The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S15E22

Episode Date: February 7, 2021

It’s Episode 22 of Season 15. Our lost highway journey drives us to cursed objects.“Why I Can’t Stand the Smell of Sagebrush” written by L. Hutchinson (Story starts around 00:05:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Shelly – Jessica McEvoy, Bill – Kyle Akers, Mother – Mary Murphy“The Last Post of u/Echo” written by L. Martinez (Story starts around 00:23:25)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: u/Echo – Dan Zappulla, Brother – Atticus Jackson, Mr. Stanley – Peter Lewis, Great-Uncle – Jeff Clement“Can you hear me?” written by Rona Vaselaar (Story starts around 01:00:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Melanie – Nichole Goodnight“The Girl, the Police and the Wardrobe” written by David Axelsson (Story starts around 01:05:30) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Andy Cresswell, Victoria – Erika Sanderson“Yours” written by Tadd Mecham (Story starts around 01:24:35)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Eve – Nikolle Doolin, Franklin – Mick Wingert, Laura – Mary Murphy, Bernard Hellengard – Graham Rowat, Maureen Williams – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Maureen’s Husband – Peter Lewis, Dead Woman in Pantry – Alexandra Cruz Hernandez, Young Caterer – Jeff Clement, Mover 1 – Kyle Akers, Mover 2 – Atticus Jackson This episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleep  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Rona VaselaarClick here to learn more about David AxelssonThe dungeon synth music in “The Last Post of u/Echo” provided by Intervallum Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Last Post of u/Echo” illustration courtesy of Krys HookuhAudio program ©2021 – 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

Hey, Mike, how's it going? What's up, D? Well, it's February already, so you know what that means. I'm not sure I do. It means it's no longer January. No longer the month of dark and cold. We've blown past the most depressing time of the year. I suppose that's true, but it's still winter for most of us,

and things like depression and lack of motivation aren't limited to where we are on the calendar. Okay, Mr. Pessimist. I was just trying to be positive. And I appreciate that. But consider this. Is there something interfering with your happiness or is preventing you from achieving your goals? Often I find myself caught up in small stresses

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with the help of an experienced professional. And as a special offer for No Sleep listeners, get 10% off your first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's BetterHELP. Hey, did you know scary stories can also help people feel better? Good thing we have some ready to go right now. Now. Tell yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

Episode 22 of the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. And now it's dark. Did you know that February is Women in Horror Month? It is indeed. And we here at the No Sleep Podcast honor women in horror every month. But it's nice to see the way women are being celebrated for their monumental contributions to the horror genre. the horror genre. I'm immensely proud of how our show is impacted by women. Through our editorial staff,

the many, many women who write for us, the women voice actors and our illustrators, the majority of whom are women. So it seems that when it comes to the dark, creepy, horrifying, and sinister things in this world and the next, we have women to thank for so much of them. And yes, that is very much said in the complimentary. Thank you, ladies. And now it's time to start this week's episode. The stories this week all revolve around the theme of cursed objects. As a former software developer, I like the object-oriented approach. I hope you will as well.

And now, let's begin our journey down this lost highway. In our first tale, we meet Bill and Shelley. Bill, older brother to Shelley, is a bit of a prankster. And as we learn from author L. Hutchinson, birthdays are the perfect opportunity for gag gifts. But Bill's present to Shelley, an old doll he found at a garage sale, isn't as funny as it is downright creepy.

Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Kyle Acres, and Mary Murphy. So remember how old objects can trigger long-buried memories. Then you'll understand Shelley when she explains, Why I can't stand the smell of sagebrush. It was my 19th birthday when I first saw the doll. At the time, I was living at home. I did all right in high school, but aimed a little too high in my college applications

and didn't get accepted to any of them. So it was a gap year for me as I prepared for applications when colleges started accepting them again in the fall. My older brother, Bill, was back from college for a couple weeks, and it coincided with my birthday. Bill and I never really got along that well. He's the say whatever is on your mind, no filter kind of person. And I'm a bit more, as my mom would say, sensitive.

I prefer thoughtful, but that's not important. My mom threw a little birthday party for me, close family and a few friends. It was nice, except for when she started suggesting that I applied to the same college Bill was going to be a senior at next year. so my cool, older brother could introduce me to people and help me make friends. Bill and I don't see eye to eye on a lot, but we both agreed that was a terrible idea. After the cake and the sitting there not knowing what to do with yourself while people sing happy birthday to you, came the presents. This was a few years back, so I don't remember everything I got.

I really only remember one present, the one Bill got me. the doll. When I unwrapped the gift and I saw the 20-inch doll of the little girl, a weird feeling came over me. There was something really familiar about it that I couldn't immediately place. Oh my God, it looks just like you. Mom was right. Looking at it, it did look just like me when I was a little girl.

