The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E16

Episode Date: December 13, 2020

It’s Episode 16 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey locks us in the darkest of places.“Submission” written by Lauren Stoker (Story starts around 00:05:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Neil Helmuter – Mike DelGaudio, Gustav Grimbold – David Cummings, Dominata – Nikolle Doolin“Doors” written by Amanda Dier (Story starts around 00:21:45) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Samuel Levinson – Atticus Jackson“The Devil’s Bidding” written by Rona Vaselaar (Story starts around 00:41:00) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Terry – Graham Rowat, The Devil – David Ault, News Reporter – Dan Zappulla, Nathan – David Cummings, Night Visitor – Jeff Clement“The Stranger” written by A.M. Castillo (Story starts around 00:56:40) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Sheriff Cruz – Mick Wingert, Henry – Kyle Akers, Paul – Graham Rowat, Stranger – Mike DelGaudio, Dick – Peter Lewis, Randy Sawyer – Matt Bradford, Vincent Brown – Dan Zappulla, Marisol – Mary Murphy, Evelyn Sawyer – Erin Lillis, Townie – Atticus Jackson, Emily – Sarah Ruth Thomas“Red Hands” written by Tyler Jones (Story starts around 01:30:20) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Bryan – Kyle Akers, Todd – Jeff Clement, Cameron – Matt Bradford, Jessie – Jessica McEvoy, Dierdre – Erin Lillis, TV woman – Mary Murphy, News reporter – Sarah Ruth ThomasThis episode is sponsored by:Simplisafe – SimpliSafe Home Security delivers award-winning 24/7 protection. With SimpliSafe, you don’t just get an arsenal of cameras and sensors, you get the best professional monitors in the business. Right now, our listeners get a FREE home security camera and a 60 day risk-free trial when you purchase a SimpliSafe system at simplisafe.com/nosleep.Mint Mobile – For people who hate their phone bill and are ready to cut ties with Big Wireless, Mint Mobile offers their premium unlimited plan for JUST 30 bucks a month. To get your new unlimited wireless plan for just 30 bucks a month, and get the plan shipped to your door for FREE, go to mintmobile.com/nosleep. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here for The NoSleep Podcast YouTube channel Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar Click here to learn more about A.M. Castillo Click here to learn more about Tyler Jones Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Doors” illustration courtesy of Thea ArnmanAudio program ©2020 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hello, Nicole, good night speaking. Nicole, Cummings here. Listen, are you home and safe? Yeah, safe and sound at home. Why? I've just been informed by an anonymous source that someone might be planning to break into your house and steal your priceless collection of no-sleep bobbleheads. Oh no, not my priceless collection of no-sleep bobbleheads. I have the whole collection, including the one where Jessica's mouth is wide open, trying to consume more snacks.

That's the most priceless one of them all. That's unsettling, but I'm not too worried. You know I have a Simply Safe system at my home. Oh, that's right. Like you, everyone wants to keep their home, family, and bobblehead safe, whether it's from a break-in, a fire, flooding, or a medical emergency. Simply Safe Home Security delivers award-winning 24-7 protection. The Simply Safe, you don't just get an arsenal of cameras and sensors.

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I see someone sneaking around outside. Hey, what are you? Jessica? Hi, Nicole. Are you trying to break in to steal the bubble? Well... You two work things out. I want to let the listeners know that right now they can get a free home security camera

when they purchase a Simplysafe system at Simplysafe.com slash no sleep. You also get a 60-day risk-free trial, so there's nothing to lose. Visit Simpli-Safe. S-I-M-P-L-I-S-A-F-E dot com slash no sleep for your free security camera today. That's Simplysafe.com slash no sleep. Jessica, you just a... destroyed the Brandon's bubblehead. Quick Cummings. Start the episode while I escape.

Tales of horror. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. In 2015, episode 16 of the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. And now it's... With less than two weeks to go until Christmas 2020, I think we should gather around the old Yule log and spread some Christmas fear.

That is to say, we're going to be doing a no-sleep Christmas live stream on YouTube. Saturday, December 19th, that 3 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. That's noon on the West Coast and 8 p.m. GMT. UTC, Zulu time, or whatever you choose to call it. We'll do a Christmas story, and many of the no-sleep team will join us for some festive fan fun. So join us, if you dare, at YouTube.com slash the no-sleep podcast. cast official. And we'll deck the halls, slay the ride, and run over grandma with a reindeer. Because, after all, all we want for Christmas is you. And if horror stories are on your

Christmas list this year, you're in luck. We have some presents for you ready to unwrap. Now, let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we meet a writer who's had his dream come true. His book has been accepted to be published by a prestigious publishing house. But as we learn from author Lauren Stoker, the writer has to look after all the contracts and paperwork, and that can be rather daunting. I join Mike Delgado and Nicole Doolin in performing this tale. So make sure everything is in good order before you sign away the rights to your submission. The door to the waiting room opened silently on its pneumatic hinges, offering a glimpse of the inner sanctum beyond, and a tall, lean woman of indeterminate age entered. The publishing house lobby was one of those scarily modern creations.

