The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E18

Episode Date: June 14, 2020

It’s Episode 18 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about the dark things in and around us. “Injecting Religion” written by Jesse Rose (Story starts around 00:05:20) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Dan Zappulla, Lauren – Erin Lillis, Azazel – Andy Cresswell “Other Lily” written by Jennifer Winters (Story starts around 00:26:30) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Lily – Erin Lillis, Jack McDaniels – Graham Rowat, Neil’s Teacher – Addison Peacock, C Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

There are many things in this world to be scared of. The librarian when you yell in the library. Having a piano fall on you as you walk down the street. Accidentally buying a cursed artifact from that mysterious curiosity shop. And what else? Oh, I have a list here. I carry it around with me at all times. As the host of the No Slee podcast,

I've been able to put together a definitive list of things I should be scared of thanks to careful research. So here's a few more examples. Skeletons rising from their graves, pillows filled with spiders, anything filled with spiders, aliens intent on mind control, sinister alternate realities, really tall dogs, hungry cannibals, Olivia and Jessica conspiring together to usurp me, Will of the Whips,

but you know what isn't on my list of things to be scared of? Being unable to perform during sex. And do you know why that's not on my list? Well, let me enlighten you, listeners. It's because of Roman. Our friends at Roman have spent years building a digital platform that can connect you with a doctor licensed in your state, all from the comfort of home.

Roman makes it convenient to get the treatment you need right from home. Just grab your phone or computer, complete a free online visit, and you'll hear back from a U.S. licensed physician within 24 hours. And if the doctor decides that treatment is right for you, your medication can be shipped right to your phone, door with free two-day shipping. You also get free unlimited follow-ups with your doctor anytime you have questions or want to adjust your treatment plan. With Roman, there are no commitments and you can

cancel any time. A friend of the show used Roman and he said it's never been simpler, easier or less nerve-wracking. Even if you find it hard to approach medical professionals with problems like this, Roman puts you completely at ease due to how their platform works. So if you're struggling with ED, stay home and go to get roman.com slash no sleep for a free online visit and free two-day shipping. So don't be afraid of erectile dysfunction. Don't be afraid of your performance in the bedroom. When you're getting intimate with your partner, the only thing scaring you should be, um, let me check my list. Ah, yes, the ravenous monster under the bed who feeds on lusty couples. That's all you need to worry about. But trust me, seriously, worry about that. Because it is

under there. Anyway, remember, that's get roman.com slash no sleep for a free online visit and free two-day shipping. In our world, there is magic in the darkness. Sorcery and incantations

which bring us closer to the essence of the night. Come enter our black magic shop where we will conjure up tales to frighten and disturb. This journey will be spellbinding. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome visitors to the No Sleep Magic Shop.

I'm your proprietor, David Cummings. This week we conjure spells for you about the dark things in and around us. This episode is being released on the weekend of June 13th, 2020. That just happens to be the ninth anniversary of the No Sleep Podcast. How about that? Nine years of sleepless tales.

During this tumultuous year, it feels somewhat difficult to get into the party's spirit. But nonetheless, I am most grateful to everyone who has made these past nine years so diabolically sleepless. To our wonderful team of contributors, and of course to you, our dear listeners, let's plan a big 10th anniversary party somewhere next year. And be sure to go to our YouTube channel where you can see the ninth anniversary video we made with almost everyone on the no sleep team,

gathering to celebrate and share our best memories and fun times together. That's at YouTube.com slash the no sleep podcast official. So thanks for nine great years. Let's head into year 10 and brace ourselves for many more sleepless nights to come. Now, close your eyes and embrace the magic. In our first tale, we meet a scientist traversing unexpected waters, that is, religion. This scientist has developed quite a unique concept, you see. He's worked out how to insert holy texts into people's bodies as DNA.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Jesse Rose, It's soon clear that demand for this service is high and business is booming. Performing this tale are Dan Zippula, Aaron Lillis, and Andy Cresswell. So be careful what you offer when you have such a potentially diverse clientele. You never know what some people might ask for when you're injecting religion. All living creatures have DNA. The biological language is the foundation for who, we are and what makes you, you. In contrast, non-living things do not inherently contain the same

coding that we are given. It is possible, though, to utilize digital information as a foundation of genetic architecture for the purposes of storage. Ongoing studies since 2012 suggest that the future of text storage will be entirely organic. Using this information in 2017, I embarked on a unique business that encoded the ancient dogma of religious text into macromolecules, and I offered this product to devout customers.

I began injecting religion, literally. Using a saline solution, I would transcribe digital letters of the Hebrew alphabet into a nucleotide of a corresponding DNA codon table. I then assembled everything together with amino acids and proteins to create an injectable substance, converted religious text into DNA. The process sounds much more complex than it actually is.

