The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S14E23

Episode Date: July 19, 2020

It’s Episode 23 of Season 14. This week we conjure spells for you about the dark fantasies we escape to. “The Expressionless” written by TJ Lea (Story starts around 00:04:30) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: David Cummings Cast: Narrator – David Cummings, The Expressionless – Jessica McEvoy “Kakurenbo” written by TJ Lea (Story starts around 00:09:15) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Theodore – Atticus Jackson, Grandma Effy/Expressionless – Erin Lillis, Mom (Hil Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Atticus, you made it. Sorry, I'm late. I didn't see your text when you first sent it. This phone drives me crazy. That's okay. We still have time to record the ad. Hmm, sucks that your phone isn't very reliable. Yeah, I got my first cell phone with one of the big wireless providers years ago,

and I've honestly hated my monthly bill ever since. Ah, well, I've discovered there's another option that can give you great premium service at a fraction of the cost. Did you know you could cut your wireless bill down to just $15 bucks a month and save hundreds of dollars? by switching to MintMobile? You know, I have heard about MintMobile. It's like, for anyone out there who's looking to save without sacrificing service, switching to MintMobile is a no-brainer. Exactly.

For customers who hate their wireless bill, MintMobile offers premium wireless for just $15 a month. By going online only and eliminating the traditional costs of retail, Mint Mobile can pass significant savings onto you. Well, I love significant savings. Me too. Did you know every plan coming? with unlimited nationwide talk and text,

plus crazy fast 4GLTE. I'm well aware of that, my friend. And I can use my own phone with any Mint Mobile plan and keep my same phone number along with all my existing contacts. And if you're not 100% satisfied, Mint Mobile has you covered with their seven-day money-back guarantee. Everyone should switch to Mint Mobile and get premium wireless for $15 a month.

I couldn't agree more. And I've tried. Okay, so what's the ad we're doing this week? Ah, well, it's for Mint Mobile, and we just finished recording it. Wait, you've been recording this whole time? Of course. You're always being recorded, Atticus. Every voice actor on the podcast is recorded constantly. It's for reasons.

I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that. Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I suppose other arrangements need to be made. Wait, wait, no, no, I'm fine with it. What else can I do to help? Tell the listeners how to get the great offer from Mint Mobile. Gotcha. To get your new wireless plan for just 15 bucks a month

and get the plan shipped to your door for free, go to mintmobile.com slash no sleep. That's mintmobile.com slash no sleep. Cut your wireless bill to 15 bucks a month at mintmobile.com slash no sleep. In our world, there is magic in the darkness. Sorcery and incantations which bring us closer to the essence of the night. Come enter our black magic shop, where we will conjure up tales to frighten and disturb.

This journey will be spellbinding. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Welcome visitors to the No Sleep Magic Shop. I'm your proprietor, David Cummings. This week we conjure spells for you about the dark fantasies we escape to. It's a pleasure to welcome a new voice actor to our team, Joe Sheary. Joe is a highly trained British actor with a compelling stage and screen presence. He's also a dynamic live presenter.

He has worked on a multitude of projects from British sitcoms to the film version of the Royal Shakespeare Company's rendition of The Tempest. We're thrilled Joe is sharing his town. with us. Welcome to the team, Joe. So the whole team is ready, and it's time. Now, close your eyes and embrace the magic. Tales. We share them. And by we, I don't mean the podcast, but we as a species, humanity. Storytelling is the lifeblood of our culture. It existed since human life began. And so, during the millennia, we accrued quite a number of tales that have been shared and re-shared, replayed and recounted. Some of these are horror tales. Are they true? Did they happen to you

or the cousin of a friend of a co-worker? Can we trace back their origins? Was there ever a hook-handed man who latched onto a horny teen couple's car? Is there really a malevolent presence under that bridge? Can humans lick too? One such tale that's been told in whispers over the last eight years is an internet urban legend so infamous that it's kept people up at night trying to find out if it was true. You may have heard it. It goes like this. In June of 1972, a woman appeared in Cedar Sinai Hospital in nothing but a white blood-covered gown. Now this in itself should not be too surprising, as people often have accidents nearby

and come to the nearest hospital for medical attention. But there were two things that caused people who saw her to vomit and flee in terror. The first being that she wasn't exactly human. She resembled something close to a mannequin, but had the dexterity and fluidity of a normal human being. Her face was as flawless as a mannequins, devoid of eyebrows and smeared in makeup. She had a kitten clenched in between her teeth. Her jaws clamped so unnaturally tightly around it to the point where no teeth could be seen. The blood was still scorting out over her gown and onto the floor.

She then pulled it out of her mouth, tossed it aside, and collapsed. From the moment she stepped through the entrance to when she was taken to a hospital room and cleaned up before being prepped for sedation, she was completely calm, expressionless and motionless. The doctors thought it best to restrain her until the authorities could arrive, and she did not protest. They were unable to get any kind of response from her, and most staff members felt too uncomfortable to look directly at her for more than a few seconds. But the second the staff tried to sedate her, she fought back with extreme force. Two members of staff had to hold her down as her body rose up on the bed with that same blank expression. She turned her emotionless eyes towards the male doctor and did something unusual.

She smiled. As she did, the female doctor screamed and let go out of shock. In the woman's mouth were not human teeth, but long, sharp spikes. Too long for her mouth to close fully without causing any damage. A male doctor stared back at her for a moment before asking, What in the hell are you? She cracked her neck down to her shoulder to observe him, still smiling. There was a long pause.

The security had been alerted and could be heard coming down the hallway. As she heard them, she darted forward, sinking her teeth into the front of his throat, ripping out his jugular and letting him fall to the floor, gasping for air as he choked on his own blood. She stood up and leaned over him, her face coming dangerously close to his, as the life faded from his eyes. She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. The doctor's eyes filled with fear as he watched her calmly walk away to greet the security men.