It was uncanny. You're right. It was like someone had painstakingly crowsy. crafted a doll of me, not just superficial things like hairstyle and eye color, but even the shape of my cheeks and mouth. Its clothes even resembled an outfit I vaguely remember wearing at the time, a striped shirt and denim jumper. I could practically see this doll jumping up and down, listening to Skater Boy like I did as a kid. Isn't it great? I saw it and I knew I had to get it. Yeah, it's amazing. I took it further out of the plain cardboard box it was placed

I noticed it was on a metal stand that gripped it under the armpits so it could be left standing up. Did you get it custom made or something? Nope. I just found it like that. Can you believe it? I had to get it for you. Well, thank you, Bill. I said thanks, but I didn't really feel happy about it. Not that it wasn't a nice gift. It was a shockingly nice gift coming from someone whose go-to present is Jack in the Box gift carts. There was something just unsettling about it. Not just the fact that it looked so much like me either. Something else about it just unsettled me.

Something that brought me back to the past. After the party guests left that night, I went to my room. I was looking over my college essays or something when I heard a knock at the door. Figuring it's just my mom asking if I want another slice of cake before she puts away the leftovers or something, I go open it. Yeah?

When I opened the door, I find the doll face to face with me. I'm not proud to say that I screamed. And I mean at top of my lungs, full terror scream. I think I fell backwards too. And that's when I heard Bill laughing his ass off as he walks into the door frame still holding the doll. Bill! What's wrong? It's just a doll.

It's a doll that looks like a certain smelly little sister I grew up. I decided to ignore his needling. I grabbed the doll. Holding it again, I realized something else. There was a smell to it. I couldn't quite place it at the time, but looking back, I think it smelled like sagebrush. I've heard that scent is more strongly tied to memory than any other sense. And this smell was bringing back memories. Bad memories. This stall, it reminds me. Do you remember when I broke my arm as a kid? Yeah, I remember. When you...

Bill trailed off after the first letter and looked at me like he was expecting me to finish the word. When I didn't finish his sentence, he did. When you fell down the stairs? I didn't fall. I was pushed. Bill turned his head away from me and groaned in exasperation. This was something the family had gone over and over when it happened. They said I fell down the stairs.

I remember being pushed. It was a whole thing. Child psychologists got involved. I don't want to go over the details because it was frustrating and tedious as a kid, and it's frustrating and tedious to talk about it now. Eventually, as a kid, I just agreed to say that I fell down the stairs because I got so sick of spending so much time every day listening to adults trying to convince me that I fell down the stairs.

But that's not the truth. I was pushed. I was in second grade, I think. I had gotten up in the night to use the bathroom and went downstairs to the kitchen to get some water. I was sleepy and just looking at my feet as I climbed the stairs. So I didn't notice until I almost got to the top and looked up. Somebody was standing at the top.

It was so dark I couldn't make out who they were. but it looked like they had something covering their face, like a scarf or a ninja mask. I couldn't tell much else about them besides they were an adult, so much bigger than me. And there was this, this rage. Even in the dark I could see the fury in their eyes. I stopped, terrified, but they lunged at me. Whoever it was kicked me square in the chest, knocking me back. I was so little I didn't stand a chance.

They sent me tumbling down the stairs. I fell all the way to the bottom and landed weird on my right arm as I went. I could feel a sickening crunch from it. When I landed and tried to get myself up, my arm just bent out from underneath me, sending a jolt of pain through me. I screamed in pain and terror. I didn't know what was going on. I was so confused.

My mom rushed down and grabbed me. She said I wouldn't stop screaming and thrashing, even after she picked me up, for over a minute. I don't remember that part. I think my mind just kind of went blank from everything. When all the dust settled, I told my mom someone kicked me down the stairs, but she couldn't find anyone.

I don't know where they went, because my mom ran right past where they had kicked me from. I don't think they could have run. down the stairs past me without noticing, but who knows? The police came along with the ambulance and searched the whole house, finding nothing. Just me, my mom, and Bill. The hospital said I snapped both my radius and ulna bones, just before the rest, and had to be in a cast for four months.

The weird thing is, there was a strange smell in the air when I saw the figure. I don't think I thought about it at the time, because there was a strange smell. so much else going on. But after seeing this doll and smelling the sagebrush scent on it, I realized it was the same. The smell of sagebrush was taking me right back to the past, right back to being a little girl and getting kicked down the stairs by this shadowy stranger. Bill, I know you don't believe me, but that's what happened. Someone kicked me down the stairs. Nobody was in the house, Shelly, and nobody could have... He waved his hand, like he was waving away this whole topic.

You know what? I don't want to argue this with you. What does this even have to do with the doll? The doll just reminds me of it. I think it's the smell. I remember the smell from the night I broke my arm. Bill pulled the doll to his nose and gave it a whiff. Oh, yeah. It smells good.

Bill, I'm really sorry, but I hate this thing. Did you save the receipt for it? Sorry, Shelly. I got it at a place that won't do returns. Where'd you get it? A garage sale. You got my birthday present at a garage sale? Fucking Bill.

Of course he did. He shrugged. So, guess you have to play nice, or give it to someone else or something. After Bill left, I smelled the doll again. Ugh. I guess it could be a nice smell if it didn't remind me of that night. but all it smelled like to me was pain and fear.

I tossed the doll in my closet and went to bed. I decided to just leave the doll in my closet the next day, and I was able to relax a little knowing it would just stay there. But the day after that, when I woke up, I found the doll standing right in front of my bedroom door. I went downstairs to find him in the kitchen, laughing his ass off between bites of cereal. He must have snuck into my bedroom during the day and grabbed it to put it there overnight.

