The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E04

Episode Date: April 25, 2021

It’s Episode 04 of Season 16. Our correspondence faces frightening females. “She Watches Me” written by Charlie D’Aniello (Story starts around 00:04:10)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Tanja Milojevic“The Haunting of April Heights” written by Tricia Lowther (Story starts around 00:27:45) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Elise – Erika Sanderson, Joolz – Penny Scott-Andrews, Bill – Andy Creswell, Joan – Mary Murphy, Vinny – James Cleveland“The Shy Lady” written by SH Cooper (Story starts around 00:54:20) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Alexis Bristowe, Shy Lady – Danielle McRae, Alex – Matt Bradford“Night Terrors” written by Christopher G. Matton (Story starts around 01:02:05) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Vincent – Mike DelGaudio, Vanessa – Wafiyyah White, Carrie – Erin Lillis, Receptionist – Nichole Goodnight, The Gray Man – Jeff Clement“The Bones of Lily Gordon” written by Evan A Davis (Story starts around 01:37:30) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Jared – Atticus Jackson, Woman – Erin Lillis, Eliza – Nikolle Doolin, Simone – Jessica McEvoy, Susan – Nichole Goodnight  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/nosleepShipStation – ShipStation makes it super easy to manage and ship all your orders from all your sales channels faster, cheaper and more efficiently. You can import orders from any sales channel and ship with any carrier using their deeply discounted rates. Go to shipstation.com and click the microphone icon at the top of the page. Enter code NOSLEEP to get a 60-day free trial.  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about SH CooperClick here to learn more about Christopher G. Matton Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Shy Lady” illustration courtesy of Jen Tracy Audio 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

Hi folks, Cummings here. You've likely heard us talk about Better Help before. We're big fans of the service they provide. You know how Better Help is affordable, private online counseling, anytime, anywhere. You sign up, and within 48 hours you can talk or text with a licensed professional therapist online. So why do we share about Better Help with our listeners? Sure, they do sponsor our show, but that's just a small part of it. We want to make people aware of their service because mental health is vitally important, now more than ever.

And personally, I know what kind of positive effects can happen when you talk things through with a therapist. The past, what is it now, 13, 14 months have been tough on all of us. And I'll be honest, when I look at my life, I see how incredibly lucky I am. I was working from home long before pandemic lockdowns. I've kept my job and source of income. I've been able to stay isolated and healthy. If I look at things from a certain angle, I can say the past year hasn't changed things in my life much at all.

But that's only from that very specific angle. When I look at it another way, I can see how my mental health has suffered greatly. I've been separated from my loved ones for far too long. I've dealt with depression, made poor decisions affecting my physical health, and felt the insidious negative effects of isolation gnawing. at my psyche. And that all happened while I thought I'd been weathering the storm rather easily.

So listen, to have the chance to speak with a therapist in the midst of all of this is a godsend. And better help is an easy and affordable way to make that happen for you. With better help, you'll get timely and thoughtful responses, along with being able to schedule weekly video or phone sessions, all from your own place. The horror stories we share with you can be a wonderful distraction, sure, but there comes a time when you need to open up about the things which are holding you back and keeping you from finding contentment. I highly recommend BetterHelp to be that sounding board by which you can share and get the insight and advice you might not even know you need. And we can help you do that. As mentioned, this podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp and No Sleep

listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. That's Better H-E-L-P. So please, look after yourself. Don't feel or be alone. Join the over 1 million people who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional at Better Help. And with that, it's time for a special kind of therapy. The dark tales of horror are about to begin.

The dark hours. In the letters, long lost. and forgotten. There are tales of horror to frighten and disturb. Come, join us as we delve deep into the darkness. To the sleepless hours, when you dare not close your eyes. Brace yourself for the no-sleep. Welcome, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. So things have taken a turn. If you've been following along up until now,

you know that we've been receiving mysterious correspondence, culminating in a mysterious book, which, after I read it, turned blank and caused a key to drop into my lap. Okay, not the strangest thing I've dealt with as the showrunner for the No Sleep podcast, but in this case, I had no idea what the key was for. It wasn't some magical-looking ancient key. It was just a regular key for what's a single-key for what's

seemed like a Yale lock. I figured our mysterious benefactor would write to me further with instructions about the key. A few days passed. Nothing came. And then I had a dream. I know, I know this sounds like a setup, but I did. A dream about storage units. Storage units I recognized as being nearby.