Doing this was incredibly cost-effective and allowed for monetary viability with the aid of vector builder. This formula was my product that I offered to anyone who held the desire to absorb and fuse themselves with the word of God. Any God, really. Jesus, Allah, the flying fucking spaghetti monster, I didn't care. The subcutaneous injection had no real effect on human physiology, except an occasional rash from an allergic rube.

reaction that would subside after a couple of days. The only real effect was a placebo. The product was meaningless. Human disparity can easily be exploited, and I sought to profit from that disparity. I offered something no one else in the world was offering. An opportunity to become physically divine. Word of my services spread rather quickly, and business was booming. The local churches, temples, synagogues, and mosques

ate my product up like candy. Fusing science and religion together, people were convinced my product was recoding their genetic makeup to ensure pathway into heaven. I would charge a price for each injection. $100 for up to five passages. $750 for an entire book. and at a discount, $5,000 for the Bible or Quran in its entirety,

administered weekly over a one-month period. Easy money. With orders piling in, I eventually opened a storefront office with a lab to store the materials needed, and a dedicated injection room with comfortable leather couches. I soon became so overwhelmed that I had to hire an assistant, Lauren, to help organize my appointments. She was fascinated by the business I set up, even though she knew there was no real outcome from the DNA I created.

As a religious scholar still pursuing her degree, she loved the concept. The job was perfect for her. I was enjoying a lucrative business model and living comfortably for the first time in my life. All the work and effort I put into everything gave me a tremendous sense of accomplishment. Today, the office is closed.

All because of a man who called himself Azazel. He set up an appointment at our headquarters in the summer of 2018. Before I injected anyone, I always met with them to discuss the injection and answer any lingering questions they may have had. This meeting was more of a sales pitch, really. an opportunity to eliminate doubts and push the product more. Izazil entered my office one afternoon, arriving 60 minutes early for his scheduled appointment.

I immediately felt intimidated by him. He was quite tall, at least 6'5 by my estimate, and incredibly thin, practically skin and bones. Combine his weight with the droopy bags under his eyes, and it was obvious that he was extremely malnourished. I'm here for my appointment. He approached the front desk, towering over it in the process, and casting a dark shadow on Lauren.

I heard his voice from my desk in the adjacent room and wheeled my chair over to observe the man. He spoke with the deep British accent, which was rather peculiar in the Midwest United States. We don't get too many foreigners here. I always considered British accents to be quite vibrant and eloquent, but this man's voice was actually flat and depressing, like a dismal wail calling its lost calf.

He cocked his head to the side and looked as though he were trying to crack his neck, but no pops ever came of it. As he twisted his head, our eyes met. instinctively I ducked back into my office Lauren greeted him and checked our appointment logs May I have your name sir Azazel Oh yes I have you down for three o'clock this afternoon

You're a bit early but I think we can squeeze you in ahead of schedule Lauren began typing at her computer to adjust the itinerary Would you be able to provide me with your last name? No Excuse me? I want to speak to him. I peeked back out from my office and saw Azazel pointing a finger in my direction while keeping his head locked on Lauren. I could tell she was frightened by this man.

I'll take care of this, Lauren. I stepped out from my hiding space and approached the front desk with a forced smile on my face. How can I help you, sir? He turned towards me, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out an envelope. This is for you. I took the thick envelope from his hands and pried open the flap to examine the contents. Inside was a wad of cash. Fifty thousand. That's a down payment.

I looked back at him with astonishment. A down payment for what? He raised his arm and held out a USB flash drive. I need you to inject me with this. No questions. I took the flash drive from his hand and studied it. The device was a normal looking drive without anything out of the ordinary immediately apparent. What's on it?

I said no questions. You can translate digital text into DNA, yes? Well, yes. So translate what's on there. There's another 50,000 in it for you once you're done. Who the hell was this guy? He refused to properly identify himself, avoided questions, and somehow had money to throw around like confetti.

Committing verbally only, I assured Azazel that I would get to work on the translation and instructed him to return in three days. My verbal confirmation was initially one of deceit, though. I had no intention of following through with this order until I inspected the contents of the flash drive. If it consisted of anything illegal, I fully intended on reporting this to authorities.

When he left, I returned to my desk and immediately connected the flash drive to my laptop. A folder opened containing only one PDF file. That was it. I somewhat expected images of grotesque murder scenes or violent pornography, but it was only one measly file. I double-clicked the PDF and was greeted with a barrage of Latin letters, all aligned in a 36-by-36 grid.

The next page of the document contained another grid, as did the next page and the next. Of the 42 pages, 36 pages, 36 pages contained various 36 by 36 grids. The last six pages contained a series of what appeared to be charts and prayers written in Latin. There were about four pages containing variations of this chant. Upon entering the first chant online, I was given this translation. Oh, Most High Lord, my God, Father, Holy King.