His last ever sight would be watching her feast on them one by one. The female doctor who survived the incident named her the expressionless. There was never a sighting of her again. That was an official performance of The Expressionless, written by author T.J. Lee. It's terrified many. It's left people wondering whether it's real. It even has a Snopes page. But in this next tale, also shared with us by author T.J. Lee,

we finally get to discover the inspiration behind the legend, the facts behind the fiction, the truth behind the expressionless. Performing this tale, are Atticus Jackson, Aaron Lillis, Mike Delgadoo, Nicole Doolin, and David Alt. So find out what young Theodore experienced when he came to play at Grandmas in Cacu Renbo. Grandma Effie's favorite game was hide-and-seek. The rules were always the same. I was the hider, and she was the seeker.

Let me start off by simply saying my grandmother was an intensely private woman. I have never encountered another human being in my near 30 years on this spinning sphere of minerals, noise, and life that could even come close to the truly jarring way that woman made me feel. Do you ever recall the first time you encountered something so profoundly forbidden? That moment when you're usually very young and you stumble across Christmas presents you were never meant to see before the holidays or the first time you saw. roadkill on a journey home. Usually your entire body undergoes a sensation akin to one thing. Danger. Your limbs somehow feeling heavier, stronger, more tempered to pounce in the event you

were discovered. It's almost like a superpower, but one designed to help you run. This is the folly of danger. The folly of that first time you encounter something forbidden. It has a habit of giving you the opposite effect. If you were being screamed by every cell in your body to take flight, the one dissenting voice, and subsequently the one that matters most would be that of your brain, it would be encouraging you, urging you to stay and explore the depths of this newfound treasure trove of knowledge, something you know at such a young age is never meant to be dealt. into, poked, prodded, or disgust. For me, the age was nine. The place was my grandparents' house. The thing? That was my grandma's ritual. I made the critical mistake of interrupting it.

The first time I stumbled across her ritual was entirely by accident. My mother had brought me to Grandma Effie's for an afternoon tea one summer in the late 90s. I don't recall what it was, but something had led my mom away from the house, electing to leave me with Grandma for a couple hours while she took care of things. From the moment the Oak Door groaned shut behind her with a final thump, it felt like the house I'd become intimately familiar with as a toddler was suddenly foreign and foreboding beyond comprehension. Of course, you can chalk that up entirely to being a child separated from his mother

and just feeling vulnerable. But it was more than that. It was the equivalence of having your blanket ripped from your sheets in the dead of night. The safety net of your world suddenly dissipating, revealing an unknown void that could hold any number of dangerous things. When that door closed and my grandmother smiled down at me, pearly whites bared and eyes alight with interest while excitedly telling me we were going to play height and seek, I knew that safety was gone.

Grandma Effie was a reclusive woman. She hadn't talked to her neighbors or anyone really for that matter since she took an extended trip away before I was born. Once upon a time, I'm told she was a kind, intelligent, and expressive woman, full of life and zest. On her return, however, she would often show virtually no emotion to anyone who came her way. Instead, displaying a cold indifference that warned of something almost offensive. As time progressed, any remaining warmth in the woman leaked away,

replaced by an ice-cold persona that kept all at a distance, with only flickers of her goodwill resurfacing in her later years. So, you can imagine my confusion, even at that small age, when Grandma Effie placed her hands on my shoulders as we watched my mom go, knelt down to smile at me when the door was shut and told me to find the best hiding place I could. Confused but eager to play, as any nine-year-old would be. The Victorian house I was used to seemed a far cry from the imposing structure I was exploring now. What used to be a kaleidoscope of beautiful colors now appeared piercing and menacing,

as if crimson and pure white were conspiring to stab me in the back the moment I turned the corner. shying away from their adornments. The family portraits, once seeming comforting and endlessly full of emotions, almost appeared vacant, lifeless, and devoid of all things pure. I couldn't even say their eyes stared at me as I walked past. It was the same cold indifference my grandma usually displayed, but amplified. As I climbed the staircase to the third floor, I noticed a closet that was almost perfectly blended with the walls, separated by a spare bedroom on the left and grandma's

taxidermy workshop on the right. If there was one thing that made her happy, it was taxidermy. She once found some squirrels in her front garden, cavorting by the oak tree, and elected to poison them instead of befriending them. The look of agilation on her face when she presented me with one as a Christmas gift, contrasting with the primal terror on the unfortunate squirrel's face, is something permanently etched into my memory. She always promised to show me the workshop, but up to this point had never found what she called an appropriate time to do so.

The closet, an alluring and natural choice to hide in for any ambitious hide-seeker, was promptly made priority since the taxidermy office was locked tight. Six, seven, eight, I began tiptoeing towards the closet, her gravelled accent echoing along the hall. Even two floors up, her tones carried through the husk of the house, bouncing off of every wall and urging me to hide before her count was up. I knew she'd begin ascending the stairs soon.

Competition and an unusual sense of panic urging me on. I slipped inside. Nine, ten. Eleven. A faint clinking sound, now complimenting the counting, was momentarily off-putting. But with it being the afternoon, I figured she was making lunch. Hoping for a rice ball, I peered through the slits in the closet to see if I could catch a smell of the ingredients, making a feeble attempt at guessing the food.

The sound caused my eyes to widen, and sweat began pouring down my brow. Something resembling my grandma was ascending the stairs, with an intent so fierce I could physically feel it from where I was hidden. At the time, I didn't understand what I was looking at. To be honest, I still don't know, but I'm sure many of you hearing this will. The first thing that caught my eye was the wig. It was pure black and perfectly capped, not a single hair out of place or doth. discolored. Grandma's normal hair was pepper gray, frayed, and usually a little messy. Next, I saw her outfit, a pure white gown with nothing on her feet. Where were her khakis and sweater?

