn where one had cut into his flesh. Underneath, Schechter had already listed the location. It was closer this time. I could see the place where the man had been hit. The hair on the back of his head was matted with blood. It ran down his back, blending with the tattoos that covered his skin. At the inner

edge of his shoulder blade was one of the Virgin Mary. Depicked it as a statue, she bore no color except the red that flowed from her eyes and mouth. It ran down to coat her robes and pool at her bare feet. I knew that image. As a teenager, I had a poster of it on my wall. Though I had long since outgrown the metal band, I still recognized the art from Crimson Shrine's first album. It was only a hunch, but I pulled up their website. A man who had pierced that image into his skin forever would not pass up the opportunity to see the band perform.

I was right. Two days earlier, they had done a show where the tattooed man now lay dead. A week and a half before, they had been in the same place as the first victim. There was another show that night. It was only two hours away. I bought a ticket. I wasn't sure that the first man had been to see crimson shine before his death, but I had a feeling that I couldn't ignore. The venue was packed.

400 people were jammed inside, sweating beer and weed into the stale air. The press of bodies around me was almost unbearable, but I couldn't leave. The killer could be there. And if he was, I had to find him. But finding a serial killer in a crowd is no simple task. All around me, people were swearing, shouting, using elbows and knuckles to push their way closer to the stage. An overwhelming majority of them were men And an overwhelming majority of them were average

A man with long black hair shoved past me Spilling his beer It sloshed on my arm warm and weaking Sorry, dude He laughed, clapping me on the shoulder His hand was hot His eyes glazed with a sheen of drugs and alcohol No problem

He laughed again and pushed further forward into the crowd A hush fell as the opening band stepped on. Two men and two women. The largest man, his broad shoulders cut free of the confines of sleeves, took a seat behind the drum kit. The other three took guitars from their stands. One of the women stepped up to the microphone. A gray tattoo flared across her chest from beneath her tank top.

The wings of some unseen creature spread from clavicle to clavicle. The crowd erupted in cheers at her shell. She waited until they died down to continue. I'm Adelaide and we are The shout came from somewhere near the stage It sounded like the man who had bumped into me A stunned quiet fell over the crowd But Adelaide only laughed

How about instead I just buy you a beer at the end of the set? Look yeah She flashed him a thumbs up There was a yellow bracelet on her wrist Not tits, but still pretty good The crowd cheered again again, louder this time. She shouted over their glee. Thank you. I'm Adelaide and we are bitter waters. The music slammed into being like heatlight.

And her voice, her voice was the voice of God. It was sex and death, rage and love. I had never heard anything like it. I knew I should have been searching. I should have been looking for the killer in the crowd, but all I could see was her. All I could feel was her. All I could feel was her. pounding in my skull, burning in my blood. All around me, people were dancing, slamming into each other, flailing their arms, and banging their heads, but I could barely move. I was transfixed. When the final echo of their last chord faded, she screamed across the crowd again.

And God be at your table. The mass of people filtered back, heading to the bar. I followed suit, drank a whiskey, and waited. Adelaide and the other girl came from behind the stage a few minutes later. They headed to the side, toward a card table covered in a banner emblazoned with the band's name. I cut up to them as they pulled cardboard boxes of merchandise out from beneath. Hey, do you need some help? Adelaide looked up as she lifted a tray of CDs and cassettes from a box.

We were eye to eye. My heart stuttered in my chest. No, but we appreciate the offer, right, Mary? She nudged the other girl. I saw that what I'd thought was a yellow. yellow bracelet was actually a bandana, intricately tied around her wrist. Miri rolled her eyes. I, uh, I really liked your shell.

People were pushing past me, making their way back to the stage. Adelaide was safe behind her table. She smiled. Thanks. Her eyes flicked over the crowd that moved behind me. On stage, she had been all-powerful. Now she seemed nervous, fidgeting with that yellow bandana. Are those angel wings?

I hadn't meant to ask it. Her eyes came to mine again and she stilled. I felt for the first time that she was actually looking at me. No. She touched one wing of the tattoo on her chest. It's the winged victory of Samothrace. Her answer didn't call any particular image to mind. I like it.