What are you freaking out about? It's not fucking funny. What's not funny? I held the doll in his face. You put this outside my door. No, I didn't. Bill had zero poker face. He was still laughing.

I knew he did it. Well, just don't do it again. Bill did it again. Like five more times, thinking he was so hilarious each time. Every time he swore up and down that it wasn't him, but it was obvious to me that it was. It got to the point that I would just check my closet before leaving my room. If the doll was gone, I knew Bill had snuck in and got it again.

If the doll was there, well, it still creeped me out. And it felt like every time I opened the closet door, I could smell that scent. It was like a cloud of sagebrush hitting me in the face. I still hated it. I didn't know if it was just my imagination or not, but I could swear the smell was getting worse and affecting me more too.

Now my right arm even ached a little when I smelled it. I try not to play this card too often, but eventually I threatened to tell Mom. I know, I know. We're both adults and he doesn't live at home, anymore, but I'm sure he didn't want to get an earful from her anyways. After that, the doll stayed in my closet. For a while, I woke up in the middle of the night a few days later, just drank too much water before bed, I think. I looked at the clock by my bed, and it was 2 a.m.

I didn't really want to get out of bed, but I was feeling the call of the toilet by that point, so I rolled out of bed and left my room. The way our house is, set up, all the bedrooms are on one hallway of the second floor, along with a bath. I went down the hall to the bathroom. Once I got in the bathroom and turned the light on, it illuminated the bathroom and hallway next to it. That's when I saw the doll, standing there again, facing the bathroom door. I jumped back. It was all I could do to not yell. It caught me off guard again. Now that I saw the doll, just staring straight ahead with its lifeless, past me face, the smell hit me again. I really did think it was getting stronger.

I covered my mouth and nose with the collar of my pajama top. The bathroom could wait. I walked right past the creepy doll and over to Bill's door. Nothing. I turned the door knob and opened it, turning on his light switch. He wasn't going to just sleep peacefully after doing this to me again. Bill, wake up. But he wasn't there.

Just his gross-ass room and a bed with nobody in it. I walked to his window. It overlooks the driveway and I could see down into it. Mom's car was there. Bill's wasn't. Since coming home, Bill had decided to spend a couple of his nights at dive bars with his high school friends. Tonight must have been one of those nights, I figured. I went back into the hallway, ready to go to the bathroom like I intended.

But it was gone. The spot where the doll was, now empty, just the horrible smell of sagebrush left behind. That doll had already scared me a few times, but it had always been fleeting. A sudden shock and then back to normal. That wasn't happening this time. When I looked at that empty spot, I felt terror, real terror. My heart started racing. My ears felt hot.

I backed away from the bathroom. No, I couldn't back away. I had to look where I was going. I turned away. I had to get back to my room. I quickly walked down the hall, but as I passed the stairs, I noticed a dark figure there. It was dark, but it was. was the doll. Clear as day, set up like it had been walking up the stairs on the last step

before the top with its arm on the railing. No, not set up. I could see now that the metal stand under its armpits was missing. It was standing on its own. There was enough light coming in through the windows that I could make it out clearly. And then its head turned. I saw its lifeless face turn until it was looking at me, looking straight at me with that dead, lifeless face and those empty eyes. I reacted without thinking, just fear as I yelled at the doll. I didn't want it coming to me, so I shot my foot out and kicked it, sending it flying straight down the stairs. But after my foot hit it, something happened. I saw it flying back, but for a brief Second, it wasn't the doll. It was a real girl. It was me. It was me as a little girl. I could see her body

crumple like a real person kicked down the stairs. I could hear her cry out from the impact. Her face was no longer a frozen, empty doll face, but it was full of emotion. I could see her eyes, my eyes, looking at me in shock and confusion, before tumbling down the stairs and landing at the bottom with a crack. I cried out and ran down the stairs after her. What had I done? I wanted to make sure the girl was okay. But there was no girl at the bottom of the stairs. Just a doll.

Just a lifeless, unmoving doll. With a right arm that was completely shattered from the fall. just before the rest. Have you heard about this thing called the internet? Apparently there are these forums and message boards where people can hang out and share common interests. I may have tried checking those out if it weren't for what I learned from author L. Martinez.

You see, in this tale, we meet a forum user who delves into a dark world of synth music, rituals, and, God forbid, podcasts. Performing this tale. are Dan Zapula, Atticus Jackson, Peter Lewis, and Jeff Clement. So be careful where you go when using the Internet. You'll know what I mean when you hear this cautionary tale about, the last post of User Echo.

This will be my last post. I have been absent for a long time, and by now most of my duties as admin have been taken over by other members of this community. I'm writing this partially out of guilt and partially, out of what I feel to be a responsibility to this community. I believe those who have come here seeking help against this truly horrible situation we find ourselves in deserve to know the truth of the events,

which led to where we are now. The origin story for this group is well documented. I, like all of you, needed to do something, and in desperation I reached out. I was very fortunate to connect online with a few people who were experiencing the same thing. And now we have a network of support that I can honestly say has saved my life. But, and it embarrasses me to admit this, in the three years since I started posting, I have not told anyone my true motivations for creating this space.