Brushed stainless steel, onyx moldings, tortured metal sculptures, acres of gleaming black tile. You know the look. The kind of decor that shouts, make yourself uncomfortable. I watched as the woman scanned our motley group dithering in red Nogahai chairs along the perimeter. She was poured into a black leather one-piece bodysuit. Her long black hair cascaded down her back from a high ponytail. Carrying a clipboard, she stalked us in six-inch heels. Not bad-looking, in an Elvira sort of way.

Maybe a tad heavy on cleavage and eye makeup for an upscale office. Those spiked heels look like they could do some serious. damaged to soft tissue. I hoped it wouldn't be mine. Peering through black cat-eyed glasses, her volumized eyes checked her sheet before looking up. Mr. Helmutter? Neil? I could see she was comparing the headshot I'd sent in to the physical specimen. I'd had a buddy to a snap of me with his iPhone at Yale Library just before closing. I was wearing a tweed jacket over a v-nex sweater and posed against a wall of scholarly tomes. My longish-brown hair was brushed neatly.

My expression was serious. I cringed now, remembering the pipe I'd insisted on holding. At the time, I thought it looked cool. My heart pounded. As I turned in my chair, I prayed I wouldn't make a Nogahide fart when I stood up. I gave her a little finger wave after making sure my fly was closed. Ah, come this way, please.

She turned expertly on her stilettos and vanished through the open inner door. I was expected to follow. I did, of course. It closed with a wheeze, like collapsing lungs. I was astonished when I'd gotten the phone call about the novel I'd submitted. Mostly, I just received form email rejections. But this group had actually called me, and not to berate me for wasting their time. The man on the phone said he'd really liked it. I was psyched. I'd written a little horror

tale that I thought wasn't half bad. Actually, I was pretty proud of it. It was my first book, after all, and I was eager to get it published just to rub it in the nose of those snotty elitists in my writing group. So I'd rummaged the internet for publishers in that genre and found their site, which in itself was an accomplishment. My internet search skills usually suck. Most of the results display everything except what I've queried. But this time, my cursor seemed drawn to the site like a compass needle to north. Their homepage showed a large, swirly Victorian logo surrounded by appropriately creepy images on a murky background. MS. In their guidelines, I was elated. They seemed ideal for my book, a good fit. And their address was in Midtown Manhattan. So, sure, when I

the call, I felt like I'd hit the big time. Take that, lit-fix snobs. The man had asked if I could come to New York to discuss the publication of my work in person. What would you say? Hell yeah, like I was going to turn that down? Sure, I said, Mr. Cool. I lived only one state away, so no biggie. I could take the train from Connecticut, make a day of it. We set a date and here I was. clean shaven in a blue shirt, navy suit, and maroon-striped tie, no less. Catwoman led me along a labyrinth of somber corridors, passing closed, solid panel doors marked solely with wrought iron Roman numerals, and I counted up to nine.

The hall sconces were flickering red glass bowls, supported by what looked like the iron tines of a pitchfork. Cute, but effective if goth fright night is what you're going for. I suppressed a shiver. Skipping to keep up with her, I attempted casual conversation. It's pretty quiet here. I thought I'd hear the thump of printing presses or something. She turned and studied me over her glasses.

A small, curling smile bloomed on her red lips. Production is in the basement. Less mess. At last, she ushered me into a cavernous, wood-paneled office, with an immense desk and walls lined by dark-stained bookcase. FACES filled with hardcover volumes. Each volume had a different person's picture on its spine. The more traditional decor was reassuring.

It spelled permanence and success. Mr. Grimbold will be with you presently. She closed the door as she departed, leaving me in silence. Dead silence. The soundproofing rivaled that of a top-notch recording studio. Such an old-fashioned term, presently. As if Mr. Grimbold would be popping in from another plane or another realm. I sniffed.

There was a disturbing, smoky smell I couldn't quite identify. The dude must be a heavy smoker. Didn't smell much like tobacco, though. More like somebody had burned a whole box of matches. The room was so dimly lit I remained where I stood. What light there was filtered in through two long windows, heavily curtained in blood-red velvet and giving a restricted view over the street. An inner door opened from the far end of the office, and a man entered.

From another office I heard someone hollering, in anger, or in fright, I couldn't tell. Once the door had shut, all was hushed again. He walked to the desk and sat down, switching on his brass desk lamp. Copy editors, eh? The man just can't stand a commerce place. Sorry to keep you? I recognized the voice I'd heard on the phone. As my eyes adjusted to the half-light, I picked out his name.