I picked up a CD from the tray. Can I buy one of these? Sure thing. It's 12 bucks. I got my wallet, looked for exact change. It was difficult to focus. She was tying her hair into a bun and all I wanted to do was watch. I held the money out and Miry took it.

Next to her, Adelaide was fidgeting again. Glad you liked the show. Hey, Mary, I'm going out to smoke, okay? Whatever, Addy. Mary's mouth was set in a thin line. Adelaide looked at me once more. It was nice to meet you. Brian.

It was nice to meet you, Brian. She held out a hand to shake. Her fingertips were cold against my skin. I listened to the album on my drive home. I turned it up as loud as I could. Goose-fleshed it out of my arms. Her melodies and her voice seemed to reach inside me with cold fingers, changing something fundamental within.

When I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I used my phone to look up the winged victory of Samothrace. It was a statue of a goddess standing firm on the prow of a ship, her robes blown by the wind. Her head and her arms were missing, lost to time. I tried to imagine what she must have looked like when she was still complete. All I could see was Adelaide. I dreamed of her that night.

I dreamed of kissing the goddess nestled between her breasts, of tasting the salt on her skin. I ran my hands through the silken fall of her ash-blond hair. A single strand came away in my grasp and I knew it belonged to me. It was a piece of her that would be mine forever. I wanted more. There was no update to the website the next day. No new victim.

I had been wrong. And yet I couldn't bring myself to regret the trip I'd made. A week passed with no word from Schechter on the site until... It took a while to find this one. More photos. The man was bound just like the others. But his flesh was beginning to slip. His body was bloated, torn raw by the activity of carrion creatures.

Another commenter estimated he'd probably been dead since the Saturday before. It was the same day I'd gone to the concert. The location, Schechter posted, matched where it had been. The man's face was obscured by his long black hair. Crimson Shine was still touring. Bitter Waters was still with them. Their next show was a full day's drive away. I called work and told them I probably wouldn't be in the next day.

I told him I had the flu. Then I got my car and drove. This venue was bigger. It was packed like before, but industrial air conditioners kept the Texas heat at bay. I searched the crowd intently. Now I knew there was a killer among them. I could find him. I could ask him everything I wanted to know.

I could ask him if killing those men had felt good. I decided that I would stay at the bar while Adelaide played. I didn't want to be distracted. I heard her shouting in the music with me. The voice pulled with me, the sirens, I hummed along but resisted the call to go see her, to look at her, the victory on the proud of that stage. I knew if I did that I would be done with me.

Instead, I watched the people as they drifted in and out of the doorways. I tried to remember faces from the last performance. No one stuck out. No one looked familiar. Bitter waters finished their last night. Over the fading echo Adelaide cried out. God be at your table. I watched as more people pressed toward the bar around me.

I didn't recognize anything. They felt they would pass me minute after minute, strangers all. I heard Adelaide laugh behind me. The sound set my skin alive. I turned. She and Miri were at their booth. A man stood across from them, reaching over the table. He ran a hand through Adelaide's hair, caressed her arm.

His fingertips brushed across her tattoo, and she slapped his hand away playfully. She laughed again. Now that I knew the cause of it, it set my teeth on edge. She shooed him away, and he went. I walked over. Was he bothering you? Very much so. No, just a little drunk and having some fun.

No harm. But thank you for asking. A flame of rage flickered to life inside of me at her answer. He touched her like that, and she called it fun. It was repulsive. But she had tolerated his advances. She'd even liked it. Do you want to buy something?

My nails dug into the flesh of my palm. I already bought your CD the other day. She tilted her head at me. Brian? The rage died suddenly, quenched by the sound of my name in her voice. Yeah. Oh, wow. She reached over the table and touched my arm with her cold fingers.

It sent a shiver across my skin. How are you? What are you doing so far from home? I was just traveling for work. I thought I would come see you again. That's so cool. She seemed uncomfortable. She fidgeted and rubbed her arm with the palm of her hand. The motion drew my eyes down to the angry red marks in the crook of her elbow.