I couldn't understand the unusual change in outfit, and at the time my child mind thought she was playing dress-up. But as she turned towards the hall, I saw her face. I saw something that convinced my younger self that this wasn't my grandma. But as an adult, reminds me that person is no longer with us. Her eyebrows were gone. Her eyes were devoid of emotion and her face was blank. No muscle twitched, no blemish or movement save for the smallest whisper. In a phrase, she was expressionless. The story I put out into the world in 2012 was based on her. The photo?

No, but it was the closest thing I could find that connected me to that emotion I felt when I looked at her. Something so unnatural and inhuman that every fiber of my being screamed to look away, to run, to defend myself. That feeling of stumbling over something forbidden etched its way into my soul and latched onto my ribcage, daring my heart to beat louder so she would find me quick. her. Hand placed over my mouth and sweat dripping from my head. I couldn't look away as she dragged herself across the hallway, eyes fixed on something out of my view. As she got closer, I could hear what she was saying. It was enough to finally tear me away from the door and towards the back

of the room to anywhere obscured and safe. I am God. They are. the lambs. I took my hands away from my mouth and waited until I was certain she had gone. With some bravery and a lot of stupidity, I began knocking against the walls, knowing I couldn't just go out of the closet door, but desperate to have a larger safe haven. Feeling my surroundings and realizing the wall next to me was hollow, I began knocking against it harder.

Praying that she wouldn't hear, it eventually gave way to a safe haven't. small hole that I eagerly pulled apart as I stepped into the office. Boom was crimson red and black. Shelds adorned the walls from the highest points down to my chest. Each one of them was filled with different kinds of taxidermied animals. Some were the squirrels I mentioned earlier, but others were cats, some birds and even a handful of dogs. Every single one of them was twisted into unnatural positions. Limbs split and contorted into horrific shapes as every face stared into the void. Their faces, as absent of emotion in life as whatever was wearing my grandma's skin outside.

The lack of terror, pain, and any connective emotion was more horrifying than my mind knew what to do with. I knew better than to scream, but my eyes widened and I whimpered. I wanted to look away. I needed to look away. I began scanning this nightmarish room. It seemed almost preferable to what was out there for anything that could provide respite. It was just a child who wanted to scream, cry, and throw up. But there was an instinctual desire in me to hide,

and that somehow superseded all other things. My eyes darted to the far corner and saw groove in the wall that didn't match the rest of wallpaper. With some inspection and a slight push, it gave way to a crawl space that led to a smaller room. I was confused, as there was nothing next to this but drywall. There was no time for hesitation. Taking a deep breath, I ventured in and prayed that it was better than this. When I emerged, the room was bright, as if there were halogen bulbs. But after my eyes adjusted, I realized, It was the wallpaper. It was a pure white from corner to corner.

The floor, a white marble. There wasn't a single dirty spot to be seen. It was beyond meticulous. Smaller than the room I was just in, it contained a study desk, some objects and a few books adorning it with one open at its center. In the far corner, an old oak cupboard lay on its back, chains wrapping it twice over to create a straight jacket of metal.

The wood worn and peeling where it had been strained against. Immediately I was drawn to the desk in the books. I'd hoped there would be a window or another door to find a way out of. But it was sealed off completely. Resigning myself to being here until my mom got back, I sat down and looked over what was in front of me. 20 years on, I don't recall much of what was there, partly because my mind tends to focus on the more horrifying things that stick out from that day.

Also, because my Japanese is poor now, and was even poor then, given that my grandma and cousin were the only ones who tried to teach Katakana to me. But what I do remember are the photos. Dozens of pictures of military men and women standing proudly in front of a huge complex. people being herded into the gaping maws of this unforgiving structure. Photos of wholesome encounters between officers intermixed with photos of what they were doing to the people there. Vivisections, burnings, things a child should never see. But it was the last two photos that began to paint the picture for me.

In the first was a terrified Japanese woman in her early 20s. being held down by two nurses as a drill was being pushed into the base of her skull. Her head had been shaved and she looked malnourished. Even though the photo was black and white, I can make out bruises on her face where she had been beaten, blood trickling down the side of her head. And the second was the same situation, but the woman was no longer resisting. Her face was devoid of all emotion. She was completely submissive.

The orderlies were still holding her down with force, but there appeared to be zero resistance. She looked almost vacant from her body. There was a date on each photo, the first reading 1947, and the second, 1949. I didn't want to think about the horror this person had faced over a two-year period in order to become something so disconnected from reality. but I wanted to keep exploring,

so I tried to push it from my mind and carried on, reaching for the heavily bound book at the back of the table. It had no title, only an inscription that even as an adult I cannot replicate, despite many attempts. It was engraved into the center of a moss-green book with the face of a sculpted Greek god in the background staring at me. Theodore, where are you?

Grandma is tired now and Mama's here. Come on out. You win. My eyes snapped away. Grandma sounded gravely again, and for whatever reason I believed her. I suddenly felt exhausted and at ease, an almost intoxicating cocktail of emotions flowing over me. I glanced once more at the book and over to the chained-up cupboard before crawling back through the space and cautiously stepping to the task. Exeteromy door, half expecting Grandma to be standing on the other side. Instead, I could hear her humming downstairs with the faint smell of food wafting up the stairs. In that moment, while still incredibly unsettled by what I'd seen, my nine-year-old self pushed it to the back of my mind.

It would not only cause trouble if I admitted I'd snuck into somewhere I shouldn't, and in a family household, you respect elders and their secrets, even if you don't understand them. As I descended, Mom was waiting for me in the hallway, beaming and obviously eager to see me. We've got to go. Wish Grandma goodbye and thank her for having you. I walked up to Grandma who had her back to me and tugged at her apron to say goodbye. As she turned, for the briefest of moments, I saw something flick across her face before it snapped back into a smile. like she forgot where she was. She kneeled down and gave me a hug,

saying she looked forward to seeing me again to finish our game. She then whispered something into my ear before rising up and continuing with her cooking. Mom said goodbye and we drove off, almost completely in silence. As we exited the town grandma lived in, mom asked me how my time with her was, to which I brushed it off and told her it was fine. The last thing I wanted to do was warrior or cause any kind of rift between her and grandma, particularly when she was already an intensely private woman.