Gustav Grimbold, on the brass nameplate, and the editor-in-chief after it. I hadn't recalled his name, but I sure as hell remembered his title. The man himself called me? Wow. He gestured to the one chair in front of his desk. Please, Mr. Helmuter, no reason to stand on ceremony? He was dressed in an impeccably tailored black. business suit, crisp white shirt, red tie. It was his hair that was more out of the norm. Not a

hairpiece. I could see the roots of his iron gray hair springing from his scalp. But man, what a widow's peak. Like that kid in the Adams family. I ignored my own hair follicles, goose bumping at the back of my neck. Just nerves. The chair he'd pointed me to was Jacobian, tall and heavy and carved with twining vines and fantastic beings. Some of the forms looked a bit demonic and disconcertingly frolicsome. I sat hiding my hands in my lap so he wouldn't see their trembling and doing my best to hide my smirk about the decor. Publishing only horror, it seemed a logical, if comical, touch to extend that theme into their furnishings. Was your journey an easy one?

I thought of the agony of rejections I'd suffered before arriving, but deciding not to take the question as a metaphorical one. It was fine, thanks. Pity about the rain, although I suppose it's needed. It will help wash away the smoke. Peaky dude couldn't be from around here, or he would have said smog. But who was I to quibble? Grimbold laid his hands flat on his desktop.

The nails were unusually long, but well manicured. First things first, just some formalities. The work is your own and its original and previously unpublished, yes? That's right. Quite a good story. Well crafted. I swallowed, damping down a gush of gratitude. Thanks. Did you find the online submission software easy to use?

I lied. Yes, for the most part, although a few things were a bit different. I didn't want to let on how mystifying I'd found some parts of their form or divulge that I worked with cranky hardware and geriatric systems. I loathed online submissions, but you got to do what you got to do. Good, good. And was this a simultaneous submission? He saw my hesitation as I attempted translation and clarified. Did you submit to any other publishers? It's all right if you did.

But if you sign with us, we'd insist on you contacting the other publishers to withdraw your manuscript. No, no, yours was the only publisher I submitted to. I could feel myself blushing at my grammatical gaff, glad that copy editor couldn't hear me. I mean, to which I submitted. Grimboldt nodded sympathetically. That's fine. Well, Mr. Helmuter, we expect your novel to be ready in time for Christmas. If you'd be so good, please sign here. Okay, then. Here we go. I didn't bother to read the form as I'd already read their contract from the link he'd sent me before we spoke on the phone. And here, and here, and please date, thank you. He took the contract and dropped it into a pre-labeled folder on his desk.

Then he folded his hands and smiled at me. I sat back in the chair and returned the smile, waiting for what came next, mostly because I didn't have a clue. excluding some short stories, this was my first thing actually sold. Any questions, Mr. Helmuter? Like about a zillion, but I didn't want to reveal that I was such a rookie. The terms and schedule of payments were also covered in the link he'd sent, so I shook my head. Excellent.

Grimpled beamed at me, then pushed the intercom on his phone. Dominata, could you come in here, please, and bring Mr. Desard with you? The same leather-wrapped woman as before came in, towing a suited, slouching man with a bad brush cut and enormous hands. And now to the binding. Holy shit. Look like I wouldn't have to battle months of editorial nitpicking. He was already discussing the book cover.

I must rock! I might even be the next Dean Coons! I allowed myself to relax my shoulders one notch and rested my hands on both arms of the chivalves. chair. His two minions stepped up to either side of me and put a hand on each of the chairback's finials. As they did, the chair's carvings animated. My eyebrows shot up as the vine swarmed over my arms and bound me in place. What the? I goggled at the carved demons beginning to frolic up my crotch. They were putting the squeeze on me. Is there a problem, Mr. Helmuter? You did submit,

did you not? Of your own free will? I whimpered, helplessly watch. the furious forms envelop me. What the hell is this? It was just a book submission. I'll ignore the remark about hell, Mr. Helmuter, as it seems over-obvious. You also checked the box labeled MS. Did you not?

I was trying to keep the pitch of my voice below falsetto. For manuscript, right? I thought that's what was required. You know, like if you were attaching something? He clicked his tongue inside, smiling openly now. His teeth were pointed. Ah, so many make that old shook his head. Please don't tell me you didn't bother to check our corporate information.

There are always so many tabs and drop-down menus. Fingers steepled, the editor sat back. I see. Well, our full name, as you would know, if you checked our About Us page, is Massacists and Sadists, Inc., We're a small subsidiary of hell, as you might have read. And if you'd scrolled to the bottom of that page, you would have also seen that by checking the MS box on the submission form,

you were agreeing to the additional services we provide, as well as exclusive and unlimited rights to your content, as it were. The minions were now grinning. In any event, you've signed and dated our contract, which is quite binding, assure you. Although I noticed you didn't bother to read it. Send me! Oh, dear.

My apologies. That was our standard contract. My staff had missed your checking the MS box when we sent it out. Which contract you sign makes a big difference. He twinkled at my frightened confusion. Leaning forward over his desk, hands clasped, he cocked an ironic eyebrow at me.

Mr. Helmuter, Hasn't anyone ever told you to first read the document in front of you before you sign? The twisting vines and romping demons had reached my throat. As the last of my breath was squeezed out, my vision dimmed, filled with red and black pixelation. A reptilian tail forced its way down my windpipe, choking off my screen. Snow was falling gently past the long-draped windows in my office on the Avenue of the Americas. I stood at my window, looking out at the holiday shoppers going by beneath, burdened with bags of gifts. I always enjoyed this time of year.