So, obviously, I went there. It didn't take me long to find the storage unit I was looking for. It was Unit D.C.04. But even without the obvious name clue, I could tell. Something drew me towards it, and it was with shaking hands that I unlocked the storage unit and raised the door. I think I'd been expecting what I found there, and yet as I stepped inside,

I felt a sense of excitement, electricity in the air, a feeling of importance. The storage unit was found. filled with books, books, correspondence, files, filing cabinets, various objects, all manner of storytelling devices. I knew immediately what our benefactor intended. There are stories here that we must tell. Almost as if in a trance I reached out and my hand brushed a diary sitting on a bookshelf.

My skin tingled as I touched it and I knew this was the one for today. There is far more to discover in this storage unit. I think I know where it comes from, for one thing, but I want to be sure. I'm going to research. So for now, let's listen to the very first piece of correspondence that I happened to pick up. The label on the diary says it was written by someone named Charlie Deniello. There's no title, of course, but I call it She Watches Me. June 13th, Dear Nobody,

Or perhaps, if I'm gone, dear whoever happens to find this journal. Before anything else, I suppose I should declare the purpose with which I launch into this alarming letter. Part of me, the dwindling portion that believes that any of what I am about to tell you has happened at all, thinks that the act of writing it all down might help me make sense of it. No matter how silly it sounds, there's something about putting things into words that make. them real. Realer than if one hadn't written any account at all. At least, perhaps if I lay it all out in these pages, something will click in my mind, and the answer to whatever it is I'm questioning about this whole situation will suddenly present itself to me. In the event that this chronicle doesn't

result in the revelation of a miraculous solution I'm hoping for, however, then at least it can serve as evidence of the deterioration of my mind and, at worst, of my death. The beginning didn't seem abrupt. Oddly enough, nor particularly alarming, I was nine years old, sitting on the floor of my bedroom and playing with some small plastic animals I used to be obsessed with. A thought came to me, not sudden, but rather slow and creeping, as though I were remembering something I had forgotten, but which wasn't pressing enough to. warrant the skip of a heartbeat, the thought that I wasn't alone.

She was always with me. I had the sensation that she had always been with me. This young girl with grayish skin and dark hair. I don't remember being afraid of her, not at first. Perhaps by virtue of her having neither hurt me nor taunted me so far. In fact, at that point, I hadn't actually seen her. nor heard her, nor felt any physical evidence of her existence. How I knew what she looked like is beyond me,

but the fact is that I did. And her appearance, although ghostly, inspired no more fear in me than my own reflection did when I looked in the mirror. Weeks must have passed by, maybe even months. And her presence, although constant and surveilling, was much more comfort than anything else. Even my parents, to whom I had mentioned my companion in passing, had dismissed her to my face as an imaginary friend. In hindsight, perhaps their inclination to shatter my idea that the girl was real, was rooted in their deeply religious attitude,

which I suppose led them to believe that the only invisible friend that a good little Christian girl should have is, well, God. In any case, although I was dismayed that they'd refused to believe that she was real, I realized that they had gotten one part right. She was my friend. Or, at the very least, I felt she regarded me that way. The trouble started when she began giving me rules. Rules to live by, rules to honor, rules I had to follow perfectly. At this point, I still hadn't experienced any evidence.

of her existence, other than feelings and thoughts. The rules simply appeared in my mind one morning, seemingly needing no explanation. They didn't appear as a carefully crafted list either, but rather as concepts with depth and clear expectations, but which I had to put my own words to. I'll make a list below with the initial rules in no particular order. 1. Never point to an empty chair, nor an empty spot on the couch, nor any space meant to be sat on by a person, but which currently exists empty. 2. Never lose a crucifix, nor leave it anywhere except in its proper place. 3. Never welcome silence, except in sleep.