Ironically, the reasons I have for leaving are the same reasons I had for. starting. I once again find myself in need of something new. Something in my life needs to change. Continuing to live as the person I am now terrifies me more than the things we hear on the other sides of our doors. I cannot continue to live in perpetual fear of these voices, especially given what they have taken from me and what I have seen them take from all of us. I hope that my story will explain why I am choosing to leave, and I hope that when you all know the truth as I've lived it, you will forgive me. My brother and I started listening to Echoes, a dungeon synth podcast six months after moving to Chicago. He had moved for a new job as a remote tech at an IT firm, and I, wanting to get out of our native Los Angeles, followed him.

I soon learned that there are very good reasons why people do not often move to the other side of the country on a whim. To put it bluntly, I didn't know what I was doing. I had no plan and the lack of commitment which was so exciting at first lost its luster after about three months of no callbacks for bullshit jobs. At the time we started the podcast, I was making due with the occasional odd job and steady bike courier work. The only thing that really kept me going was that I had started making my own music. My brother, in contrast, seemed to take being away from everyone as he took most things, with a shrug.

This story is as much about my brother as it is about myself. In fact, I would say it is more about him than it is about me. With him running the podcast, we probably could have made a good, listenable show about anything, but Dungeon Synth ended up being a natural crossroads for us. He liked exploring music genres and always had a sense for what was going on in the metal scene. He leaned toward more extreme sounds, often bouncing back and forth between black and death metal. I was a relative noob by comparison who listened to stuff in the Doom Stoner Spectrum,

with some Prague sprinkled in. Working on the podcast allowed me to see what it was that made Dungeon synth so exciting for him. I freely admit that it was because of him that I had caught the bug before we recorded the first episode. I even ended up making the intro song to the podcast, as well as an album which I published on Bandcamp later that year. We had recorded and published three episodes before Mr. Stanley showed up. When I met Mr. Stanley, he was sitting at our kitchen table opposite my brother. He looked more like a butler than a lawyer. He was dressed in a classic black suit with a brown weather-beaten suitcase laying on his lap.

There was a destined to be untouched coffee mug on the table in front of him, and I remember seeing his gnarled finger bones clutching the suitcase handle. He gripped it so tightly that there was the faintest tint of pink at the knuckles, the only color on an otherwise maggot white body. This is E! That's how my brother interested. introduced me to the man who would ruin our lives. He explained quickly that Mr. Stanley had stopped by

because we were inheriting something from our great uncle. We don't have a great uncle. My brother shrugged. That's what I told him. He says he's sure we do. He emailed me some documents in a family tree. If you'd like, I can send you copies as well. Mr. Stanley's voice was deeper than I expected.

It didn't make sense, such a deep voice in so small a frame. I'd like to present you with these instructions, as the meeting of certain deadlines is part of my responsibility to the deceased. Okay. Intrigued by the thought of free money, I took a seat on the couch. Mr. Stanley lifted the case from his lap and set it gently on the table. He drew a key from his suit pocket and opened it. I remember hearing a click and then static before he turned the open suitcase toward us. Inside was what looked like a bird's nest.

Jars in various colors along with other strange items were packaged tight. The gaps were filled with thin strips of cardboard colored paper. Envelopes were lined along the sides. In the center, a cassette player emitted the sound of static for an uncomfortable stretch of time. A weak, raspy voice. voice faded in as if it was coming from far away. The voice, which I assumed was our great-uncle, assured us that if these acts were completed, then we would be entitled to his property and what was left of his wealth. As if rehearsed, Mr. Stanley produced photos of the property and printouts

of our great-uncle's holdings. While the money amounted to several years' worth of rent, my brother was more interested in the property. Since our parents had both died early, We did not have much in terms of a safety net. I could see my brother doing the calculations in his head. The amount of money and time he could save by inheriting this property was more than tempting. At the age of 26, nothing appears farther and more distant than owning a home. And at the same time, nothing feels like a surer sign of security. Our great-uncle's voice, as if it could sense the greed in.

in the room, spoke again. My brother spoke without looking up from the photo of the house, then turned towards me. Seeing the familiar look of obsession in my brother's face, I said yes as well, despite my questions. He always seemed to know what he was doing. I was sure he would explain away any concerns I had. After we both agreed, Mr. Stanley had us sign a few papers. No words were exchanged. He simply provided a pen and pointed to where we needed to sign. When we finished, my brother looked up at him. This is everything? Everything at the moment. Do you know what's on the tapes? All I know is that he left specific instructions for each task. The envelopes are dated with the date of the ritual and the instructions may be opened before the date inscribed. How will you

you know if we complete the tasks? I will contact you in 12 months' time to finalize the process for inheritance. I will know if you have not completed the tasks. With a quick nod, he rose out of his seat and left. We did not see him again. I remember looking into my brother's face and hoping to see at least a portion of the reservation I felt in my chest. But he was already examining our first. great-uncle's suitcase that Mr. Stanley had left. I peeked through the blinds to see if I could