We had a nice time. She made me play hide-and-seek, and she never found me. You got back, so I guess she gave up. Hide-and-seek? Where did you end up hiding? Grandma knows that place inside and out. If she wanted to find you, she would have. Trust me.

I hid in her special room, on the... third floor. Mom began to slow down the car. Theodore, I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me, okay? The pit in my stomach reemerged, but I nodded. I know you don't like being alone with her. You've always been a little scared of her, but did Grandma seem different to you while you were playing? I stared. I wasn't sure what I was sure what to say and too young to properly express what I'd seen. I did what any nine-year-old would do when they were frightened. I cried. I ended up crying so hard I was sick on the side of the road. Mom soothed me and we drove home, not talking about it for a long time. I remember that night

in bed hearing Mom having an argument with my dad before he had another one on the phone. Grandma died in 2010 when I was 19 and she was 82. Her funeral was short and sparsely attended, only by a few close relatives and some old friends from her youth. They offered condolences and smiles that felt insincere, but were nonetheless appreciated. While the memory of what had happened had mostly faded, marred by time and my own desire to move past it,

it was nonetheless still there. like a black shadow looming over me throughout the proceedings. But of all people, it was my father who brought it up with me at the wake. He was a stout man of incredible strength and a sharp mind. He never minced words but was always on hand to set me right or give any support. His salt and pepper hair combed neatly to the side and tired eyes hidden behind thick glasses. He ushered me over to where he was sitting, a small table towards the back of the bar. away from the mourners and my mother who were congregating outside.

The sounds out there were deafening. And a chance to sit and talk with him about anything but death was a welcome conversation. How you doing, bud? My dad put his hand on my shoulder, a weak smile flittering across his tired face. He took out of cigarette, felt in his pockets for a lighter. As usual, he couldn't find one. I took the cigarette, lit it, and passed it to him. He gave a gracious nod in return.

I'm fine, Dad. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Besides, it was your mom. I imagine this is far harder on you than it is on me. He took a long drag, blew the smoke away from me, and smiled. He looked up at the night sky. My mom was a complex person, very hot and cold. But that's just who she was.

Never happy or sad for long. just kind of floating in between. I'm glad she's a piece. Now she'll be the hider and I'll be the seeker. I felt the twitch run through my eyebrow. Something about that phrase irked me, but I couldn't place what? Chalking it up to tiredness, I ignored it.

So what are we getting the will? I assume the house in a ton of her finest china? I mean, you know I need a new house, Dad, just saying. birthday is coming up. It gave me a playful shove. I was glad to distract him. You wish, mate. Finish your studies first.

She actually did leave us all something each, though. She put it all down on a little piece of paper. Weird, even for her. What are they? I was eager to see what weird trinket I'd inherited from that old home. Knowing grandma had collected a lot of strange things along the way, I hoped it was one of her ornaments from Japan. I coveted those growing up.

He unfolded the piece of paper from his breast pocket, his brow furrowing as he tried to read Katakana for the first time in years. Well, to me, she left the house, her record collection, and some cigars she'd been saving. To your mom, she left her old tea set from Nagasaki, her cooking utensils, her nightgowns, and what's left of her wine cellar. Knowing mom, I doubt there's that much left. Well, damn, that's not much left for me. me. Guess it'll be an early birthday card with an incorrect age and a $10 bill? Mind your manners you.

She did leave you something. Well, go on. Disappoint me now, so I'm not left in suspense. His eyes flashed and he grinned at me. One minute. I think you'll like this. He hurried inside and within a few moments came back with a small bundle wrapped in a cloth, a small note attached. As he passed it to me, I eagerly unwrapped it. No sooner had I seen. the eyes, the limbs in the shape of the taxidermy squirrel. I dropped it to the ground in disgust and fear. Dad was howling with laughter. Oh, that's grandma for you.

She does this one time and you never get over it as a child. That woman has a sick sense of humor. But I was beyond his words. My eyes flashing with the memories of that afternoon when I was not. The shelves upon shelves of animals, her face bearing no expression, staring into my soul. My chest contracted and I struggled to breathe as I stared at the mangled creature on the floor in front of me. Realizing his error, Dad stopped laughing and proceeded to help calm me down. Hey, Theodore, what's wrong? I've never seen you like this.

Concern wrapped his tired face. I wasn't sure what to even tell him. Those animals. I saw an entire room of them in Grandma's house when I stayed with her years ago. It was in her special room on the third floor, next to the closet. In that moment, I saw something flitter across my dad's face I'd never seen there before. Panic. No, she boarded up that room before you were even old enough to walk. She promised.

Theo, I think you're confused. That room doesn't exist anymore. Maybe you were in the spare room. The wallpaper was red and black. There was a table in the middle with a book. Enough. That's enough. I believe you.

He paced in front of me, struggling to vocalize his apparent concern, but clearly considering his next steps. After a moment, he stared into space, and whatever he was looking for in his mind suddenly clicked. Turning on his heel, he walked towards me with purpose and placed a hand on my shoulder. All right, this is a conversation I never thought I'd ever have with you, nor one that I ever wanted. But Grandma Effie clearly wanted this to come up, so here we are.

I really thought she fixed her obsession. She promised me she'd never let this happen again. He sighed and took a drag from his cigarette. She wasn't just a private woman. She was sick. Very, very sick. I know. She had cancer for a long time and refused treatment.