4. Never stare into the mirror when alone. I was to avoid reflections when alone as well, but mirrors especially. Five, do not tell. This was the only rule that appeared as concrete words in my head. As unsettling as these rules were, and that they were plenty, I think what scared me most then was the implication that they came with. I was to follow the rules or else, although I didn't know what the or else, threatened. You can imagine that I wasn't particularly inclined to find out the hard way. So I resolved

to follow the rules. I avoided pointing at chairs. I stopped ever taking out my one crucifix lest I forget to put it back. I brushed my teeth with my back to the bathroom mirror. I hummed and sang in silent rooms. And if ever I was questioned about my panicked looks or frantic humming, I heeded the last rule and said nothing. I first saw her a little while later, while attending my mom's friend's baby shower. The location the mother to be had picked was a small concrete gazebo out in the middle of a park.

It would have been quite pleasant if it hadn't been for the fact that the event had started during the late evening and progressed into the darkness of night. As it was, the white-painted gazebo was a compact island. in the midst of a sea of shadow, with the silhouette of the trees several meters away,

giving the illusion of enclosement. I didn't really understand baby showers. Still don't, in all honesty. Nor was I any good at socializing with kids my age. So I had been sitting quietly, surrounded by the cacophony of music, and other kids shrieks, and staring out into the trees.

With the sudden pounding of my heart, I realized that my friend, if I could still call her that, was there watching me, surveilling me. For the first time since the day I'd noticed her existence, I could see her, standing still among the dark trees. Although she was far away, swallowed by shadows, and there was no possible way, my eyes could see clearly in those conditions. something about our connection allowed me to see her with a level of detail that I never would have hoped for. What I had always pictured as smooth, grayish skin and shiny dark hair was nearly a blurred version of the reality I saw now.

Stringy, slimy strands of black hair stuck to parts of her face. Her shoulders, down her arms, moistening her gray, damp, wrinkled skin with a visceral, liquid. I could have screamed. Perhaps I should have. I like to think I would have, too, under normal circumstances. But the fact is that the moment I laid eyes on her, she added more rules to the list, jabbed them into my mind, like darts piercing cork. Six, if you see me out of the corner of your eye, pretend you have not. Seven, never look directly at me. Eight, when I stand in the same room, do not move.

Nine, do not tell. Again, for some reason. That night, after my mother had turned off my lights and left my door jar and tucked my covers tightly under my body from my feet all the way up to my head and face, which I covered also, I was right to do so. In the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of bare feet, slapping on the floor of my room. The sound was not unlike how my own footsteps sounded

when I would stomp into my room, except that these were much slower, and there was a slight dampness about them. Slap, slap, slap, as I held my breath, a sob stuck in my throat. I wanted to sit up and look, perhaps in the name of curiosity, perhaps in hopes that she wasn't really there,

but rules. Ever oppressive echoed in my head. When I stand in the same room, do not move. Never look directly at me. Slap. Slap. Slap. Growing ever closer.

I tried and failed to keep my breathing slow. The blanket which enveloped all of me, causing me to sweat in the air I breathe to be warm and uncomfortable. Slap. Slap. slap in a slow releasing of air, like hissing somewhere near my left ear. Then, loudly, the sound of my father's snoring startled me, and I sat up, panting. It was morning, and there were no slapping footsteps, nor any snoring, nor anything out of the ordinary at all. It is getting dark outside, and I must go wrap myself in my blanket for the night,

lest I be caught unprepared tomorrow. I will tell you more. Good night, me. June 14th. Dear nobody, I feel I may be running out of time. She watches me. If I don't hurry up with my writing this,

I fear it may forever remain unfinished. I fear, too, that this account may be doing nothing to help my case and may instead be provoking my friend in ways she should never be provoked. Does writing all of this downcount as telling about it? I would hope not. I haven't broken any of her rules today. And as brave as I like to think myself, I shudder to think of the outcome if I do. However, since I'm already writing this,