spot Mr. Stanley making his way to a car, but I didn't see him. When I faced my brother again, he was holding a tape. This one is marked for tomorrow. We both took the next day off. My brother wanted to make sure everything was perfect for that night. Not only did he want to have the ritual memorized, but he also wanted to make sure we could record the ritual for the podcast. The instructions required us to record the process, but nowhere did it state that we had to keep the recording a secret. So my brother decided to put it up on the podcast. He wanted it to be a segment that we would do regularly. The rest of the envelopes seemed to be dated at regular intervals, about a month apart from each other, so this was doable. While he worked on getting all of the

materials and our apartment ready, I did all of the recordings setup and scripting for the show. Everything we needed for the ritual was included in the suitcase. The materials, a set of typed out instructions along with a cassette which was to be played in the background. The music, strangely enough, was like proto-Dungeon synth. Judging by the state of the cassette cases, the tapes all looked to have been created back in the 80s before Dungeon Synth took off as a genre. Was our uncle some unknown pioneer? How could he have known we were fans? Even more strange were the experimental moments in the songs.

Small portions of the tape were the sound lost any pattern or tonal familiarity and branched off into something unsettling. It would almost make you nauseous if you listened too many times back to back. He couldn't figure out how our uncle had achieved the sounds we were hearing. This guy must have made his own sense. Why do you say that? These types of sounds he was getting were just not available at the time. People nowadays of hundreds of mods and oscillators they can tweak to get any sound they want.

Back then, the range was limited. So he either created his own equipment for this purpose, or he was very good at creating tapes that look old, but are actually new. We didn't talk about the age of the tapes again. My brother was too busy listening to music on repeat throughout. the day, queasiness be damned. I will not repeat the instructions for the ritual here, and do not bother P-Mming me. We didn't realize it at the time, but since then I have done research of my own, and I see now that one misstep could have ended things for the both of us.

Sometimes I wish we had been less careful, that way we might have just been killed, and maybe this channel wouldn't have to exist. Also, if I'm being honest, if you're really, Reading this, you've already heard the instructions. You may have even found yourself acting them out while you sleep. Or maybe you've woken to the sound of your sleepwalking body gathering supplies. If you really want to know how we did it, you just have to listen. The voices will tell you what to do. Just check out that rattle at the window or answer that knock at your bedroom door.

You've seen the other posts. You know what will happen. Now, having witnessed the ritual in its entirety, it seems to me that the first night served as a foundational action, similar to a theme in music or a thesis in a paper. It was a short bit of ritual that was meant to display our intent. We didn't actually know what we were saying with our actions since the rituals were based on a logic to which we had no exposure. There were strange symbols that we were instructed to etch around us. And the foreign words and the instructions were written phonetically.

That first night, we just set the stage. We aired the recording of the ritual in our next podcast episode. As a reward, our listening numbers went way up. Our credibility, which had been dubious at first, was now guaranteed. Most of the feedback we got was encouraging. Others thought we were butchering the old ways, mocking some new age knock-off religion, where they said we were making fun of the true craft of magic.

We laughed it off. At the time, we figured doing a spell from a dead uncle's suitcase was about as authentic as you could get. This continued for the next few months. We would open up a new envelope and prepare for the date of the ritual. We would perform, record, and then listen to the podcast. Each time, the instructions were accompanied by a new tape, with new music which built upon itself.

A melody here, a new movement there. Over time, we also got used to the strange sounds that we now played throughout the day. During this time, my brother also began researching our uncle, but even he had trouble finding anything concrete. His obituary was the easiest thing to find. It mentioned that he had enjoyed collecting musical instruments and had been a big influencer in the early days,

of the Chicago synth scene. There wasn't much more, and the little that did exist had nothing to do with music. We asked around in our dungeon synth forums, other black metal groups, and synth channels, but no one had heard of him. After all the dead ends,

my brother eventually gave up trying to find more. He just sat alone in his room, listening to the samples that had been provided to us. Sometimes I would walk in and find him with his forehead furrowed. road, an angry look on his face, shaking his head and replaying a specific section of the tape. I think it worried him that such a person could have existed and then just disappeared with no trace. During our sixth session was when we first heard the voices.

By that time we had perfected our setup. I operated the mic which stood outside of the salt circle. It recorded the sounds of the ritual and our uncle's music. along with my brother's vocals. My brother would speak and chant into another mic within the circle for a cleaner take. Both mics would record at the same time. This way we could get two separate recordings for the noises that were involved in the ritual. Chants mostly, but it also called for the banging of a drum with what appeared to be a femur of some animal,

all included in the suitcase. My brother sat in the middle of the circle he created, chanting and sweating. Each strike of the femur seemed to send a ripple through the salt outline around him. About halfway through the tape, we heard the voices. They swelled, filling our little apartment until the square edges of the room felt like they had begun to round out. It was like our living room was inhaling a deep breath. Things were stretched to their limits. As if pushed out by those strange sounds, neither of us remembered finishing the ritual.

I woke up later than my brother, much later than I was used to, and found him sitting in our living room, listening back to the raw audio from the night before. We already know the dude was a genius. He essentially predated an entire genre 15 years before it showed up. But how did he get those sounds? Those aren't synths. Field recordings, maybe. Run through some kind of effects device he made himself.

I wouldn't put it past him. I just hope we can get those voices to show up on our recording. I don't know. It doesn't really go with our show. Our show? We did some real shit here. That was magic. What we're doing is beyond Dudge and Synth.