Through your most high name Agla, may you constrain and compel and turn around my heart and mine through these in my love, and may it form my will in all things and through all things. All the chants were similar, but each one was directed to a different deity. Agla, Primogenetus, Redemptor, Eli, Ely, Eostrum, genitor, Bon, Messias, Pantone, Hoss. I had never heard of any of these gods before, and searching their names online didn't provide any useful results. Lauren poked her head into my office, appearing with trepidation molding her face. What is it? I don't know, to be honest. Are you going to translate it for him?

I don't see why not. The entire process is meaningless anyway. Aren't you concerned? About what? This is just a bunch of prayers to strange gods. Well, why is he offering to pay so much money for it? Why doesn't he want you asking questions? Don't know, don't care.

Just another indoctrinated fool throwing his money away. Let me see the text. perhaps I'll recognize it. She pulled up a chair and studied the text with me, mouthing the chance to herself in a low mumble. Alderaya Sivei Soiga Vokor. This is Alderaya Siva Soigga Vokor. You recognize it?

Soiga, the book that kills. Never heard of that religion before. It's Christian, actually. What? No way. It said that angels revealed this. book to Adam in the Garden of Eden. What he's given you is only a portion of it, though. The entire book is a little less than 300 pages long. And this section of it, this series of grids,

has never been deciphered. Some of the top mathematicians and cryptologists in the world have taken a crack at it, but no one has been fully successful. Why do they call it the book that kills? Lauren looked away from the computer finally and directly into my eyes. It's believed that death would fall upon anyone who was capable of deciphering the message hidden in the grids within two and a half years. The codon table I used previously needed to be adapted for each grid, but I was able to complete the translation into macromolecules after two days. During the work, I conducted further research on the book of Soiga online. Each grid corresponded with the zodiac constellation, a planet in our solar system, and the four natural elements.

In its entirety, the book was dedicated to performing magic, including instructions and rituals on summoning demons and controlling the universe. The context was somewhat alarming, especially considering the person who provided me with this information, Azazel. It was a complete mystery to me. me what his motives were. Ultimately, I knew the DNA I created was harmless. Whatever he believed from this text was irrelevant. Azazel was a paying customer.

Rather than being frightened of him, I found myself pitying him. Just another person wasting his life chasing false perfection because he'd been told that he's not good enough, not worthy. Reality is somehow beyond calculation for, the blindness of the devout. Asazil entered my office three days after our first encounter. Lauren and I cleared both of our schedules for the day, anticipating his arrival. When he walked through the front door, I immediately noticed that he appeared even more malnourished than the first time he visited us, like his body was withering away.

Is it ready? I put on my best professional smile. Yes, Mr. Azazel. Please follow me to the injection room. He took a step forward and his legs buckled underneath his weight. In order to prevent falling,

he reached out and placed his hand on the wall to steady himself. Are you all right? No questions. I gave him an assuring nod and led him into our injection room where he plopped himself onto the leather sofa. Once his body hit the cushion, he let out an exasperated breath of air.

I stood over him with the syringe in hand. Where would you like the injection? Anywhere. I rolled up the sleeve of his sweater, revealing a pale arm. Bright veins protruded from underneath his translucent skin and throbbed lightly. I glanced at Lauren and found her filled with concern, staring back at me and Mouthing the word, no. I shook her off. Relax, says Azel. You're going to feel a slight pinch. The needle pierced his skin, and I injected the DNA into him. He laid on the couch staring at the

ceiling as the fluid entered his bloodstream. Despite my skepticism, a small part of me thought that maybe something significant would happen, that the DNA would have some miraculous impact and cure him of whatever ailment he had. But there was nothing. He held his hands in front of his face and cried. Rise saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

We watched him sob, exacerbating the pity I had already felt for him. His arms collapsed onto his chest as he inhaled deeply. He then reached into his sweatshirt and pulled out a piece of paper. Extending it to me with his last breath, I grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse. Yes. Was it the DNA? I shook my head, then took the paper out of his hand and unfolded it, my arms shaking in the process.

On the paper was a handwritten note, I read out loud to Lauren. If you are reading this, the DNA did not save me. Two and a half years ago, I successfully translated the book of Zyga. And before I perished, I bestowed the task of molding my DNA with its words. As a last ditch attempt to save my life, I am sorry for attempting to save my own life at the expense of yours. I don't understand. What does he mean by at the extent? expense of yours.

It took me a moment, but when I finally understood what he meant, I felt my own heart stopped beating, and a nervous sweat immediately form on my forehead. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, oh, God. In the process of transcribing the book of Zoyga with the codon table and creating the DNA, I had translated its content into another language. Like a Zazel, whose withered body lay before me on the couch, I had successfully deciphered the grids and their message. Have you looked at your wireless bill lately?

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Cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at mintmobile.com slash no sleep. As a parent, it's hard to convince your young child that their nightmare aren't real. It's even harder when their nightmare is about you. We join a mother facing exactly this dilemma. And in this tale, shared with us by author Jennifer Winters, it's going to take some special trickery to convince the young boy that things are okay. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis, Graham Rowett, Addison Peacock, Jesse Cornett, Erica Sanderson, Nicole Goodnight, Nicole Doolin, And Jessica McAvoy. So try to get to the bottom of these bad dreams.