She was stubborn. What mom is. He stared at the table, unwilling to make eye contact. No, Theo, not that kind of sick. Not the kind of sick that can be treated. She had a mental affliction that just ripped her from her sanity, from everything around her. She would have these episodes that caused her to just stop being her, and she would become someone else.

I didn't even know about this until a few years ago. He paused, took another drag, and stared at me. Theo, what happened when you stayed with her? Your mother and I have never pushed you on this, but I think now would be a good time to get it all out. I swallowed, a lump in my throat as I recalled everything from that afternoon. The outfit, the face, the whispering, the rooms. I resigned myself and told him everything I could remember.

To his credit, he sat without judgment and waited until the end. When I was done, he took a breath and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as he composed himself. He waved my mom over, and the moment she saw the look on his face, she turned white. But she steeled her resolved and sat by dad's side, hand over his. We were lucky your mother got back when she did. I knew it was a mistake to leave you with her, and after she told me what happened. happened to your grandma, I never let you near her alone again. What do you mean what had happened to her? I was already resigned to the fact that I was going to have sleepless nights again.

Might as well have the full picture of it all. Mom cleared her throat and her soothing voice cut the air, the sound of the wind providing an ominous backdrop. Effie had a rare condition called callosol syndrome, where her left brain and right brain didn't properly communicate. She would have moments where her right hand would reach for a knife, and she'd have to try and stop it with her left. Initially, this was a minor issue, but she began to have these fits,

and sometimes a different person would come out. They would rarely speak and would always act violently to anyone who came near. Dad's leg began shaking. But he took up the tail. On more than a handful of occasions, your mother, and later myself, would need to call the hospital to restrain her. On one of the trips she went on was to see a specialist at Harvard, who said he could make her condition manageable with no danger to anyone around her. Well, she took it soon after you were born, and when she came back, there was an immediately noticeable aura around her. Like she was free, but dangerous.

She became more private, and we elected to respect that time. distance. I mean, what if she had gotten better and just wanted space? I stared at him, mouth agape, and unable to think of anything to say. But the feeling in my stomach was getting worse, the more he explained. The night after you came home in a state, I spoke with her and asked her what had happened. She said you were playing a game with her and she thought you may have hurt yourself, but that she never found you until you came down to say goodbye. He sighed, his shoulders he heaving under the burden of whatever he was carrying. Grandma Effie had a fascination with you since you were born.

We don't know why. She had seven other grandchildren but refused to hold them or acknowledge them, except for you. The day Mom went out was on purpose. Effie said she needed time alone with you. We thought, we thought maybe she just wanted to talk to you. We always had our suspicions of her behaviors. But you have to understand this woman was very, very cautious. Nothing could be proven.

He turned to face me, concern and guilt aging him before my very eyes. I know you saw something else in that house. Something your mother and I could never prove, something you've tried very hard to pretend wasn't what it actually was. You knew grandma had a hobby, and you assumed in that dark room it was still her hobby. Stop. My eyes were watering.

I felt the bile rise in my stomach at the thought of those contorted limbs, those looks of terror. You knew she relished silence, valued privacy, and did anything to protect those two things. That's why she removed the squirrels from her garden. But those weren't squirrels in her room, Theodore. I know they weren't. Dad, please don't. I was pleading with him as he placed a hand over. overmind to reassure me.

Nothing will happen to you. Don't worry. You're my son. You were just a boy. But this needs to end now that she's passed. But I have to know, Theodore. His hands shook, and his voice croaked as he asked the one thing that I was dreading the most.

Images of those on the shelves flashed before me. The book that I spent hours sifting through in memorizing every page coming back to me like the tips for riding a bike. What did she say to you when you were leaving? There never was any photos, no animals on the shelves, no crawl space. My mine had done its best to conjure up a safe room while it dealt with what it had seen. Innumerable children lined the walls, each one perfectly preserved and positioned, eyes bulging and staring unceasingly at the center of the room where a small ritualistic table sat.

Two pillars and a book resting in the center. The moss-green cover emblazoned with an unusual symbol, and a title across its spine in faded gold letters. The expressionless, a guide to godhood. In it were the teachings of how to use. Utilize one's gifts at an early age, to hone them into tools that could benefit the user. An encouragement on discussing tactics at great length with one's other self, and listening to the voices in the head as a guiding light from the vacant mother.

It had tips from everything on lying to officers, tracking, tool usage, disposal, and desirable traits down to the things that to this day I still don't understand. On that day, I had stumbled into something I was never meant to see, something that my entire family had never been allowed to see for over 30 years. The end result of Grandma Effie's habit. I took my hand away from my dads and began running them up and down my arms as the realization came back to me. The last thing I remembered her saying before I left that day. something that every future encounter would haunt what you saw dad's eyes widened as he scanned the bar noticing something before bringing his gaze back to me

Theodore I know about the book she mentioned it in passing before she said it had a purchase history called a legacy club that housed a lot of loyal members if she knows that you saw He trailed off, finishing his cigarette with shaking fingers. We need to go to the police. Tell someone this who can help us. Dad put his lighter away, steadying his hands. Won't do any good. As I said, your grandma was very careful. There won't be anything. The most we can do is maintain the secret and hope it doesn't come back on us. I protested, but he shook his head, leaving me out of the room and telling my mother we'd

year at home. Shaking and feeling my world fall apart beneath me. I moved on jelly legs. An elderly mourner held the door open for me as I quietly thanked them. Oh dear. It getting a bit too much for him, Justin? Yeah, yeah, he's just a bit rattled. That's all. Time to take him home. Thank you so much for coming, Eleanor. Dad's voice was shaky, but he made sure he sounded sad. Oh, it's no trouble. No trouble at all. Eleanor still looked at me as I walked towards the exit. She called after me. After all, he's her legacy, isn't he?