With a swift motion, she crossed her arms. over her chest, cutting herself off. I'm sorry. I was just looking at your bandana. It's different. It was true. The yellow bandana bracelet had been exchanged for a purple one. Yeah, I like to change at every show. Kind of a tradition. She turned suddenly. Can you watch the table, Miri? I need a smoke. Mary's face fell in a way that I understood now.

Whatever, Addy. Do what you gotta do. Adelaide slid around the table and passed me, twisting her hair up into a bun as she went. Nice to see you again, Brian. She didn't look at me as she said it. Miry gave me a doleful stare. You might as well go enjoy the rest of the show.

She's not coming back tonight. She tapped the soft flesh inside her elbow. She's sick. My stomach roiled. I pictured a needle in Adelaide's arm. I imagined those red punctures in her perfect skin, ulcerating with the filth of someone else's blood. All the damage it could do, how stupid it was.

My hands were shaking. Mary's voice filtered in through my rage. We'll be in Tulsa tomorrow. It's only four hours away. Maybe work will take you there too. Her tone told me she knew I had lied. I didn't care. I slept in my car that night.

I dreamed that Adelaide was with me. I dreamed that I could reach inside of her and take out all of the pieces that made her sick, that made her weak. I could find that perfect piece of her that had taken root in my mind and bring it up to the light. I could make her better. The killer stood outside of the car looking in at us. I couldn't see his face. His voice was both strange and familiar. I answered him in the dream.

This isn't about her. This isn't about her. This is by you. He laughed. More pictures were up on the website the next day. Another man choked in the dust. I didn't even have to look at the location that Schechter had posted to know he had been at the show. I had seen him, I was sure of it, just like I had seen the killer.

I followed her to Tulsa, then Wichita, then Kansas City. The killer followed two. Three cities and three more men. I slept in my car, cleaned up in bathrooms as best I could. At some point my boss called and told me I was fired. I told her she could go fuck herself. The thrill I had once gotten from looking at the photos of the dead began to fade. It was no longer enough, but the curiosity persisted.

I needed to find him. I needed him to tell me everything. Why kill so many? What did it feel like? I had to know. It was growing harder and harder to control my frustration. Every night I dreamt of the killer and of Adelaide. The next show was different.

A storm threatened outside. The soft rumble of thunder growing in the distance. Adelaide grabbed the microphone. The crowd cheered as they always had. She winked at me and pointed out there. The storm broke. An echoing crack of thunder shook the room. Adelaide laughed as though she had planned it.

We are bitter waters. The thunder rolled with their music. The slamming staccato of the rain on the roof was another drum added to the percussion. The sheen of sweat that glistened on her arms and over her tattoo was like the promise of peace that would come after the storm. It was rapturous. Later at the merchandise table, she couldn't stop smiling. I told her the performance had been amazing. God, it felt so good.

Like sex, but better. Fuck, I need a cigarette. The electricity on the show. my skin faded into disgust. I knew what she meant. But then... Come outside with me, Brian. I want to talk to you. She took me by the shoulder and led me out the back. The rain had slowed, softened to a gentle noise. Much to my surprise, she did just what she said she was. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket and lit one. She inhaled deeply and sighed the smoke out into the night.

Why have you been following me? The question caught me off guard. The first thought the key. came into my head, this isn't about you. But I couldn't tell her the truth. I... I don't know. Do you think you love me? I thought of the dreams.

Of how her music pounded through me like blood. Of how I wanted her in ways too horrific to describe. Was it love? It didn't feel like any love I had ever known. It felt like something else. Something I couldn't name. I wondered suddenly if the killer felt this way about her too. I had thought that he was following Crimson Shrine, but what if he was following Adelaide?

What if he was following her, just like I was? Ryan? No, I don't think so. That's good. That's all I wanted to know. Why? She took another drag on the cigarette, shrug, but didn't answer. Adelaide has... Has someone else been following you?

No. Something in her voice told me otherwise. Who is he? There's no one following me. My heart was racing, but the words came slow. Who the fuck is he? I don't want to talk about it. Her answer was sudden, sharp, but it wasn't angry.