This is a new kind of music. A new science. But it's just a special effect, right? Oh, man. No way. We're doing something here. This is real power. You're serious about this? He didn't answer. He put his headphones back on and I went back to my room. A week after our ninth session, I tried to quit. I was sitting in my room working on a track for my new album when I heard a voice. At first, I thought it was part of the track. Maybe I had added a bit of creepy vocals late one night.

and I forgot I had thrown it in. It wasn't uncommon for me to surprise myself like that. But when I paused the recording, the voice persisted. A thrumming, yowling speech seemed to be coming from the hallway that led to my door. I remember feeling the warmth of my body drain from my arms and legs. It seemed as though my blood was pooling into a heavy ball in my stomach. While the sound of the voice was disturbing, The words were worse.

It was like an animal trying to learn English. Like when an owner of a pet tries to teach them human words, it sounded wrong. But that description isn't quite right. It didn't sound like a bad imitation. It felt more like I was listening to something, try to learn deception. Like hearing a child tell their first lie. I grabbed a pen from my desk. drawer and walked over to the door of my room.

I heard what sounded like someone trying to break down my door. But the door didn't rattle or shake. I was reaching for the knob, but it opened on its own. I lunged, not knowing what I would see in that hallway. My brother jumped back, and the pen I tried to stab him with, left a long streak across the hallway wall. I'm sorry. Come here this.

He walked into my room and sat in my bed, opening his laptop. I've recorded my own stuff over his voice, using bits that I took from the recordings we played during our sessions. What do you think? It took me a moment, shocked that he didn't ask at all about me trying to kill him a few moments ago. Did you not hear those voices? You can hear him too? Yeah, I thought something was going... My brother's face lit up.

Finally! They told me you wouldn't understand. but I knew you would come to eventually. They said that I was the only one who could hear them. But now that you can, we can begin for real. What do you mean? I was talking about the one I heard just now before I almost stabbed you. What are these other voices?

I can't say exactly how his face changed after that, but it did. Some of you with siblings might know what I'm talking about. But somehow, I knew the next thing he said was going to be a lie. Oh, yeah, that one. I made it with the new oscillator I bought. That's bullshit.

We need to stop this. I don't want to do this anymore. What? All this shit is so fucked up. We're dealing with... I don't know what it is. No. Don't worry about it.

But he wasn't looking at me. I moved closer to him and waved my hands. hand in front of his face. He stared back, through me. This together. What's wrong with you? I reached out to grab him by the shoulder. Before I could, he turned away from me. Hey, I've got to finish this track. I'll talk to you tomorrow. He put his headphones on and began typing on his laptop. I stood for a moment, watching him. He picked up his computer and headed into his room. I followed him until his door slammed in my face. I pushed my ear to it, and I heard his voice. I've got it under control. Now I wish I had tried harder. I wish I had

shaken him. I wish I had grabbed something and hit him with it. Maybe the pain would have taken him out of the trance he was trapped in. I didn't try, though. I simply gave in. I figured a few more sessions and we would be richer and we would have a regular place to stay. I could quit my bullshit jobs and really focus on music. So we kept doing it until we came up on the last session. These words were on an extra tape contained in the envelope along with the guidelines for our last ritual. While it played, my brother took notes on the back page of a book

that had been left on the counter. At this point, his frantic scribbling didn't surprise. prize me. I was resigned to our task. I took a deep breath and pushed back the dread that sat heavy in my chest. Most people think Chicago is right in the middle of Illinois, but it's actually pretty far north. We had to drive through a lot of nothing to get to the southern tip where the house was located. As we got closer, the landscape went from big and empty to sprinkled with trees, the patches of woods growing in frequency until we were surrounded on both sides of the road. The setting sun reached out through vertical bars the tree trunks made against the light.

I didn't notice the speed we were traveling until we hit a bump and my seatbelt attempted to strangle me. It was getting dark when we turned off the main road onto the dirt path into the woods. The house came upon us after an abrupt curve, so fast that we skidded on the dirt. sending small rocks flying into the front window and porch. My brother left the motor running when he got out. I called him an idiot, turned off the ignition, and followed him. There was no menace about the house, nothing that made it stand out to me. Compared to the woods that surrounded it, I remember thinking that if the windows were lit,

it could be inviting, like a grandmother's home. But there were no lit windows, and without any sign of life, The house looked like what it was, empty and abandoned. My first breath inside smelled like stale dirt. My brother had already made his way to the large circular room that took up most of the interior. A kitchen stood off to the left side of that large center room. And to the right, there was a hallway that led into the bedroom's garage and basement. In the main circular room were two half-circles of synths.