I felt my pace pick up at that, getting into my car with Dad and driving home. After hiring a PI at my insistence, we'd come to find that Effie had indeed written a book, a mixture of religious ramblings and tips on how to harm animals. There was no record of who it had been sold to or where, leading them to believe if anyone had already purchased it, they had done so face to face. As for the children, there was no sign of shelves upon shelves of broken children in her house. They chalked it up to an overactive imagination from a scared nine-year-old after seeing his grandma have an episode. And with that, the secret was buried. Our lives continued on and it was largely never spoken of again.

except in hushed tones on cold nights. Now, with my father having Alzheimer's disease and my mother getting on in years, I'm the last one left to know the truth. It dies with me. There was, however, one last thing that came about from this. In 2012, after writing the expressionless and its sudden viral explosion, I was inundated with thousands of emails, many of which were asking for the origins of the characters.

Some were angry parents and others were armchair literary critics giving me a piece of their mind on it and my other works. But one stood out from the rest and ultimately it was one of the driving forces behind why I elected to pull back the curtain and tell all of you where it came from. It was an email from a doctor in the UK whose daughter had read the original story and brought it to his attention as he was a fan of horror stories. Dear Theodore, I hope this finds you well. I don't actually know if this is your real email, but if it is, I wanted to tell you that I loved your story. It was simple and effective, even if the ending was a tad weird. Goodness knows how you came up with such an idea. I wanted to ask you, though, is that all you remember?

We have more horror coming up next, but first, let's talk about hunger. You know what I mean. That gnawing craving that swells from the bottom of your soul and forces your entire being to be consumed with a primal lust for complete and utter satisfaction. Oh, now that you mention it, I could go for some tacos right about now. Tacos? Well, okay. Yes, I suppose that is a kind of hunger.

Not quite the dark, insidious no-sleep horror hunger I was going for, but yes, hunger nonetheless. Are you going to venture out to get some? Go outside? Um, well, you know between never-ending laundry cycles and incoming emails, I've got plenty on my to-do list. I'm going to let DoorDash take care of this meal. I like how we can use DoorDash to support our local restaurants. They need our patronage more than ever these days. That's so true.

I know how much you miss going to our local favorite meal. Mexican place. Fortunately, DoorDash is the app that brings us the food we're craving right now, right to our door. And it's contactless, right? Absolutely. Ordering safely is easy. Open the DoorDash app, choose what you want to eat, and our food will be left safely outside our door with the new contactless delivery drop-off setting. DoorDash deliveries are now contactless to keep the communities they operate in safe. Oh, how about some decadent dessert to go with our tacos? I'm thinking cheesecake. Well, you're and luck. With over 300,000 partners in the U.S., Puerto Rico, Canada, and Australia, you can support your local go-toes or choose from your favorite national restaurants like Chipotle, Wendy's, and,

yes, my dear, the cheesecake factory. Oh, well then, consider my insidious hunger satisfied. And yours can too, listeners. Right now, our listeners can get $5 off and zero delivery fees on their first order of $15 or more when you download the DoorDash app and enter code, no, That's $5 off your order and zero delivery fees on your first order when you download the DoorDash app in the app store and enter code no sleep. Don't forget, that's code no sleep for $5 off your first order with DoorDash. And now let's get back to more insidious no sleep horror. It's fun to fantasize sometimes, to imagine what it's like to have a different life or different circumstances. There are a lot of different things on offer for escapism.

from visiting the countryside to virtual reality headsets. But in this tale, shared with us by author Max Voinich, we meet a man who discovers a tantalizing offer that may be too good to be true. I join Joe Sheary, Erica Sanderson, and David Alt in performing this tale. So remember the old adage, be careful what you wish for, especially when that wish involves handing over your credit card and signing up to a strange, deep fake site on the internet. And I promise you that you won't be expecting what you see when you watch

Your Face, yourporn.m.m.v. My wife tells me she's cheating on me about halfway through dinner. I work my way through the potatoes, the beans, and most of the meat before replying. Who? That doesn't matter. It very much does matter, I think. I imagine a six. foot full, muscular, chiseled, Greek god of a man fucking my wife. I think about the way he holds her.

Is he gentle, rough? And the noises she makes for him, is she quiet? Does she scream for him? Michael. I'm working on the last of my chicken at this point, wondering if she's ever fucked both of us on the same day. Michael, listen to me. I want to divorce. I watch her for a while. I watch her for a while. her jaw, the hollow of her neck. Is he better? What? Is he better than me? She purses her lips. I think she's going to tell me that he's just different, that she's sorry it had to be like this and that she still loves me, really deep down, that it was a mistake and no one could be better than me. Yes, Michael, he's better than you. She tells me that she's staying in the house until she finds a place to rent whilst we sort this out.

I say I think I want to take the bed. Trust me, you don't. In our bed? Sleep on the couch, Michael. And so that's where I find myself. Working my way through a bottle of expensive scotch I saved for a special day and browsing the internet. My browsing is aimless, filthy, meandering. I lurch from website to website, going nowhere.

That is, until I see an ad. It's one of those video ones. Man on the screen has the body of a porn star and the voice of a god. The banner reads, Your face, your porn. Do you want to live out your most disgusting, most depraved fantasies? Do you want to see yourself do it? Using state of the art, deep fake technology,

we're able to show you what your deepest desires actually look like. See them played out across the screen, the things you've only spoken of in whispers that you've never even admitted to yourself. Take control of your life. Be the best version of yourself you can be. This is your face, your porn, your reality. I'm in a fuck-it sort of mood. More than a little drunk, and I think that this might be the best way to get back at her. I don't even have to leave the comfort of my home

and I can see what I look like doing whatever I want. All those things I never told her, the things she'd never do, I can see it. The ad is blank now, aside from the text on the white screen, that and a tacky gif of red lips blowing a kiss before running their tongue along their teeth. I watched the mouth on the ad blow kiss our hearts. the lurid kiss at me and start to feel convinced. Your face, your porn will superimpose my face

convincingly into any situation and I'll watch myself carry out my darkest, deepest, deepest desires. There are different packages. Celebrity, fetish, slice of life, narrative and on and on. But one in particular catches my eye. Surprise me. And so, squinting so that I can read the numbers on my credit card, I subscribe. I fill out a quick form, what I'm into, my kinks, my age, name, that sort of thing. It then requires me to take a video of my face from different angles, then makes me cycle through a few basic facial expressions, takes a sample of my voice saying a few basic sentences.