She sounded afraid. She knew. She knew what was going on around her. Perhaps even what was going on because of her. She had seen him. She had to have seen him. and she had done nothing about only the patter of rain interrupted

the long stretch of silence between us she threw her cigarette out on the wet asphalt it hissed another one came out of the pack she lit it and then held it out to me an apology I let it hang for a moment then took it the first draw burned my lungs

I coughed and passed it back as she laughed I was forgiven perhaps she thought she was too not a smoker huh Not really My eyes stung I couldn't clear the feeling from my throat

Got any vices at all The images of dead men Flicked through my mind No Shame It's good to have a few vices Sometimes one vice can't even cover another

My eyes traced from the cigarette in her long fingers Passed the green bandana on her wrist Down to the track marks in her arm I suddenly wanted to hit her, to grab her by the hair and smash her face into the brick wall behind her. I wanted to see the blood gush from her broken nose. She was so weak, so stupid, and so fucking wrong. But I still bought a pack of cigarettes that night. One show led into the next and the next.

Men groped Adelaide and she brought them drinks for it. She continued to flirt and laugh even as she felt the death all around her. She wouldn't tell me his name. it didn't matter to her all that mattered was the attention no matter what price was paid more dead men one in Cincinnati

another in Columbus more photos on the website more blank eyes and naked skin they enraged me I needed something I needed to know I dreamt of ropes and duct tape I dreamt of Adelaide the killer watched me through the windows of my car

the haze of stale smoke clinging to the glass. You're doing it wrong! I screamed. He only laughed. I punched Benjamin Gray in Washington, D.C., though I didn't know his name until later. I didn't know then that he had been chosen. Bitter Waters was taking the stage.

I didn't feel what I used to feel. Where once the music had filled me, it now only echoed in all the hollow places inside of me, reminding me that there was something twisting in my guts that I did not know how to satisfy. Her voice was no longer the voice of God. But I couldn't stop. Her music wove around the dead men, wove around the longing and the dreams and the tangled discordance.

I had to find him. Benjamin stood next to me drinking piss yellow beer out of a plastic cup. He called up to Adelaide. Hey, baby, you the singer? She was tuning her guitar and only half listening, but she still smiled for him. He grabbed himself through his pants. I think I got a better use for that mouth than sing. I swung before she could say a word.

She would have hoared herself out for him. She would bat her lashes and buy him a drink and laugh that infuriating laugh of hers. And I couldn't stand it one more goddamn time. She was supposed to be better, supposed to be stronger, but instead, She was just like every other slut I had ever met, and I wasn't going to let it play out in front of my face again. Security pulled us away before we could start a riot in the crowd. No, man, I didn't want to start any shit.

I just wanted to watch the show. Outside it was dry and warm. Benjamin's eye was beginning to swell. Adelaide spoke to the security guard. Please don't call the cops. It was just an overreaction. This guy didn't do anything wrong. She put her hand on Benjamin's forearm.

Her bandana was white. I lit a cigarette. The sudden temptation to grind it out on the exposed wing of victory on her chest was strong. I already knew there would be no words of defense for me. I settled for flicking the butt at her feet. She followed its path with her eyes and then looked up at me. We shared a vice now, but nothing else. Security didn't call the police.

They let Benjamin back in. I felt Adelaide's eyes on my back. as I walked away. The next night was the end. The crowd pressed against me, an undulating sticky mass, and lit my every nerve on fire. My knees threatened to buckle beneath me. I had dreamed of Adelaide again the night before. In the logic of the dream I could see inside her. She was full of everything that I hated, the secrets, the fear of the drugs. It was a swirling mass of grave filth. Before, there had been a light inside beneath the agoness, but now it was gone. Where is it? I asked her.

I plunged my hands into the grayness, trying to expose the light. She laughed at me. I turned and the killer was there watching us. He was closer than he had ever been. I could see his white eyes through the window. His breath fogged the glass. He forced his fingers through the gap at the top of the window. They were long and modeled.

too many joints, the flesh too soft. It was slipping, like the skin of the man with the long black hair had slipped after days in the mud. This isn't about me, I told him. He laughed, and Adelaide laughed, and the rage I felt was so great that I thought I would fly apart. I struck the glass, trying to crush his fingers, but they grabbed me instead. They were cold against the back of my hand. I opened my eyes and I was in the crowd again. the memory of the dream fading. Adelaide was on stage staring at me. There was no smile there, no laughter.