They were large 1970s-looking computers, which at the time of purchase must have cost hundreds, if not thousands of dollars. They encircled us, acting as a ring with two openings. The first faced the entrance we had walked through, and the second faced a floor-to-ceiling glass-sliding door. I remember squinting to see in the little bit of twilight that made it through the dirty panes. It was a mini stonehenge, laced with cobwebs and wires. The special instructions for this ritual came with a diagram. It looked more like a network map rather than anything musical, but my brother made quick work of it,

having done a lot of server closets for clients in the past. Even so, he spent the remaining time until midnight muttering to himself and double-checking his work against the instructions and his notes. I spent the time looking for usable outlets and testing the microphones. To my surprise, the lights, outlets, and even the toilets worked. At around 11 p.m., I broke out the sandwiches I had packed for us, and we sat in the kitchen waiting for midnight. My brother was muttering to himself,

Giggle Fitz interrupting his stream of consciousness. I felt an overwhelming sense of pity rather than fear for this person who had been my closest friend just a few months before. I left him there and went into the bathroom and cried. Shaking with dread and sadness, I knew in that moment that our lives would never be the same. Even if we owned the house and inherited the money, I would have to get him some kind of help.

I made a promise to do so as soon as we got back to Chicago. I took a deep breath and went back out. He was waiting with a smile. You ready? The setup for this session was similar to the ones before it, only more intricate. We used three circles instead of one, candles, different chants, and blood. There was a working clock in the room, and my brother started with his drum, in time with the first chime, at midnight. His chance began after the twelfth toll.

I stood on the outside of the circle of synths. Mike directed toward him with my headphones on. First came the smell of ozone, or at least that's what I think it smells like. It was chemical, and after a moment a burnt taste seeped into my mouth. Humidity like hot breath of some carrion eater from under the floorboards. The music from the tape started. After the first verse, my brother's voice started to strain. The synths that surrounded us began to wobble, moving back and

forth beyond the salt circles. Lightning flashed outside even though I hadn't seen any sign of rain before then. I alternated between keeping my headphones on and then taking them off. Hearing the music without the headphones felt like something was grating my brain. But when I kept them on, the combination of sounds transformed into something I could not understand. That was the first time I truly heard them. They're wailing, horrible subhuman speech through the headphones. The pitches and vibrations of the voices made me nauseous, and I threw up moments after they began.

I convulsed until I managed to slap the headphones off. After I recovered from the whales, I looked up and saw it. A long, human-shaped shadow. It grabbed my... brother who was yelling, tears streaming down his face. You can't you? You can hear them? You can hear them now.

I was crying now, too, because I could hear them. I saw them too. They were not human at all, instead resembling small, greedy mouths with thick appendages, too long with too many swollen knuckle bone joints. They were the color of charcoal, a dry gray which felt so distant and cold that I swore it seemed to suck the color out of what they touched. I looked back at my brother. He was crying in the thick, stubby arms of the creature at the center. It was different than the bodies where the voices came from. Both the arms and the naked body of this creature were covered in small spindly needles, like the hair on a spider's legs.

My brother cried in those twisted arms, snot coming out of his nose like a child. I remember I could somehow feel the muscular forked tongue emerge from its mouth. Before now, I have only remembered this scene in pieces, never allowing myself to visualize the creature in totality. When I revisit this memory, the voices become stronger. As I am writing this, my windows have begun to rattle. and my doorknob sounds like it will twist out of its place. But I am holding fast to the memory. As clearly as if it were yesterday,

I see my brother looking up at the thing with love in his eyes as the creature's serpent tongue licks the tears from his cheek. I do not know how long they were entwined, but eventually the creature dropped my brother. He tried to get up like a toddler after a stumble. The creature focused on me. Its eyes were clouded sky irises encircled by jaundice yellow. A flat face with a nose so long it was almost cartoonish.

Its teeth were not teeth at all, but twin brushes of tarnished ivory needles. I saw the forked tongue burst forth once again like a catapult. It sent spit flying toward the edge of the circle. The salt splashed outward, like someone had flicked at it with a tiny broom. The creature turned back toward me and spoke. Salt for salt, nephew. Then, cackling with a mouth full of shrapnel, it crossed the border's edge and faded out into nothingless. The limbed mouths crowded the air, appearing to cover the thing's exit. They began to shift closer toward me.

In terror, I lunged for the nearest synth, pulling it down by the wires that connected it to the others. The rest of the synths followed it to the floor, sending sparks and wires whipping out into the room. They fell with loud drones, followed by feedback and screens, which were so powerful. they made my vision go blurry for a moment. I used the wall to steady myself and ran for the front door. The last thing I remember seeing was my brother still in the circle. Eyes bulging and tongue lulled out onto the dusty floor. That leaves us here.

I didn't air that last episode, but it didn't matter. Our previous recordings were enough to get other people hearing them. And even after I took them down, there were enough downloads that they keep spreading. People are trying their own rituals, trying to piece together what my brother and I recorded over the course of that year. I feel responsible for those deaths, as I do for the suffering of you all. I haven't seen my brother since that night. I don't know if I would be able to face him now if he showed up at my door. I know he won't.

I know where he is. He is where I left him, with only the clawing noises of the two long fingers around him. The same noises that surround me, the sounds of those trying desperately to break in. I hear them scratching at night, the clawing at the walls, and the knocks on doors and windows. I hear the creek of opening entryways and footsteps going beyond me into empty rooms long after I've stopped walking. This will be my last post. I am going back to that house to see my brother. It was because of my cowardice that he is still there.