Do whatever it takes to find out the cause. But in order to do so, you might have to become the other Lily. This is Lily Benjamin. Mrs. Benjamin, I'm sorry to have to do this, but I need you to come and pick up, Neil. Is he sick? No. He must have had a nightmare. He woke up from his nap screaming.

I can't seem to calm him down. Do I really need to come? Normally I wouldn't mind, but we're having a meeting, and then we need to start inventory and get set up for the used book section. I really do think you need to come get him. He's crying himself sick. Fine. Tell you what, my husband's niece should be at a class by now.

I'll have her come pick Neil up. Mrs. Benjamin, I really think it may be better for you to come. Whenever we ask Neil why he's crying, he keeps saying something took his mama. His mama is gone. And so the well-known tug-of-war between mom and businesswoman continued. I'm the owner of a small bookstore

in the historic center of Rhodes, Mississippi. Never heard of it? You're not alone. It's a scenic little bump on the road between Memphis and Tupelo. Smack shit in the middle between where Elvis was born and where he died. The town motto is All Roads,

lead to roads. A total lie. We're about 15 minutes off the highway down narrow, winding byroads. Despite the rural location, we are a thriving little town. Surprising, considering that other than some tourism revenue generated by a civil war enthusiast, we really don't have much industry. Nevertheless, our downtown is a picture-perfect historic gem, and I'm right in the middle of it with my sweet little store.

On this particular day, my small staff and I were meeting to discuss not only their inventory, but also the possibility of selling used and rare books and stalking the kind of chotchkes the main street tourist bought. Feeling guilty for not feeling guilty enough, I reached my niece Christy on her cell. She was already heading home from the college she attended, and she agreed to go and pick up her little cousin and wait with him until I could get home. Problem solved, I thought, though not without a brief, niggling voice in my head scolding me for not seeing about my boy myself. After a couple hours of talk and work, I headed home. Christy was snuggled up on the couch with a sleeping Neil when I arrived.

Neil had just turned five and would be starting kindergarten the next fall. As he slept, his breath would hitch in his chest every few seconds. Christy held them firmly in her arms. Her face pale and eyes worried as she'd turned them up to meet my own. Lampily, he was so scared. He said that someone had taken you. He cried until he threw up and then he didn't stop crying until he went to sleep. I sank down onto the couch next to them.

A lead weighed in my chest as I stroked my baby's hair. Poor little guy. That must have been one bear of a bad dream. We gingerly shifted my sleeping son from Christy's arms to mine, and she tiptoe sprinted to the bathroom. As I held kneel close, a whisper of a dream from the night before slipped into the edge of my mind. A face over my face. A flowing crown of red hair. A pushing and pulling.

A desperate need to hold on and push. I need to go on home. I have some studying to do. Okay, love, can you hand me the remote? I sat on the couch with Neil, channel surfing with my free hand until Chuck came in the door. He knelt in front of the sofa and I quickly related what had happened. I spoke in a normal tone instead of a whisper thinking that Neil should wake up now or he'd be up all night. Chuck reached over and patted Neil on the cheek. Hey, little buddy boy.

You ready to wake up and play with Daddy? Hey, Daddy. Hey, Snuggle Bunny. Can Mama have a kiss? No! No! Daddy, where's Mommy? Ew, baby. What's wrong? Mommy's right here? Baby, you just had a bad dream. I'm here. Where's my mommy? Bring her back. You're not her. We tried for over an hour to calm our little man down.

He cried so much that he vomited again. About an hour later, he finally exhausted himself and fell asleep on Ma and Chuck's bed with Chuck beside him. I slipped into the room and sat down next to my husband. He reached over and took my hand. Lily, you're shaking? I just don't know what's going on. Do you think I should take Neil to the doctor? Maybe.

This isn't right. He was so scared. terrified. I felt tears threatened in a form and I wheeled them down. I've never been a crier. I used to be, but not anymore.

Crying is for children and funerals. Nearly, boy. And it's okay. This is your... Mommy's friend. Mommy is out of town, and I'm here to help out your daddy and take care of you

while she's gone. Chuck looked at me, wide eyes. then closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head. He understood my plan and disapproved. The Keening had stopped. Neil was now looking between his father and me, blinking. His breathing had started to calm. Daddy?

I held my breath, willing Chuck to join me in the lie. Chuck blinked a couple of times, then exhaled and smiled. Yes, buddy. This is Mommy's friend. Her name is Lily, like your mom's. Isn't that silly? Okay. Well, mommy didn't want to go anywhere.