Not long after, I pass out to a vicious hangover and a notification on my phone. An email containing the first video, It's really me. Or at least, it looks exactly like me. It's night, and fake me seems to be followed by a camera. Fake Me spends the evening going to various shops around town and buying tape and an apple from each store. He seems to make the cashiers nervous,

and one girl even starts shaking whilst she tries to find the code for the tape When it won't scan, he is impatient, wraps his knuckles on the desk, calls her a bitch under his breath as he leaves. Wide shot, he walks down the street past the glass window. The cashier is crying silently inside. That's it. I tried to click forward to see if there's anything else, but that's it. I watched the whole thing expecting it to be the build-up to something.

but no. Instead, all I see is something that looks exactly like me, drive around town and buy apples and tape. I try to see if I can find the website again to cancel my subscription. I can't find anything. I try to look through my history, but it's not there. In fact, there's just an empty gap between 1 and 3am. Whilst it isn't porn, the technology behind it is still amazing,

The person on the screen looks exactly, exactly like me. I watch TV, drink beer, smoke inside. My wife, and she still is my wife, complains. I don't listen. Around 6pm, I receive another email. Your face, your gums.m., the camera's focused on the me that isn't me sat at the table. He's answering questions. It's my voice.

My voice. He says he's sorry. He says he doesn't know. No, he never knew. He's fiddling with something in his mouth above his teeth. He's never heard that name before. He says he'll do something if they insist, but it's not like he'll like it. The voice behind the camera laughs.

Close up of his mouth. There is a thick black hair protruding from his gum just above his teeth. And he's trying to wiggle it loose. It isn't working until it does. And he pulls out a knot of tangled hairs from the pink of his gum. And they keep coming and coming and coming until there's nearly a foot of hair. And with each tug, it wobbles his front two teeth a little.

He says this has never happened to him before. The voice behind the camera laughs again that well that night. Something about the videos has unsettled me. They're too realistic. And watching that fake me fiddle with his gums made my mouth hurt. I say nothing to my wife when she comes in. Make no effort to tidy the takeaway boxes from the table. She looks at me for a long, long time,

as if something is building up inside her some thought or opinion about me that she's always wanted to tell me, to tell me, and I watch as it almost bursts out her lips. And then I hear something looking through our bins as I try to sleep. And homeless, they disappear when I get up to look. The notification wakes me up. Another video.

I try to reply to the address that's sending me these, telling them I want them to stop. But the email bounces back, your face, your trash.molv. The me that can't possibly be me is eating at a new table But the whole table is covered in trash Dirt Empty cans, pizza boxes

Rotting fruit bones Tiny crawling things Etcetera There are flies buzzing aimlessly about He's shoveling as much as he can in his mouth Coffee grounds spill down his chin as he coughs He keeps looking to the left left of the camera after swallowing.

He winces, pulls something from his mouth. A razor. He has bitten a razor. He is bitten a razor. His blood is dark and thick and mixes with the coffee grounds that dribble down his chin so that it looks lumpy and black. It coats his shirt and his hands as he attempts to wipe his face.

He looks to the left of the camera again and continues eating. At this point, I consider deleting my email account. Something is wrong here. There is something in these videos that's beyond unsettling. I don't remember pulling half those facial expressions, and his reactions are just like mine. It's too real. That's my wince.

That's the wince of pain I know I do when I stub my toe or stand on a drawing pin or bite my tongue. But when I get up to fix myself a drink, I find my wife's car's gone, and I know that she's with him, with this guy, she's fucking, and I feel a stab of self-loathing that goes so deep it pierces my stomach and makes me wretch. I watched the video again. Your face, your anger, dot mov. He's carrying a bunch of grapefruit in his arms in the street. A small, old man bumps into him, and the fruit go fly. They make this wet pop as they hit the floor

And in the noise you can hear the fibers that held the fruit together tear The man is knocked over The me that looks too much like me See someone nearby drinking from a thermos And grabbing it he empties the scalding water all over the fallen man's face Close up The me that shouldn't be me spits on the old guy And winks at the stunned crowd

watching. The fallen man moans, spasms and reaches for his face. Blisters are already forming on his cheeks beneath his hands. I don't know why. I sort of like this one. Satisfying, so visceral, and there's something triumphant about the way the fake me snatches the boiling water. And my wife tells me that she doesn't think she ever loved me. Not like the way she loves her new man. And that come to think of it, I'm not much of a man at all. She says this whilst I try and wipe ketchup from my shirt, but only succeed in getting some on the couch. When she goes to bed upstairs, I watch your face, your anger over and over again. I doze, with my eyes half open, the me that isn't me, the fake me, faster. I pretend to be asleep and keep my eyes open just a sliver.

Fake me walks away from the crowd, right up to the camera, knocks on my screen a few times with his knuckles. It sounds like glass. He watches through the screen, smiling. His eyes are on me, I'm sure of it. He pushes his face against the camera, against my screen, and stares right at it. There is something behind those eyes, something dark and waiting. He keeps watching me. Your face, your neighbor.move.

He knocks on Mrs. Tay's door. He's holding an apple and tape. She invites him in. He enters, the camera follows. In one movement, he stuffs the apple in Mrs. Tay's mouth and forces her to the ground where he binds her arms and legs with tape. Someone from off camera hands him a hammer. His Tay struggles on the floor, looks through her records,

puts one on. It's old, slow, and the vinyl crows. as he drags her to the basement. The video continues for half an hour more, until the vinyl has finished, and there's just a loop of a faint crackle. And then there are two thuds. A snap can see someone's car I don't recognize in my driveway.