The goodwill, the joy, the bright hope to be dashed. I had my own gift for the literary world this year, as I had every year for the past. Well, who's counting, really? The board of directors would be pleased. Turning to the bookcase, I slid the new volume into its place on my shelves. Another soul brought to the thrill of submission. Neil Helmuter's boyish face smiled out from the binding. These days, most of us are stuck inside and feel very limited to leave our homes.

Now imagine what it must be like to be locked in a prison, desperate for those scant few minutes outside your cell. But in this tale, shared with us by author Amanda Dyer, we meet a prisoner with a new cellmate, a man who's more interested in what can enter his cell. Performing this tale is Atticus Jackson. So enjoy being able to come and go when you please, but don't underestimate the potential danger of doors.

September 10, 2003. My name is Samuel Levinson. And I am 23 years old, and I know if you look me up, my record is a little out there, but that's not me. I mean, it was me, but I'm turning things around, and I hate when people judge me from a Google search. I'm an inmate at the Arbuncle Correctional Facility, and I'd like to exchange a letter or two with you, if that's okay. I saw your article in the Christian Monthly magazine we get here, and I had a question. You talked about demons and Ouija boards and portals to Hal, and you said you can accidentally summon things and make doorways even when you don't mean to.

And that's great in all, because I don't mess with that stuff. But I had a question. What happens when you mean to make a portal? I got this new Selly recently, and he's a little weird. My grandma might have called him touched. I wanted them to be someone I could get along with, at least a little. Prison is a very lonely place. We are cut off from her family, and the only people we see every day either look down on us or committed a crime.

Sometimes a lot of crimes, or a really bad one. Robert says he's in for murder, but the guard said it was attempted only. He tried to kill someone, and all I tried to do was get some money from my ex. He belongs in here, and maybe I do a little, but I don't belong with him. He has all these tattoos from outside prison. All kinds of demons and monsters I haven't even heard of, but they all have these biblical-sounding names like Moloch and Baleth and Argenti, and he likes to point each one out and tell me about them.

He even has one he likes to point out. It's a bunch of scribbles in a circle. And it calls it a seal. Other people have weird tattoos from the outside, and I don't have a problem with them. But this guy is weird. He's up all night talking to things I can't see, and sometimes I catch him making scratches on his arms where the tattoos are.

and in the morning, there's nothing there for the guards to get him on a one-on-one watch and away from me. The other day, I caught him drawing a big rectangle on the wall from the floor to almost over my head with some chalk he got from the art program. Don't ask me how he got it back to the cell. And I asked him what it was. It's taller than me, and I don't want to get in trouble for him drawing on the walls. He tells me, yeah, it's a door. A door to where? I'm wondering if it's going to be a door to somewhere I don't want to go.

So I'm reaching out to you. If it's a door to hell, how do I close it? Thanks. I'm sorry to bother you. Samuel Levinson. September 21st, 2003. Hello? Thank you so much for applying to my letter.

I really appreciated the advice you gave me on getting a Bible. We are allowed to have books in ourselves, but my Bible keeps going missing, and I don't have enough money in my commissary account to buy one every week. The guards found Robert's rectangle on the wall when they did an inspection and made him wash it off. But he keeps getting chalk and redrawing it in different sizes. It was in pink chalk before, but now it's wide and he seems happier about it. I'm not sure why the color matters, but... You asked about the color. It's like sidewalk chalk.

Nothing special. You didn't get it sent in from outside. It's just chalk they get for what they like to call the enrichment program. Small white sticks about the size of cigarettes. At night, if I get up to pee, I'll look at this bunk to see him staring at the rectangle. It's right next to the toilet, so the first couple times I thought he was staring at me. And then I realized he was looking past me. If he's standing in front of it, I got to shove him to the side to go.

And I'm getting worried. He's either crazy or possessed. Maybe he's both. I'm going to start trying to break the rectangle like you said and erase parts of it. I can't tell the guards whenever he does it or I'll get a rep. And I'm not getting out of here anytime soon, so I can't afford to be known for that. So it's up to me for now. He keeps chanting Sam A.L. at night.

I wake up thinking he's chanting my name, but it's Sam A.L. And that's Sam U.L. I don't know whose name it is. I can't find it in the Bible or the other Christian texts we have that people donate. Do you know who it is? I ask my mom, but she doesn't answer my letters anymore. Sometimes it feels like... my entire world is these walls.

While Robert's door might take him somewhere nice, I don't want to see what's on the other side. Thank you, sir. Samuel Levinson. October 15, 2003. Hello, I'm going to start this letter off with what Robert's doing now. He added this sketchy handle to his door. It's a little circle, but I think it worked.

He made a door to hell. I keep seeing people out of the corner of my eye, even when I'm not in the facility. They haven't said anything yet, and they move out of the way if I'm walking towards them, but there's something creepy about them. There's a couple different kinds, and I thought demons are supposed to be obvious. These things are like people, but different. Their eyes are always too bad. big for their faces, or their mouths are too wide, and sometimes they don't have a face at all.