Somebody made her go. Chuck took Neil to the bathroom. I sat on the bed listening to the sounds of peeing, then a flush. My plan sucked, and I knew it. It was a horrible plan, but I was in one of those moments of parental desperation. Well, kids love games. If I could make this very odd, very disturbing crisis into a game for Neil's sake, then so be it. All I knew right then was that something was scaring the shit out of my little one.

Right or wrong, pretending I was Mommy's friend had seemed to make him feel a bit better. I slept in the guest room that night while Neil slept with Chuck in our bed. I had the dream. A face over mine, red hair in a halo above me, grasping and pulling inside my head. I woke up with a heavy feeling of dread. It was the type of dread one feels upon realizing they've greatly underestimated a threat. The dread of a gross misunderstanding.

A bit later as I slipped into the shower, I caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. A mass of red hair. Then I blinked and looked again. No red hair. Just my face with its perpetually pink cheeks and brown eyes, my own brown hair in a pixie cut. Damn it, Neil's game was getting to me.

I felt a wave of anger towards my son, but quickly wiped it away with deliberate maternal contrition. Stress, world, and now guilt. Great. Chuck got Neil to school that morning. Neil no longer seemed afraid of me, but he still didn't think I was his mother. Have a good day at school, Neil. Can you give me a hug? Mommy says that I should never have to hug anyone I don't want to hug. Ah, okay. Well, have a good day then. Goodbye, other Lily.

It's okay. Thanks for taking him to school. My mommy has red hair. My mommy has red hair. Why would Neil say that? Why did hearing it make me feel so angry? I got to the store early, looking around with a feeling of contentment, despite the weirdness with Neil. Chuck's family had money.

I hadn't married him for it, but it didn't hurt either. We had a beautiful house just a couple of. of blocks off of Court Street, a vacation bungalow down on the Gulf, and a cabin up near Gatlinburg. Chuck had given me my shop as a wedding present, although I felt like it was really a ruse to make me stop trying to convince him that we should move out of roads. The shop had never turned a profit, nor even broken even for that matter. It was an elaborate hobby, and Chuck and I both knew it, even though we'd never admit it. As for domestic duties, I had a cleaning lady in plenty of help with Neil. Life was good. My staff had finished the inventory the night before,

so I went to work trying to figure out how to rearrange the shop to accommodate the new section for old books. After a few minutes, one of my employees, Miss Annie, came in. Morning, Lily. How are you? I'm all right, Miss Annie. How are you? Tolerable. Where should I start? Uh, why don't you start moving the travel books over there? I'm trying to figure out where to put the old books, when we get any. We already have some. Look in that box over there on the counter.

She pointed out a box on top of the counter that I hadn't noticed when I walked in. Probably because I was distracted by thoughts of my child and the red-headed stranger who seemed to be working her way into my imagination. I opened the box to find a wonderful little collection of old books. They were mostly worked by Mississippi's favorite literati, Edora Welty, William Faulkner. There was even a first edition of William Wright. Miss Annie, where did these come from?

Somebody left them on the counter yesterday when nobody was in the front of the store. I reckon they're a donation for the used and rare book sections. We only decided for sure to start carrying used and rare books yesterday. How could anyone know to bring these? I mean, they're great, but How, honey, we're in roads. You know how word travels around here.

All morning, I toggled back and forth between work and worry. At lunchtime, I went to visit my Nana, as I did several times a week. Both of my parents were gone, and Nana and I were the last surviving members of my mom's side of the family. She lived in a sprawling antebellum mansion that had been converted into a nursing home. It was a private facility and almost as posh as a resort. It cost a fortune, and I was eternally grateful to Chuck's family for footing the bill. The alternative would have been for Nana to live in the publicly funded nursing home, a depressing place that was, in my opinion, one step up from a hospice.

Nana was asleep when I entered her room. I sat in the overstuffed armchair by the window and propped my feet up on the matching footstool. reaching into my bag, I pulled out a small, worn book that had been in the box of rare books. I had grabbed it on the way out for no particular reason other than wanting something to read in case Nana was sleeping when I arrived, as she so often was. I gingerly opened the book, acutely aware of the brittle pages. My eyes fell on a chaotic, cursive script. so ornate that it bordered on calligraphy.

It was a journal of some kind, written by hand with many of the words misspelled or in the unmistakable vernacular of the old deep south. To make a woman love you, you need a long silk string and the blood of a baby who ain't never had the colic. Ain't no need to kill the baby. What the hell?

If your nose is bleeding, they say to take some scissors, smeared in dirt from in front of a church door and hang them around your neck with the points up. This don't work. Do not do it. If you got hate in your heart, keep it there. Don't forgive nobody. You can go into a church at night when nobody's there and preach your curse from the preacher's pulpit. Invite the devil with blood, good pure blood, and he will come and stay.