I may not have had the courage to free him, but one way or another. I will rid myself of these incessant voices. When dealing with grief, some people feel drawn to thoughts of life after death and those things in the supernatural realm. Like Melanie, who we meet in this tale by author Rona Vassilar. Following the death of her grandmother, Melanie finds an occult book. One, she simply can't resist bringing home and trying. Performing this tale is Nicole Goodnight.

So perhaps it's better to accept the finality of death. It's better than the answer you might get when you call out, Can you hear me? Hello? Can anyone hear me? If you can, please say something, anything at all. I can't hear you. I can't tell if it's because you don't exist and nobody is listening to this,

or it's just that I can't hear the voices of the living anymore. In case anyone is listening, my name is Melanie Levant. I'm from Leuverne, Minnesota, and on July 6th, I disappeared. I'm not sure how long it's been since then. It can't have been very long, maybe a few weeks. My mom is Eleanor Levant. She's a librarian in town. My dad is Thomas Levant, and he's an English teacher at the local high school.

I have a little brother named Evan. He's 10. I'm 15. Are you still there? Whoever you are, I hope so, please. God, let someone be there. I screwed up. About a year ago, I got really interested in the supernatural.

My grandma, Granny Mag, passed away. She and I were really close, and I missed her so much, and I just wanted to talk to her again. So I started reading about ghosts and the afterlife and sciences and spirit boards. I read every book in the library on the occult. I had to steal them and read them in secret because my mom would never have allowed me to read them. She has no idea I've been doing this. Nobody does. That's why they can't possibly know what happened to me.

I tried everything I read about. I made my own Ouija board and tried to talk to Granny's spirit. I tried to hold a one-person's seance which didn't work at all. I even tried automatic writing. Nothing was working. But then I found this book. It was in the giveaway pile. The library has this book sale every year to get rid of old books.

Books that are damaged go into the giveaway pile. They're free, and anything that isn't taken gets thrown away. I was helping mom with the book sale, and during a slow moment was going through the pile when I saw a small black book with a pentagram embossed on the cover. The title page simply read The Occult. There was no author listed or publication date or anything. I hadn't read that book yet, and wasn't sure where it had come from, so I slipped it into my bag and resolved to read it later. That night, I paged through the book and found something

new. It was a method not just of contacting the dead, but of crossing the boundary separating life and death. The book said that, contrary to popular belief, there is no veil between our worlds. Instead, there's a sort of gray space between the lands of the living and the dead. The dead can easily cross into the space, but for the living, it's more difficult on account of our world. corporeal bodies. The book said that it was possible to open a door into the gray space, but it had to be done very carefully, and one had to use protection. There were a lot of steps, but I was so careful to do them all correctly. Right now, I can't remember all of them or what order they were in. But I remember I had to get dirt from a graveyard, a witch's stone,

wood from a rowan tree, and some other things, I think. I was to carry a stick made of wood from an ash tree for protection. I had to place the items in a pentagram, one at each of the points. I had to chant this verse in a language I didn't know and then draw a door on my wall with a piece of blue chalk. It worked. That's the craziest thing. It worked. I walked through the doorway and I started calling for my granny. I walked around for hours, but I couldn't find her. The gray space looks different than I imagine. I mean, I literally thought it would be just this empty grayness all around me. But it isn't. It's almost like a large forest, except instead of trees, there are shadows. They look like their physical things like I could reach out and touch them. Eventually,

I decided to go back through the doorway, except that when I walked back the way I came, at least back the way I think I came, it was gone. Like, it had never existed in the first place. I still had the chalk. I tried to draw another door, but it didn't work. I was stuck there. I'm still stuck here. I've noticed a couple things since getting here. Some of the shadows can move.

They almost look like people. I think maybe those are the souls of the dead. I've tried talking to them, but they give no indication that they can hear me. Kind of like you, I guess. I tried to touch one once. I felt this horrible sensation like all my life was being drained out of my fingertips, like my heartbeat was being dragged to a halt. There was a heavy pressure on my chest and I couldn't get a deep breath.

It was like drowning without water. I haven't tried to touch them again, but now the shadows seem interested in me. They don't try to touch me or talk to me, but they follow me around. And every day it seems like there are more of them. I'm not dead. I know that much. My heart is still beating. I can still feel pain and hunger and exhaustion.

But there's nothing to eat, and I can't sleep. I physically can't sleep. But no matter how hungry or tired I get, I don't die. I don't think I can die in here. Sometimes I can hear things from the land of the living. I can hear snatches of songs and whispers. It's taken me some time to understand, but I think what I'm hearing is the radio. I can't be certain, but it's almost like radio waves can travel through all planes of existence.

I found one spot in the gray space where the sounds are the loudest, the most distinct. I can't really understand what people are talking about most of the time. Places and people I've never seen or heard of, but at this point, I'll try anything. If you can hear me, it means I was right, and that maybe there's a chance that I can make it out of here. Please find my parents. Tell them I'm still alive and that they need to use. use the book to get me out. I hid it under my mattress. Tell them I'm waiting for them. Just in case you forgot. My name is Melanie Levant. I'm from Levern, Minnesota, and I'm 15 years old. And a few weeks ago, I went missing on July 6, 1978. You for joining us on our journey down the lost

highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Michalski, 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. It's the darkness phase. It feels like you're going to. 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 of Creative Reason Media, Inc.