I suppose I can tell you about what happened when I broke the rules. Although my friend visited me almost every night, I was 10 by the time I broke a rule. I like to think of this as a sort of achievement, children being as scatterbrained as they are, and all. It was an honest mistake, but one that terrified me, beyond words. I was having a sleepover with my gram, in her apartment, as I did at least once every month. She had been my roommate until I was five, when my parents moved into my own house, and consequently we were an inseparable pair. We'd been drinking chamomile tea in front of the TV, watching Tom and Jerry,

or the Pink Panther, or one of those shows I loved at the time, when she started looking for the remote to adjust the volume and asked me if I'd seen it. As I lifted my cup to my tea and drank, I spotted it sitting on one of the cushions of the empty couch across from where I sat. Now, normally, I'd have been used to either nodding in the direction of the couch or else using my words. However, being that I couldn't well nod or speak while gulping sweet chamomal tea, I released my pinky finger from the handle of my cup

and pointed it directly at the barren couch. I realized what I'd done the very second I did it. My eyes seemed to follow the imaginary line between the tip of my pinky finger and the soft, undisturbed cushion of the couch. Before bed, I asked my grandmother, does it count as pointing if you do it with your pinky? She said she didn't know.

That night, my friend's damp footsteps in my room seemed to echo louder than ever before. They seemed to vary in speed, too, which unsettled me. They fluctuated from being minutes apart to being rapid, erratic, flighty. I hoped with all my heart that my grandma would hear something and come to check on me, if only from the brief respite, from the incessant pacing that it would signify, as it stands, she didn't. And just before I succumbed, exhausted to sleep, I heard a single word spoken, no, almost croaked into my ear.

Three. The second and last time she saw me break a rule was also the first time I felt I had real proof of my tormentor's existence. Although I know now that no adult would have believed me, even if I had told. It was early afternoon and I was laying in bed, playing with my plastic animals and humming random melodies to fill the silence, as I'd gotten used to doing over the past few years. Years, mind you, full of paralyzed nights, terror, and anxiously checking the location of the crucifix despite the fact that I had abandoned using it years ago. Anyway, I'd been laying and playing and humming, and without realizing it, I fell asleep without.

pulling the blanket tight over my head, as I had been doing thus far, and with the plastic tiger in my hand. When I awoke, the sun no longer shining on my face, what chilled me wasn't the presence of the familiar footsteps pacing in my room. Instead, it was the thought that there was nothing. Not even a flimsy blanket pulled tight over my eyes, which separated me from her. I waged my options. I could do nothing and risk my curiosity compelling me to peek at my friend, thus breaking one rule as well as ensuring that I would pee my pants from the fear of seeing her there. Or I could very, very slowly move my hand up to my face

and cover my eyes with the little plastic tiger I was still holding and still break a rule but perhaps not get caught. I decided, perhaps to my detriment, to go with the latter option. As I slowly, almost imperceptibly, I thought, inched my hand up from my chest to my neck. Finally, up over my eyes, there was no change in the pace of the footsteps. There was no hissing, no croaking, nothing. I thought I'd gotten away with it.

The next morning, the only thing left of my toy, was a mangled, distorted mess, nothing but deep bite marks in the thin film of slimy, translucent gray muck, and the same substance painted on the wall directly in my line of sight, a word, two. I didn't get a chance to... Have to go.

June 15th. Dear nobody, there's a reason why yesterday's... entry ended the way it did, and it is proof that things are getting worse. I sat at my desk writing last night, with the radio playing in the background to avoid silence when I heard the faint sound of wet footsteps, making their way up and down the hall outside my room. They should not have been there. She should not have been there. I didn't break any of the rules. I've been good. I've been obedient. This event only leads me to believe that this account does count as telling.

But if that is the case, then there is nothing I can do about it now, except finish it. Before she administers whatever punishment she has in store for me, I refuse to live like this anymore, even if the only other option is not to live at all. As I was beginning to write yesterday, I didn't get a chance to. break the rules a third time in my childhood, because these happenings found a curious way to stop. The short of it is, my little sister, who had been living in my parents' bedroom, ever since she'd been born, finally became old enough to be my roommate. This meant not only that I was seldom alone in our room, and thus that it was never silent, but also that I wouldn't have to sleep

alone anymore. And as I had found out early on, my friend never manifested herself in. I had company. This isn't to say that I had forgotten about her immediately, or lost my terror of her. No, I still very much followed her rules, although the times when I had to think about some of them and why I was following them were much fewer and farther between. Over the years, some of me stayed changed by her. For instance, my never pointing at things with my fingers, being uncomfortable with silence, holding a distaste for mirrors and religious artifacts and imagery. But my memory of the reason behind all these quirks of mine faded further than even the back of my mind. Finally, sometime when I was 16, I stopped covering my face when I slept, and the last of her memory faded to an echo.