He'll help spread your curse from the preacher's pulpit. hating that bear church. Say these words. This wasn't a journal. It was a book of spells and incantations. Nasty ones from the look of it. My heart jumped into an excited gallop. I was still teaching myself about rare books via the internet,

but I knew that something like this could be worth a butload of money should it find the right audience. I flipped a few more pages. I've been fiddling with the ryanthropy to try to make the transformation steadfast for people, but it ain't took yet. Here's what I figured out so far. My heart pounded harder. I grabbed myself out of my bag and typed Theanthropy and transformation into the internet search window.

The results page loaded showing results for Therianthropy transformation. Therianthropy is the mythological ability of human beings to metamorphose into other animals. Huh, a sucky you bus can be talked into selling her life-stealing power. Once a person has the power, they can mold it to... Lily Bell? Hey, Nana. How's my best friend today? Midland.

How's my great-grandson doing? You haven't brought him to see me in a while. I fluffed her pillow, confused. Who was she talking about? Then, Neil's face appeared in my mind. I gasped, realizing that I'd forgotten that I'd had a son for a few seconds. How could I forget him? With my next breath, the dread that I'd felt the day before hatched open in my chest

and dug its claws into my mind. Gray fog filled my line of vision, and I was being thrown, pushed, a mass of red hair, the only color on the gray canvas that blocked Nana from my vision. My shock was replaced by a stronger, deeper feeling. Hate.

I hated whatever was attacking my mind and spirit with everything I had, and I grabbed the red hair in my. mine's hands, twisting and tearing it. Creature seemed stronger this time as we wrestled until abruptly it was over, and I was again standing there next to Nana's bed, out of breath and shaking. What have you done with Lily? Where's my Lily Bell? Nana, I'm here. Here, let me help you. Give her back. In the name of Jesus, give her back.

Nana, calm down. Nana? No, Nana. Nurse, please. Within half an hour and with the help of a mild sedative, Nana was asleep again. I stayed by her side for almost an hour, then slipped out of the room.

The nurses promised to call me when she woke up to let me know if she was okay. Whatever was happening to Neil was happening to my nana. As I climbed into my car, still shaking with trickles of sweat running down my temples, my mind went back to the strange journal in my bag. I reached in and felt around until my fingers felt the rough leather on its cover. As I did, the gray fog began to fill my vision again, the mass of red hair forming in its midst.

I let go of the book as if it were a copperhead and the fog lifted in an instant. I wiped my hand off on the car seat, grabbed my phone, shooting off a group text to my staff. Hey, do any of y'all know who brought the box of old books to the store? Please let me know, ASAP. The answer came before I had even pulled out of the parking lot. Strangely enough, the reply was from a number I didn't recognize. Jack McDaniels donated the books. Oh, great. Just fucking great.

I changed my turn signal from left to right and headed to Jack McDaniel's house. Jack McDaniels lived in an old house, built before the Civil War. It had a wraparound porch and a small freestanding cannon kitchen. The house was made of wood, undoubtedly black locusts, judging from its never needing any maintenance or repair. A prominently placed child-sized coffin decorated the front porch, a tribute to the family livelihood as the owners of the local funeral home. The yard was perfectly manicured with all the rite trees, willows and magnolias. Instead of grass, the ground was covered with wild ginger and clover.

Jack had lived there ever since he returned from a boarding school, presumably somewhere up north. There was no fanfare with his resists. returned despite his and his father's wealth. In fact, the greater population of Rhodes only knew that he was back in town when the proprietor of the local motel slash whorehouse deposited a check made out to her by Jack, with a detailed description of exactly what he was paying for written on the memo line. As soon as Jack returned, his father had retired and taken a travel. People eventually stopped asking Jack about his father, and it was presumed that he had died some of the time. He was died somewhere between here and Patagonia. There was no funeral, ironic, since the McDaniels' own

defined funeral home, but then the McDaniels men had always been peculiar. Both McDaniels, the elder and the younger, were known to dress in shiny, tailored suits, sometimes using a necktie as a belt, or with a threadbare velvet cape slung over the shoulders. And although they were the owners of the McDaniel's funeral home, they rarely even showed up at the place, leaving it to a revolving series of managers and staff. Jack McDaniels was often out of town, but I knew that he was here now because he had gone for lunch at the drug store off of Court Square yesterday, dressed in a fine suit with a necktie that featured an embroidered hypodermic needle. It was the talk of downtown. I knew that I had to see him to solve the puzzle of what was happening to my son, my family. I didn't know exactly

why I needed to see Jack? I just knew that I did. I was pulled towards him like he was a magnet and eye metal. At the same time, the opposite side of that magnet was pushing me away. I knew that I wasn't going to leave the meeting with any peace or relief, but I also knew indubitably that speaking with him was vital. Jack McDaniels was a peculiar man. Jack was sitting on his porch in a fine Ratan chair as I approached as if he were expecting me. Looking for all the world like a middle-aged William Faulkner, he motioned for me to sit in its twin after I climbed the porch steps. You were here to thank me for the donation to your shop, lemonade?