She turned to her bandmates. I heard her over the din. And then she climbed down off the stage and into the crowd. Some people tried to reach out to her, to hold on to her, but she pushed past them with elbows and closed fists. She grabbed my arm. Come on. I didn't resist as she dragged me behind her through the throne.

She pulled me out a side bill. into the parking lot. Suddenly we were alone. The shouting of the crowd, now only an echo muted by the sound of wind in distant traffic. What the fuck are you doing here? It was not rage in her voice or fear. It was something else. Something cold. I wanted to see you play. Fuck you. Do you have any idea how close you came to ruining everything last night? The fire in my chest made my hands shake. I wasn't about to let him talk to you like that. Why do you even care? Because I do love you.

The words came out hollow, but surely that had to be it. It had to be that I loved her. What else could make me want her so much? What else could be making me hate her so much? You can't love me. I have no idea who I am. Just because you follow me around, watch me on stage. You would have bought him.

him a drink. What? The guy, last night, you would have bought him a drink and acted like a slut to reward him for waving his dick at you, while I... I couldn't find the words to finish. Adelaide laughed once,

devoid of humor. She stepped closer to me. Then why don't you just go inside and tell the bar you're having a drink on me? If that's all you fucking wanted, if that's what all this has been about... I hit her. She landed hard on the ground.

That is not what this is about. I tried to keep my voice calm, but I was shaking so hard I could barely catch my breath. Adelaide's lip was split, dribbling blood down her chin. This is about the killer. You're a fucking psycho. I grabbed a fistful of her hair. It was softer than I had dreamed. I halt her upright with it as she clutched my arm.

I hit her again and didn't let her fall. Who is he, Adelaide? What the fuck you're talking about? I yanked her head back so I could see the look in her eye. The skin over her cheekbone had parted under the force of the last blow. Her blood ran across my knuckles. It felt good. I need to find him.

I need to ask him what it feels like. A thought formed in my mind, dark and slithering. It had made the desire in my chest twist and flare with anticipation. The answers I had been looking for were, right at my fingertips. I could just kill you here. And find out for myself. There was no one else in the parking lot.

There was no one to stop me. But Adelaide only smiled at me. Her bared teeth slick with blood. You don't have the fucking guts. I dropped her. The motion was sudden. She didn't have the strength to keep on her feet. I stepped around her and back toward the door.

Behind me, I heard her spit onto the conquer. I imagined her wiping her mouth with a bandana on her wrist. I didn't remember what color it had been. It didn't matter. It was red now. The low noise she made faded into the wind. It sounded like laughter. No one stopped me as I re-entered the venue.

Bitter Waters was not playing. I got the drink Adelaide had promised me. Then another and another. When I went back out to the parking lot, she was gone. I drove home that night, stopping at a liquor store before it closed. The whiskey bottle was almost half empty by the time I stumbled into my apartment. The place smelled stale. How many days had I been gone?

I paced and I drank. There was a restless buzzing inside of me. My hands shook with it. I couldn't get the thoughts straight in my head. They raced in spirals one over another, over another in a dizzying whirl. How did it feel? How good did it feel? There was still blood across my knuckles.

I ran a finger over the dry brown spatters, and they flaked under my touch. My head spun. It wasn't about me. It wasn't about her. I was suddenly in my bed. Adelaide was with me. She was crying. Her hands bound to the bedposts with links of duct tape.

I knelt over her. The killer was a shadow. His white eyes glowed in the darkness. Nothing separated us now. There was a knife in my hand. I did. I plunged the knife in through her tattoo. Her sternum gave away under the force.

And the air left her in a silent shriek. Blood flowed out over my hand. I pulled back. My grip slipping on the wooden handle and stabbed again. And again, I wanted to plunge my hands inside and find the profound. No more dream logic, only the reality of the hot, slick blood coating my arms. I slashed at her shoulders and at her throat. I could turn her into the victory.

Make her everything she was supposed to be. Make her mine. I couldn't answer. Nothing had ever felt so good. Not to anyone. Beneath me, Adelaide gurgled, blood running from her mouth. It's like sex. But better.