It looks expensive. I go to investigate, but can't find anyone near it. And so I decide to go and check on Mrs. Tay. I stumbled down the street in my dressing gown, Face covered in patches of stubble and knock on her door. No one answers. Bill Roberts walks past, and I wavered him. See Mrs. Tay today, Bill?

He shakes his head. I can tell he's trying not to react to how I look, trying to be polite. Haven't seen her in a week or so, Michael. Ending the right words, I can tell. Are you doing okay? You don't look so good. Never better. The combination of emotions.

I'm feeling is hard to put into words. I am elated. There is a version of me online who is in control and is acting. I'm also terrified. Whatever is on that screen knows about me, knows something about my life. I don't know if it is here in this reality or if it's just peering in.

Either option makes my chest tight. The house dry. and have to make several trips to stock up on liquor. I even call a few old contacts and manage to get some pills, although I promise myself I'll only take them when things get really, really bad. Your face, your trial. The shortest video so far. The me I wish I was pushes against his jaw, probing.

Slowly, surely he slides his hand under the skin of my face until I see the outline of my fingers under his skin, like five giant malformed veins. He wriggles the fingers and the skin comes away from my face. The ring finger emerges from my eyelids. He pulls the hand out and it's covered in some sort of embryonic fluid. He winks at the camera. I try the same thing that evening after I've shaved,

pushing my fingers into my face as if the skin is going to, going to slip and I'll be able to do what he did. The long nails cut the tender, freshly shaven skin and I end up just moving my face the conventional way, then stick out my teeth, my face still works, I go to bed. I think my wife sneaks him in the back door, Asanova, them fuck. Your trial. Dot Moven repeat to help me sleep. And when he is convinced I'm asleep, he comes right up to the camera again. But this time, he fiddles with the edges, as if testing the boundaries find a way out. So he just, like, through expressions the way I did, convinced that I am asleep. When I wake up, there's a note from my wife telling me that she's moving in with him for a while. There is a

voicemail from work telling me that I'm fired and that there'll be no severance pay. You'll face your junkies.move. He finds a couple of junkies on the outside of town. He shows them a huge stack of cash and they both nod. They have about six teeth between them and walk with a pronounced stoop, taking him to an abandoned building on the edge of town. He says, go in ahead of me, I'll be right in. They pause a while, trying to figure out what the catch is,

why this seemingly average guy would offer all this cash up front, but he hands them both small foil packages, and they quickly dash inside. As before, he slowly slips his hand under the skin of his face, working it up, hands are completely under the skin. That borders the property. He hangs something from the gate before walking down the overgrown, path into the house. It takes me a while to realize that the thing hanging from the gate is a face. My face, the eyes are empty and the skin flaps like a heavy flag in the breeze. There's a sound of cars

driving past every few minutes, then two noises like grapefruit's bursting, fibrous and wet and sudden. He walks back down the path and puts the face back on. I do not manage to see what lies under that face, but I, my hair is falling out, walk around the block. When I return, I find my wife staring at my laptop as if she's seen the devil. Me slowly. What the fuck is this, Michael? The laptop is positioned behind her back, so I can see the screen and her at once. I remember the contents of your face, your junkies.move and start to panic.

if that fell into the wrong hands with no context. I can explain the videos, they're not mine, all of the places, the situations, they're fake, I think. She shakes her head. What situations? Jesus! Michael, it's just hours and hours and hours of footage of you whispering to the camera. It's just your face. What's fake about that? I can tell that she's a little scared.

Her disgust at me slowly morphing into something uglier, nastier. She takes a couple of steps back, as if seeing me for the first time. Behind her, I can see the me that isn't me, the fake me smiling at the closer and closer to the camera. His eyes wide with a rigormortis smile, a smile as if he's just learned how to control the musculature of his face perfectly. and another step back. I try to warn her, but no words come. Instead, I'm frozen in fear. Seeing the fake me grow closer and closer to the camera,

to the screen as her backs turned and... He's pushing against the glass of the screen, trying to find a weak point, a crack that will allow him to move from his reality into ours. She can't take it anymore. She turns around and without looking at the screen, she picks up my laptop and smashes it down onto the floor. You're sick.

The screen smashed for some reason terrifies me. It's as if whatever barrier was between me and that thing is broken. And although I can't see anything, I can feel him like the soft hiss of gas through a broken pipe or air escaping a valve. I take the laptop to be fixed. Pay extra to make it happen as far. as fast as possible. As soon as the screen is fixed, I take it home, desperate to turn it on,

to see if there are any new videos, to check on the old ones. I try loading your face, your purchase, on Mov, the first video I was sent. A familiar scene plays, except there's no fake me. It's the exact same footage, I'm sure of it, but the me that isn't me, isn't there at all. The cashier still weeps silently, but it's not due to any version of me scaring her. I try loading your face, your anger.move. The same. The exact same video, but the fake me isn't there.

The man still falls over, coffee is still poured on his face. The crowd still react, but there's no me. Your face, your junkies.move, is now just footage of two junkies walking into a crack house and entering it. They still don't leave, but there's no face on the gate. Nothing. No sign that I was ever there. The house suddenly feels so empty.

I can hear the faint tap, tap, tap of the branches against the upstairs window, the gurgling of the drain, the way the old wood creaks ever so slightly with age. I am alone, and I know then that the reason, he's not on the screen is because he's here. It's me. As I feel the sweats start to run down my back, I receive one final email. Your face, your turn, dot morgue.

Wide shot, the real me this time. Alone. The room is full of trottles on the floor or clothes. The real me holds up a hand and waves it. This is lying. Real time. This is happening. Jex are obscure in shadow.

Something moves. 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.