Yes, Mr. Jack, thank you very much for the books. Not feeling like small talk, I pulled the journal out of my bag, recoiling at its texture, and praying that the gray fog wouldn't appear. Before I could speak, Jack McDaniels reached and took the book from my hands. All roads lead to roads. A peculiar town with peculiar people who have peculiar problems. Something's happening to my boy, Mr. Jack. He doesn't recognize me.

My Nana didn't recognize me today either. And? Something's after me, too. It feels like it's trying to... I don't know. Like it wants to push me out of myself. I can't believe I'm really saying this out loud. What does this have to do with me?

My resolve to be polite turned to dust, and I leaned forward. The brutality in my voice was a surprise to me, if not to Mr. Jack. Because you freaking William Focknerner, looking weirdo. You planted a goddamn spellbook in my shop just as things started going to hell. And there she is. All right, Miss Lily. No more teasing. I'll cut to Hecuba. There's a monster trying to take a life. A monster? You say that like it's nothing, like you're commenting on the weather. There's a monster trying to take a life? My life? At least, she's a monster now. She? Are you saying that this thing is... was human? A person?

Miss Lily, some monsters are monsters from the get-go. Whether they know or not. That's just how they're made. Other monsters start out just like any other people and get turned somehow. Many times it's no fault of their own, save for naivete. Other monsters, like this one here, become monsters because that's exactly what they want to be. They turn themselves into monsters by their own sheer will. But why? It means to an end, darling. It's always the means to an end. What does it want?

Comfort, control, satisfaction, maybe not in that older. Maybe when she started out, she just wanted to live longer. Oh better. A bigger house, a few of children to ten. Say that there was a young lady, but... young lady about your age, 150 so years ago, say she was tired of what she had. Too many kids, not enough help, a house that wasn't as handsome as she would have liked. Shoot, maybe she just wanted to find a way to live longer and a fine, healthy body. Survival. Exactly. You mentioned

therianthropy. No, I didn't. You're getting there, but you're not seeing the whole picture. If you get a long infection, something bacterial, what do you think the doctor will prescribe? Um, an antibiotic? Yes, that's not all. An antibiotic will cure the bacteria, but you also need something for the physical discomfort, like ibuprofen. And the doctor may also tell you to drink lots of fluids, and maybe take some vitamin C. A cocktail. Look, where are you going with this analogy?

Yes, a cocktail. Disease is rarely treated with only one remedy. I don't see how... Think of it this way. This woman found a... way to make a cocktail to get what she wanted. A little life stealing for one. So I'm way off. Therianthropy is when a human transforms into an animal. Humans are animals, dear. But, well, it's temporary, isn't it? I mean, a werewolf changes back, right? And also...

Yes? I read that people lose themselves with therianthropy. That's why a werewolf never remembers who it ate come morning. No, this is something that takes the place of a person, but it must still be itself, right? And succubus is also wrong. It has sex with men and steals their life, but it doesn't take the place of their wife. But what if our unhappy woman was able to obtain and use a specific portion of a succubis's power? Or maybe the transformation isn't for the monster herself, but about transforming the perceptions and memories of the people around her. And therein lies the need for a cocktail. Bits and pieces of magic and curses from here and there. Kind of like a taco bar.

The monster would need sustainability. How would a creature accommodate retained in its original form if there were pictures of it floating around? Destroy them? No. A glamour. They're good. Two parts of the cocktail are in the shaker. Steal a life force and make people remember things that accommodate the monster. And a very powerful for any physical artifacts. Um, photos, videos, pictures online, hundreds of them. Yes, ma'am. And then there's the not insignificant matter of aging.

So how would she, it, achieve that? Sacrifice. The person being replaced would also serve as a blood sacrifice. Lots of power and a human sacrifice, you know. Especially someone who has a family. Lots of very, very, uh, valuable energy there. Can it be stopped?

If the magic, or curse or whatever, isn't complete, can it be stopped? Or, I don't know, unravel? My dear Miss Lily, there's always a way to stop it, whatever it is. In cases like these, there's always something physical that's tied to the magic. Destroying an artifact with the monster's true face will destroy the monster. Why? For all the trouble and the magic. and the curses, why is there always a way to stop it?

Because, Lily, the universe is sentimental. I looked at Jack McDaniels, really looked at him. He didn't just resemble William Faulkner. He looked exactly like him. As I stared at his face, I could have sworn that I saw it ripple, like a mask made of liquid. He smiled, and I saw that behind the perfect one, white teeth in the front of his mouth. His molars were modeled with green and black rot.

What are you? A helpful neighbor, Miss Lily. Now, an artifacts must be found and destroyed. Oh, and don't forget your book. You'll find the essentials in there. Of course I will. You've been incredibly forthcoming. The jury's still out on health. helpful. Why did you tell me so much? It all feels like information that would, I don't know, need coaxing? I broke several laws driving back home. The sitter would pick Neil up from school soon, so I needed to find what I was looking for quickly. The monster was already in the heads of Neil and Nana, so surely it would have already transformed an artifact, as Mr. Jack had called it. I tore through photo albums and videos, all of which showed my own somewhat pretty face with its brown eyes and short dark hair.