But although it has been almost ten years since then, everything is going to shit again. See, I visited my parents in their hometown about a month ago. I hadn't seen them in a while, and I thought it'd be nice for them to meet my girlfriend, Delilah. They'd been asking to meet her for months, and I thought it might be cute to show her the home where I grew up. I won't bore you with the details of how dinner went and all that, because frankly, I don't think I have the time anymore. Suffice it to say that the conversation led to my dad, bringing down a dusty old box from the attic and showing Delilah everything from my baby pictures to the stuffed animal I loved when I was five. As they laughed and talked enthusiastically, I busied myself by digging through the box,

in search of nothing in particular. I felt my heart leap when my fingers brushed against something cool and plastic, with small bumps and edges and a sticky quality to its surface. I pulled it out of the box and held it under the light, only to recognize what had once been a toy tiger, but now was nothing but a chewed up mess covered in a dark, sticky film of dried-up muck. The memories came back that night,

along with the footsteps. I tried to tell myself that it was all in my head, a temporary return of what surely had been a childhood fear of an imaginary threat. There were no rules, there was no her, there was only a fear, and fear by itself, I told myself, wasn't dangerous. The squelching of my imaginary tormentor's feet continued.

Just to prove to myself that it wasn't real, I opened my eyes and sat up in bed. I saw her, I saw a flash of her hair as she ducked out my bedroom door and into the hallway. I saw her cold, blank eyes and the hint of a smirk on her scarred lips as she croaked a single word. One. I saw her. I saw her. And she saw me. She watched me.

She watches me still. I can feel her. I don't know what happens when she reaches zero. But something tells me that the last words in this pitiful chronicle might well be the last I ever write. The only comfort I can find in all of this is that I will finally, finally be able to tell. Yours truly me. In our first tale, we join a young woman who's down on her luck, but it's looking up. She's found a new apartment, or flat in this case.

However, her best friend is pretty eager to insist that the place might be haunted. And in this tale, shared with us by author Trisha Lothar, it begins to seem like the friend might be correct. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson, Penny Scott Andrews, Andy Cresswell, Mary Murphy, and James Cleveland. So pay attention to those strange creeks and bumps in the night. Don't assume it's just your imagination. Some places are just cursed, such as in the case of the haunting of April Heights. I should have listened to the dog. When I first tried to go through the front door of my new flat, my air did.

Dale cross-breed Maddie pulled me back. She nearly yanked my arm off. I rubbed my shoulder. What's the matter, girl? Never known you not to stick by my side? Fair enough. The hallway was unwelcoming. All the doors were closed so it was dark.

I ordered Maddie to stay and went inside to let in some light. Three bedrooms ran along the left-hand side of the corridor, and at the end, another door led to the large living room with its coffin-sized balcony. On the far side of the living room, a door led to the kitchen and bathroom. I opened all the doors wide, let the grey daylight in,

and called Maddie. Nope, stubborn creature. I grabbed the half-chued tennis ball in my bag and threw it down the hall. Fetch! Come on, girl! She plunked herself down with a wine, so I shrugged and left her there. I needed to get on with pre-moved cleaning.

Maddie's behaviour was weird but she'd come round I'm sure Back then I prided myself on being logical and down to earth It was the late 80s on a Liverpool council estate With three high-rise blocks named April, May and June Heights They had a bad reputation Drugs, crime and general squalor But they were big and cheap My place was on the top floor of April

It had an amazing view across the city plus my best mate Jules lived next door. I couldn't afford the rent on my old place since I'd kicked out my constantly stoned and occasionally violent X. This was my fresh start. On my next visit, Jules was home. She looked after Maddie while I slapped dingy plum paint all over the living room walls. Susie and the banshees for company on the ghetto blaster.

The colour had looked warm and interesting in the shop, but in here it seemed to absorb all light. I stepped back, hands on hips and side. The walls emanated gloom. I'd try and brighten the place up later, once I got all my gear in. On moving day, I had to bribe Maddie to come in. I bought a pig's ear from the market, her favourite. In the van on the way she drooled at the scent.