It's just smooth skin with vague indents where the eyes should be, and the big-eyed women just follow me around the jail. They're in the yard standing under the bleachers. They shouldn't fit there, but they do, peering between legs and always watching me. The people with the big mouths don't speak. Their faces move like they're stretching something inside, like how a snake unhinges its jaws. But they don't say anything to me, or open their mouths at all.

I don't see them much. They're always standing around the guards watching them, hovering too close, but the guards don't see or say anything either. They just keep on with their day. And they're doing cell checks less and less, at least in hours. And they're not making Robert wash the door off anymore. It's like they don't see it. I mean, I get it.

It's white chalk on a plain whitish cement wall, but you can still see it when you look close enough. If the wide-mouthed people are doing anything to the guards, can a demon possess someone without being inside them? How come I can see them, but no one else can? And the printed stuff he sent about the different versions of Samail don't help. He's either an angel, a demon, or Satan. And I only like one of those options.

Robert doesn't seem like the kind of guy who's trying to summon an angel either. How come no one believes me but you? Thanks and sorry. Samuel Levinson. November 20th, 2003. Sir, what does Satan look like? There's a man in his suit now who keeps appearing in the cell at night. The damn door almost glows around the edges, and he just steps through and dusts himself off.

He's always smiling very widely, but it's a strange kind of smile. He's got too many teeth for his mouth, and it doesn't look like he's happy, but The smile never goes away. It's like there's hooks in the corners of his mouth stretching it out. He's not big in the way that some of the guys in the yard are. All muscle and banked rage. But his suit fits real good, like a high-priced lawyer most of us can't afford. He's got some weird proportions, too.

Tall and big shoulders. But the rest of him is real serious. slender, like a malnourished kid or something. He doesn't have horns or crown, and he doesn't talk about God or Jesus or taken over the earth. He just seems satisfied to be in the prison, and for the door to have worked, because he keeps tracing it with his finger all the time, and he looks at everything in the cell, even the toilet. It's right next to the door, but what's so interesting about a toilet? I try not to watch while he touches everything.

Robert just sits on the bed smiling while the man walks around our cell examining everything. Sometimes he walks through the door like it's not even there and goes off exploring or something. Because I don't see him again for the rest of the night. I'm glad not to. There's a deepness in his eyes that I don't want to go near. And whenever he opens his mouth, his teeth are stupid sharp. I'm really hoping this dude isn't Satan, but I don't know what else he could be. It's not like they stuck us with a nighttime only sally.

Because when I ask the guards about him, they just shrug and turn away. It's making me feel crazy when I complain and no one listens. Is any of this really happening? Are these things really here? Or am I crazy? Before Robert became my sally, I never saw anything before. I didn't have an imaginary friend when I was a kid. Didn't write in a diary or anything.

And even if I had, I don't think I would have seen things like this. No one seems to care but me that all this is happening. How can I make them stop? I don't know how to kill a demon, and it's hard enough to even get a shank here, let alone one blessed by a priest. I want to talk to the chaplain that comes here for Sunday services, but I don't know what to say to him. Mention a shank to any of the guests, and it's almost an instant visit to the hole. If I go there, maybe I won't see the suit man anymore. Or maybe I'd be trapped in a tiny room with him and nothing to distract him from me.

You're the only person who believes me. Best. Samuel Levinson. December 3rd, 2003. Dear sir, I'm sorry for all the letters I keep sending you. Your advice has been very valuable while I've been in here. And I have enjoyed the books you keep sending even though they always go missing. Things have gotten worse.

There's more things. walking around the jail, and some of them aren't even pretending to be human anymore. There are these really fat blobs with eyes all over them, and they just roll down the hall after Robert wherever he's walking, ghosting through other people and making the lights get dim. A spindly thing with deer horn seems like it's been assigned to me, following me even in the shower. It stands back away from the spray, but it stares with empty eye sockets, and whenever it opens its mouth I smell something rotting and hear a high-pitched noise that makes me want to shove something in my ears until I can't hear anymore. I could have ignored the other things, pretended they were other prisoners or even guards since they still looked like people. But I can't pretend it.

anymore. I don't know if anyone else is seeing them, but I've heard rumors that some people are committing suicide, and there's more guys hurting each other. They found a body in the laundry the other day, all wrapped up in sheets and stabbed, though the cotton didn't have any white left in it. And I keep seeing more and more fights break out in the yard. The man in the suit is in our cell almost every night. Spurring to Robert and moving from monster to monster all around the prison. It's like he's inciting a riot or something. He told me, no matter how many Bibles I get, it's not going to keep him from coming through the door.

And I can't handle that screaming deer thing anymore. I can't sleep. I can't eat. All I can hear is that thin. Wine. Tonight, I want to do what I need to to close the door and make Robert stop redrawing it. I don't know what all I'll need to do, but anything has to be better than listening to that dear thing scream. Or keep seeing those things around the prison.