Sitting on the floor in a heap of pictures and with my wedding video playing on the computer, I suddenly knew where to look. I ran in a kneel's room and threw open his toy chest, pulling out the chaotic mess of toys, books and other items piece by piece and tossing them behind me. As the toy box emptied, I stopped short. From underneath a well-worn book, a bright green eye on a pale face looked up at me. I reached with a trembling hand and pulled it out. It was the monster in my head. A mass of ginger hair framed a smile and pale face. It was a picture for my own wedding day.

A glamour was already working its magic. A few minutes later, I was kneeling on the floor of our garage. closed. I placed the picture of the red-headed monster on the ground and dug around in the closet until I found the bottle of oxalic acid that Chuck had purchased for some DIY project that had never gotten done. I set it down and drew the journal out of my pocket. Jack McDaniels had said that I would find what I needed inside. I opened it up to a page with only one line written in the ornate cursive. It's where demons and old gods go to feed.

I dropped the book as if it were on fire. I didn't want to read more. Just pour the acid on the picture and get it over with. I grabbed the bottle. Something about the journal caught my eye, try as hard as I did not to see it. It had fallen open to a page where an image was pasted. It was an old album in print photo in mint condition.

My hand froze on the capital. the acid. As I took in the image, I felt a total calm move through me, like a blessed wave. The face wasn't anything out of the ordinary, maybe a bit hard, unhappy, no great beauty, but not plain. Kind of face one would enjoy seeing, but never think about after the fact. A face that, had it been in color, would have had warm, brown eyes and flushed, cheeks, the beginning of crow's feet around the eyes, long dark hair, begging to be shorn into a pixie cut, a perfectly ordinary face, the face of a monster, of other lily, my face. I shift from my kneeling position to sit criss-cross, looking back and forth from picture to picture.

I understand. For the first time in days, I'm fully present, fully myself. I remember. I remember the smells of body odor and brimming piss pots. I remember sour breath and a barking voice coming from a bearded face as books are ripped from my hands and burned in front of me. I remember that same face rubbing against my own, grunting, and then pulling away to leave a sticky mess between my legs. I remember looking down into small faces that looked like my own and feeling nothing but frustration and regret.

I remember hushed, desperate conversations. dimly lit places, wrinkled hands, passing an old book into my hand in exchange for something shiny and something bloody, and a trip to Rhodes to see a certain Mr. McDaniels. I remember welcoming a darkness inside me in return for an escape. I reach up to touch my face. The face on the old photo The old woman and the boy will have to be done away with Should be easy enough for the old woman

But the boy Fall from a tree Maybe a tumble down the stairs I'll have to put on a show The heartbroken mother who has just lost her world I stop on screwing the bottle cap again This is wrong. I've never lost myself when I take a life. At least never before. In an instant, I'm here and they're gone. The transformation is never gradual. I've never felt anything tender for the husbands or the children.

Just a need for comfort and control. Something's very wrong. Suddenly, a flash of red hair and pale skin rushes at me, and I definitely push it away. Lily is dead. I've claimed every single piece of her life and made it my own. Her blood feeds my body and my youth. This isn't my first rodeo by a long shot. When the other is gone, it's gone. The flesh, the life, is mine alone.

Jack McDaniel's words echo in my head. Sometimes people get turned. Sometimes they turn themselves into monsters by their own sheer will. Maybe sometimes it's a little of both. I'll give you one thing, Lily, you clever little thing. You fought like a demon. I'm holding the real Lily at bay with one corner of my mind as I open the acid. Jack McDaniels, that son of a bitch.

Must have had a ball toying with me. Feasting on my confusion. I hold the bottle over the pale face with its red hair and poor. Nothing. I neglected to tear out the layer of safety foil that seals the mouth of the bottle. Feel the real lily pushing. She's a dervish in my mind, moving constantly, looking for an opening, growing stronger.

It's the strength of a mother who wants to be with her family, to protect them. As I push back, I realize with a start that I'm very, very tired. So tired. Lily and other Lily, could we both be here? I suppose that I could let her in, let the boy live. She would certainly try to take control, push me out. Or perhaps, she'd give up the fight if I let her back in, if I agreed to be an observer. Could we rework the glamour so that the child would see her face?

Would it be so bad to let her in? Would I be able to rest? Stupid! I tear the foil from the mouth of the bottle. I feel the burning need for survival deep in my chest. A hard, dark lump of cold. My eyes shift from picture to picture. Back and forth.

Back and forth. Would it be so bad not to be alone in my head? Jack McDaniels is right. Damn him. The universe is sensitive. 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, Inc.