She bared her blood-slick teeth in a smile. The last breath escaped her, and I took it. My mouth clamped over hers. The last bit of everything that she was. When we parted, she was still. I sat back and breathed. The piece was instant and deep. Her blood was cooling on my skin like warm rain in the summer.

The taste sweet on my lips. The killer was gone. replaced by silence. There was only me and the perfect thing in my bed that had been Adelaide. And then someone was knocking on my door. My head swam with the whiskey and the liquid memory of crimson. Sunlight speared through the windows in my room blinding me. I sat in the room spun.

My fingers reached out across the bed for purchase. My mind following them with thoughts of tacky blood and cold flesh. But there was only cloth. It had only been a dream. I stood unsettly. My head pounded in time with the knocking. I stumbled forward and opened the door. What the fuck do you want?

Two men stood in the doorway, gleaming badges on their belts. Ryan Mills? Yes. Police. My brain made the connection as I gave my answer. One of them was somehow behind me then, grabbing my arms, pushing me against the wall. You're under arrest for the murder of Benjamin Graham. The handcuffs clicked into place.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. I twisted and vomited down the leg of his nice, clean suit. You smoke, Brian? The interrogation room was lit with fluorescence. I kept my eyes down, a headache hammering behind them. Sometimes. I even smoke in here if you'd like.

The taste in my mouth was sour. the sweetness of the dream long since faded. No, thanks. Do you hate Benjamin Gray? I raised my eyes. The detective was clad in sweats now, a manila folder in his grasp. I don't know who that is.

At the time it was true. I didn't. Maybe this will jog your memory. He slid a photograph across the table to me. It was a naked man, bound with duct tape. His mouth gaping open for one last desperate taste of air. His eye was swollen shut. I pushed the photograph away.

It was like all the others, except the others didn't have the mark of my fist in their flesh. So if you didn't hate him, why'd you punch him? Because I was angry. I kept my voice calm. This was all a mistake. The detective lifted the photograph again, gazed at it with an appraising eye. Very angry, I'd say. I didn't do that to him.

I didn't mention the other men. Didn't mention the killer. Okay. He shrugged, sliding the page back into his manila folder. You ever get angry at anyone else? I didn't answer. You ever get angry at Adelaide? My hands were cuffed at the table.

Her blood was still smeared across my knuckles. A welt was rising where her teeth had broken the skin. I don't know. But you do know that you hit her, don't you? Yes. So maybe you weren't mad. Maybe you hit her because you were afraid. I looked up and met his eyes.

They were like hers. Smug. Superior. Laughing at some joke she thought I was too stupid to understand. The calm was slipping from me. Afraid of what, exactly? She would tell someone what you had done. I didn't do anything.

Do you think she's stupid? I answered before I could stop myself. Yes. So maybe you didn't think she would notice. Maybe you didn't think we would notice. The calm broke. Notice what? Men have died only at shows.

You've. His words were punctuated by the slap of photos on the table. Eleven dead men. Long hair and short, fat and thin, cord burns and duct tape, pale skin, and the Virgin Mary. I grabbed it. that photograph, flung it back at him. I wasn't at the show with him. I started going after he was killed.

And why is that? I saw his tattoo. It's album art for Crimson Shrine, the band that Adelaide is touring with. This guy was murdered near one of the shows, and so it was the first one. I just wanted to find out who did it. The detective raised an eyebrow with me.

I had said something he hadn't expected to hear. So you were at all these shows? shows because you were looking for whoever had killed these men? Yes. And you knew to go to these shows because of this man's tattoo? Yes. He nodded looking down to the picture again. He sighed through his teeth.

Just clarify this last bit for me. How did you know where the last two victims were killed? And how did you manage to see this tattoo on David Stills' back at a concert where he was fully clothed and which you supposedly did not attend. He thought he had me. I was too stupid to realize he was right. There's this website. He cut me off with an absent-minded wave.