Prisons are for people, not monsters like these. Thank you for everything. you've done for me. I will let you know if it works. Regards, Samuel. We'll return to the prison, I mean the show in mere moments. But first, it's the holiday season. Festive treats abound, like mint cookies, mint candy canes, and of course, ItMobile. World famous voice actor Atticus Jackson, what are you doing here? Like another well-known bearded legend, I'm traveling around the world spreading the good

hear about MintMobile. MintMobile? Gosh, I sure would like to switch from my current wireless provider. Breaking up with your old wireless provider just got a whole lot easier thanks to MetMobile. They were the first company

to sell premium wireless service online only. And now, MintMobile is introducing their unlimited data plan for just $30 a month. What? Only $30. Have you been dipping into the eggnog again? Not yet. But just let that sink in.

An unlimited plan for $30. How much is your soon-to-be-X wireless provider charging you? Honestly, I pay a lot. So many hidden charges, and frankly, I don't even get unlimited data. Those data caps really put the coal in my stocking. Well, that's why I'm here. For people that hate their phone bill and are ready to cut ties with big wireless, MintMobile offers their premium unlimited plan for just $30 a month.

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I'm convinced. Put away that mistletoe, big wireless. You and me is breaking up before Christmas. Hadda boy. Break up with big wireless and switch to MintMobil's premium unlimited data plan for $30 a month. How do I do it, Santa? I mean Atticus? To get your new unlimited wireless plan for just $30 a month and get the plan shipped to your door for free,

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Do you ever have one of those days where you die and end up in hell talking to the devil? We've all been there, right? Just like Terry. And yes, he has a diabolical deal offered to him. And as we learn from author Rona Vassilar, the deal Terry's offered seems rather dark, even for the devil. I join Graham Rowett, David Alt, Dan Zepula, and Jeff Clement in performing this tale. So think twice before you decide to do the devil's bidding. I died when I was 28.

I remember it with startling clarity. One minute I was driving down the highway. blasting music and humming under my breath. Then a red pickup hurtled over the center line and hit me head on. I wasn't wearing my seatbelt, so I was thrown forward through the windshield. I can still hear that horrible crunch as my head shattered the glass. I felt every second of my skid down the road, leaving blood smeared on the asphalt behind me. It felt like it took forever to die.

It was the single most painful thing I've ever experienced. I wonder sometimes if dying is like that for everyone, or if I'm just unlucky. Then, everything was dark for an instant, sort of like blinking. I closed my eyes as I lay broken and bleeding on the burning hot asphalt, and I opened them to a sitting room. It was indescribable, not because it was amazing or anything. It was just so nondescript. It looked like every boring waiting room you've ever seen in your life.

life. Even now I can't remember if the walls were white or gray or tan. If there was carpet or linoleum. If the love seat or couch or chair I sat on was that fake plastic-y leather or actually covered in plastic. Hello, Terry. The man next to me was every bit as boring as the waiting room, except I can recall exactly what he looked like. He was average in height, a little pudgy around his cheeks with dull gray eyes and thin lips. He was balding with just a little wispy, sandy hair near his temples. He was wearing a suit, which I thought was funny. I'd be in a suit soon, I supposed, on account of the fact that I was...

Dead. You're dead, Terry. I'd offer you my condolences, but, well... Thank you. We have something to discuss before you. continue on to the afterlife, are you aware that you are in hell? That jolted me. This is hell? Well, not exactly. This is just a holding chamber of sorts, where I speak to the souls of the damned before the actual damnation begins. This doesn't make any sense. I was a good person.

Not the sort of good person that gets into heaven. Oh, Terry, you were neutral at best. Downright malicious in your worst moments, and we all know that the worst moments are the ones that count, don't we? There must be some mistake. I can't go to hell. I'm afraid there aren't many options available to you. Many?

There aren't many options? What does that mean? Is there still a chance I can save myself? Who are you? So many questions. One at a time now. Yes, there is one avenue of escape open to you yet, and introductions, I should think, are hardly necessary. You're about to go to hell. You know who I am. The devil. I'm sitting here talking to the devil about to burn in hell. Well, it's not so much a burning as a filleting. Never mind that for now, though, Terry. Do you want to live? Yes.

And do you want the chance to one day make it to heaven? Yes! Well, in that case, I'll offer you a choice. You can either accept your fate and walk through those doors into the bowels of hell, or you can get me three other souls to take your place. I don't understand. It's simple. You need to kill three people for me.

Oh, but not good people, bad people, the ones who are certain to be damned. If you do that, then I'll let you live. You can spend the rest of your life acting like a saint and end up in heaven where you're so sure you belong. But if I kill three people, I mean, doesn't that automatically disqualify me from heaven? Didn't you go to Sunday school as a child? You simply have to ask God's forgiveness and he'll wipe your slate clean. And if that fails, you'll still have your entire life left to do good deeds to make up for three little murders.

trust me people have gone to heaven for less I would know why would I trust you you're literally the father of lies of course I lie to get my way that's one of the many things I have in common with you humans you should trust me because I'm clearly getting a good deal I can exchange your frankly boring soul

for three terribly bad ones what do I care if I don't end up with yours now have we got a deal Okay. Fine. You've got yourself a deal. The devil smiled, and even though there was nothing terribly frightening about it, it sent a shiver up my spine nonetheless. Excellent. Oh, and one more thing. You must deliver the souls to me in three days.

Three days? That's right. If at the end of three days you fail to pay up, then I'm afraid our contract is null and void. understand? I nodded. Good. Well, and off you go. And remember,

choose your victims carefully. The devil snapped his fingers, and then he was gone. And the waiting room was gone. And I was in my car, my radio still blaring. My hands clenched tight on the steering wheel. The red truck passed by

in the opposite, lane without incident. How do you decide who deserves to go to hell and who doesn't? Three people, the devil said. Three very bad people. Who am I to judge who deserves damnation? I mean, I was very wrong about the status of my own immortal soul, so clearly I'm not the best arbiter. I'd driven home after my reversed death, only to sit in the living room, staring sightlessly at the TV. I only had three days. How was I? I was I? I was a little bit of a little bit of supposed to pull this off in three days. I was beginning to feel an upswell of despair. I was going to fail. I was going to have to say goodbye to everyone I knew and loved, enter a world of unending misery

and torture. And then something on the TV caught my eye. A news report about Derek McCall. After serving just five years in prison, Derek McCall has been granted parole. McCall was convicted of second-degree murder of Eleanor Fielty. his ex-girlfriend's five-year-old daughter. Eleanor Fieldy's family was... I remembered that case. Eleanor had died of a Tylenol overdose, and had taken three grueling days in the hospital

before she finally passed. Derek claimed he hadn't given them to her, but as only his fingerprints were on the Tylenol bottle, he changed his story and said he didn't mean to give her so many. There were no other witnesses, and even though everyone believed he'd intentionally killed Eleanor, the prosecution was only able to confidence pursue second-degree murder.

The community was furious when he only received ten years in prison with a possibility of parole after five. How could a child murderer just be turned loose back into society like that? There was no question. Derek McCall was the lowest kind of scum, the kind that preys on children.

Bingo. I had to be careful and quick. I needed to kill him and evade discovery for at least two more days after that so I could get two other souls. I made my plan and gave myself no room for hesitation. I grabbed a kitchen knife, a blanket, rope, kerosene, and some matches. It wasn't hard to track Derek down.

I just went to his last known address, the house he owned at the other edge of town. It was dark by the time I drove out there, and the street itself was deserted. I figured he'd be trailed by the media, or maybe just other enraged citizens. but the house stood quiet and isolated. I parked down the block and walked around to the back of the house. There wasn't a back door, but there was a window cracked open, and that's how I found my way inside. He was sitting in an armchair in his living room,

drinking a beer and watching some shitty game show. I thought that when I saw him, I'd be overcome with an intense feeling of hatred and disgust to be in the presence of such pure evil. Instead, it just felt like watching any random person enjoying a quiet night in. It made my stomach crawl, knowing what I was about to do. But the clock was ticking, and I didn't want to waste another second. I came up behind him, raised the knife, and plunged it into his neck.

He tried to scream, but apparently it's a little difficult to do with a knife in your throat. His hands fluttered at his neck as I yanked the knife back out. The blood sprayed across the room, hitting the opposite wall. He twisted around to get a look at me and managed to twist himself right off the chair, falling to the carpet as he choked on his own blood. His eyes were terrified. It took longer for him to die than I thought it would. It felt like hours later that I was wrapping him up in the blanket and securing the body with rope.

I made quick work bringing the body back to my car, dumping it into the truck. Then I went back to the house and spent a few hours cleaning every inch of the living room. I took the bloody rags with me back to the car, drove out to the quarry just outside of town, and unloaded the body and rags there. I doused the whole mess and kerosene and lit it up. I stayed to make sure it burned down. That really did take hours, and I was sure someone was going to come by and catch me, but nobody did.

Once the man was reduced to ash and bone, I kicked the remains over the edge of the quarry, turned on my heel, got into my car, and went back home. One down, two to go. I didn't sleep well that night. I barely slept at all, just a few hours, and then I had to drag myself out of bed because I couldn't relax. I needed to find a second victim and fast.

I got up and walked into the bathroom and saw that it was covered in blood. It was everywhere, in the shower, on the table. toilet, covering the mirror, it looked like a person's entire blood volume was emptied into my bathroom. On the mirror traced through the blood were the words, two days. I stumbled away from the bathroom and slammed the door shut. I'm pretty good at taking a hint, so I immediately began searching for my next target. I tried the news again, but came up with nothing. At least it didn't seem like anyone had noticed Derek's disappearance yet, so that was something.