You know what? We'll clear up the details on that in just a bit. You ever smoke in your car, Brian? I... What? Yeah? Sometimes? You ever get that thing where you chucked the butt out the window

and then it just blows back in? No, but what does that have to do with... I actually think you have. He paused, maybe waiting for me to say something. But I had nothing to say. I didn't even know what was happening. We found a cigarette butt in the backseat of Benjamin Gray's car, heeded the smoke.

Could be, it's just from somebody of his, but I don't think so. I think whoever drove Benjamin's car back to town after they bashed his head in and choked him with death. out of smoke, and threw the butt out the window and just didn't realize that it blew right back. He smiled wide and empty. His smug eyes locked on mine. Do you think the DNA on that cigarette is going to match what you spewed on my clothes this morning? I don't suppose I need to tell you that it did. And I don't suppose they need to tell you that they never found the website. What they did find, however, was the paracord bracelet. It was in the glove of my car, nestled in a bed of

unpaid parking tickets and fast food napkins. It had been wound and unwound many times, each time adding a few more hairs, a few more traces of skin, 11 DNA samples from 11 murder victims, a perfect and portable trophy. They never found the murder weapon at any of the scenes, and now they knew why. They didn't need me to provide an explanation for it, just as well since I didn't have one, at least not one they would have believed. I was framed as hardly an original defense. But I knew it was only a matter of time.

I knew that another body would drop. Another washed-up metalhead shit would turn up with this pathetic life choked out, and then they would have to let me go free. It had to happen. Serial killers don't just stop. They die, or they get caught, or they go dormant for a time, but they never truly stop.

They can't. Days, and then weeks. And then months passed. No more bodies. No more men disappearing from shows. It had stopped. And the only logical conclusion for a jury was that it stopped because I had been caught.

Because it was me. And the rest is not really history. The rest is merely waiting. Bitter Waters is on their farewell tour now. Gary tells me. Band's calling it quits. No hard feelings, though, according to the table. boys six years in the big leagues and they're all rich enough to retire think we know who they ought to be

thanking for that he winked at me he didn't see the way my nails bit into my palm echoes of a knife in a long past dream gary likes to talk to me about adelaide he always has i think it makes him feel close to me like he's doing me a favor giving me isolated tastes of the woman i'd been so obsessed with bringing me small moments of peace and happiness. I let him believe this. A month after my conviction, he told me she had checked herself into rehab. She had attempted suicide just before. Her broad-shouldered drummer kicking down the hotel bathroom door before she could shoot

a massive dose of heroin into her vein. Newspapers called her my would-be twelfth victim. They published portions of the notes she had planned to leave behind. It's my fault those men died. He killed them because of me. me, why did he have to choose me? Why did I choose her? That question seems important, more so now than ever, but I still can't find an answer. Six years on now and she hasn't attempted again. She's still clean. Knowing what I know now, it's not particularly surprising. I don't

expect it's very difficult to kick a drug habit you never had in the first place. I still remember what she said to me. Sometimes, one vice can even cover another. I got her a gift today. Gary passed it to me with a pack of cigarettes, a black bandana intricately tied into a bracelet. It was just like the kind she used to wear, but it was too heavy, too rigid to be clothed. There was something inside. I should have known before today, but I didn't. I was stupid. I spent too much time thinking only of blood. I spent six years fantasizing about a dream and never seeing reality, never seeing the dead men right next to her, never seeing the arc of my cigarette before it landed at her feet. I unwrapped the bandana. There was a paracourt bracelet inside. It had always been about me,

and it had always been about her. Serial killers just can't stop, but some of them try. And it's always easier if someone else takes the blame. I was chosen because I was just like the rest of them. I was chosen because I chose her. And yet, I was different too. She saw something in me, something alien and sick, something like what's in her. That's why I didn't die on a roadside six years ago and why I'll never get out of the cell alive. But it doesn't matter now. I waited, even after the sentencing, even after all these years, because at least I knew that serial killers can't just stop. There always has to be another death, another body.

And despite all the special treatment, I was still chosen. So I'll give you your fucking body, Adelaide, the real victim number 12. There are crossbars high enough on the cell that I can do what you want. Better this way than to let them stop. stick a needle in my arm. Someday you'll slip up. Someday they'll catch you.

And when they do, I hope they fucking kill you. God, be at your table. 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. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of creative reason media,

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