As I watched the news, I racked my brain. There had to be someone I knew, or at least knew of, that would qualify as a bad person. But who? And then it hit me. Of course. Of course. Nathan Becker. If you'd asked me who the worst person in our little neighborhood was, I'd have given you his name without question. Here was another scumbag praying on children. He was caught multiple times trying to lure young girls into his home. He was a registered sex offender. I'd done a stint in jail for assaulting a minor, and I always privately suspected that he'd killed some of his victims, though I'd never be able to prove it. It was just a hunch, anyway. Nathan was in his 60s by now, so I thought he'd be easy, and since he lived right down the street,

I didn't have to go for. I still had the knife. Perhaps I should have gotten rid of it, but why not keep it until this was all over, then toss it at the end. I decided I'd kill him the same way I killed Derek. All I had to do was wait for nightfall. While I did, I searched for my third victim. By the time it was dark, I was so anxious I was practically jumping out of my skin. I exited my house through the back door and walked across the five yards, separating him from me. His back door was open, and it was a small matter to creep inside.

I had to search the house to find him. It turned out he was already upstairs in bed, asleep. That should have made my job easier. But I stood there for a few moments watching him. He was just so defenseless, laying there. He had no idea what was about to happen to him. I never thought I'd be in a position to say this, but it's hard to kill someone who's sleeping.

You can't do it. I practically jumped out of my skin. Next to me stood the devil, staring at me in mild disapproval. I gave you this chance and you're blowing it. Gathering my courage! You're wasting time. If you don't hurry up, he's going to wake up. Nathan stirred in the bed. Tick-talk, Terry.

Tick-talk. The devil vanished. Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Panic seized me. I whirled around and plunged the knife without taking even a second to aim. It entered Nathan's stomach. Both of us stared at the knife for a second, like the situation hadn't really dawned on either of us.

And then he started to scream. I grabbed one of his pillows and stuffed it over his face. He was thrashing now, which was causing the knife wound to tear wider, and that was causing him to scream louder. I wrenched the knife out and tried to stab him in the heart. heart, except he was struggling so wildly that I got him in the lung instead. Finally, as he grew weaker, I was able to thrust the knife one last time into his throat. After that, it took mere seconds more until he bled out.

I followed the same routine as the night before. Remove the body, clean the scene, drive the corpse and the evidence out to the quarry, burn it, kick the mess over the side. By the time I got home, I was exhausted and overwhelmed by the smell of smoke sticking to my skin. Fortunately, whatever bloody affliction had cursed my bathroom was gone, and I was able to shower. That hadn't gone as smoothly as I'd hoped, but the bright side was that I already knew who I was going to murder next. Kathy Jones was a local woman who'd inherited quite a sum of money when her husband passed away from an apparent heart attack. There was no autopsy done, even though it was suspected throughout the community that his death was no accident.

Just before he died, she'd somehow convinced him to take his adult children out of his will and leave everything to her. Or perhaps she'd forged the will. Either way, the children tried to contest it in court and lost. She took everything from them. Their father, their inheritance. That has to be worth a trip to hell, right? And by the time I'd showered, it was still dark out. I had time.

I wanted this to be over. So I got in my car, drove across town, and crept into her house, just like I'd done the other two. She, too, was in bed. I didn't hesitate this time. I slapped my hand across her mouth

and stabbed her through the throat. I let her scream into my hand until her struggles died down. Then I began to wrap her up in a blanket. I didn't get any further than that when I heard the sirens. By the time I got downstairs, the house was surrounded.

The police were knocking at the door, and I just stood there in the foyer, covered in blood, knowing that it was all over. I guess some neighbor had seen me breaking into the house and called the police. In my haste to leave this nightmare behind, I'd gotten sloppy.

I left Kathy's house in handcuffs. But that was okay, because I'd done it. I'd done it. three people dead, three souls damned to hell, and that meant mine was free. I only ended up spending 40 years in prison, which isn't so bad, all things considering. I was charged with the murder of Kathy Jones. They suspected I had something to do with Nathan Becker's disappearance,

but couldn't find a body or any evidence to charge me. Derek McCull's name never even came up. I guess it didn't strike anybody as odd that he'd skip town after his... release. When they asked why I did it, I told them. The devil told me I had to give him three souls to save my own. I figured I had nothing to lose by telling the truth. The lawyers wanted to plead insanity, but upon psychological evaluation, I was deemed fit to stand trial. I received a life sentence with the possibility of parole after 40 years. I was a model prisoner. I was kind and helpful to everyone. I took my beatings from the guards and the other prisoners and never complained.

I attended church services and confessed my sins and begged God's forgiveness. But it never felt like enough. That was all right, though. I was only 68 when I was released. Plenty of time to make the world a better place and earn my spot in heaven. The first night out I stayed at a hotel, having lost my own home when I went to prison. I could feel the possibilities opening up ahead of me, the good I could do, the kindness I could spread. I'd done it. I'd escaped hell itself. Then I woke up to someone standing next to my bed. That was the last thing I heard before I saw the flash of the knife. Joining us on our journey down the lost highway.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mike Olski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening.

As the Darkness fades, it feels like you're going. 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.