Once there, I walked down the hallway, holding it out, and she scuttled in after me, ears flat, tail between legs. Success! She settled down in the kitchen with her reward, and I stuck the kettle on. Jules hovered around, sticking her peroxide blonde head in and out of cupboards, commenting on the differences between my place and hers. Mine was better, apparently. You could have some brill parties up here, Elise.

All this space? I wish we had three bedrooms. Jules shared a one-bedroom flat with her boyfriend's Rob, their whip-it, Wraith, and three cats. Mog 1, mug 2 and mug 3. At least, that's what I called them. I won't be so bothered by the noises now I know you're in here. I squished a tea bag on the side of the mug and plopped it in the sink.

Noises? Yeah, weird noises at night. They echo through the flats. It's hard to tell where they're coming from exactly. Some nights. She took a drag on her siggy, the ends. stained purple with a lipstick, then continued. I'd swear there was someone in here.

Right, thanks for telling me that. I pulled a face, but I wasn't concerned. Old buildings make noise. So what? Jules was a hardcore goth. I loved the music and the makeup, but she was into everything. Horror films, ghost stories, fortune-telling. The idea of my flat being haunted clearly amused her,

but I wasn't going to entertain her on it. I pointed to the balcony and grinned. Thanks for that, by the way. It's brilliant. I'll lead the decision of which of my sad, neglected houseplants to put in it until later. Her flapwarming gifts to me was a huge plant pot, black of course, splattered with red squiggles. Jules rubbed her arms. Tell you what, you need to get a decent heater in here. It's bloody freezing.

It was late by the time I got around to sorting my bedroom out. I was folding T-shirts to the sound of the cure when something made me turn the volume down. From the corridor, Maddie growled. Something in my abdomen shifted, and I searched for a weapon. The pitch of Maddie's growls rose higher, and she began to whine. Then a crash, and Maddie's barks grew frenzied. I grabbed my chunky marble ash train edged into the hallway.

Hold silence, until Maddie haired toward me with frantic, little yips. I grabbed a collar and peeped into the living room. The balcony doors were wide open. The floor was a mess. My new pot plant was smashed to pieces. I walked in, picked up a fragment and examined it. Then I looked over the balcony rail to the pavement, 15 floors below. No way anyone could have climbed up here. Maddie must have broken the pot somehow. Was it you, Maddie? Did you see a bird? Not a rat, I hope. She gave a low growl.

What's the matter with you? You've never growled at me before. I found the dustpan and brush and swept up the mess while Maddie watched, head tilted to one side. I won't cry on my first night, I told myself. It didn't matter. It was just a flower pot and Maddie was just unsettled by the move. I pulled the balcony door shut with a shiver and made sure to lock it.

In bed at last, Maddie curled up on the end of my new striped duvet cover. and I ruffled her scruffy black and tan head. No doubt she'd work her way up the bed overnight, try and take it over. Since the breakup, I'd found it comforting to have her near at night. The sound of her breathing and little doggie smiles made me feel less alone. In the night, Maddie's growling woke me. Sh, it's okay. I thought she was dreaming, but she lifted her head and stiffened.

I squinted at the alarm clock. Two-53 a.m. Maddie was trembling. Her nervy wines grew louder and turned to insistent little barks. Then she sat bolt upright and decided to go for it, full pelt. Jesus, Maddie, what is it? I turned the light on, my stomach churning like a washing machine as I checked around the flat. Nothing, but Maddie continued to bark.

I did my best to calm her, and eventually, after a few shaky whimpers, she settled down. I found my chunky ash tray, so much for cutting down on the fags, lit a cigarette, and watched the little light burn down in the darkness. Within a few days, Jules and I got into the routine of taking our dogs out for a morning walk together on the local field. Were you throwing toys for Maddie in the middle of the night? Why would I do that? Well, whatever you were doing kept me awake. All the scuffling noises? It sounded like someone was running up and down your hallway.

I stopped walking and turned to face her. Are you making this up just to freak me out, Jules? No. Because if you are, it's not funny. Maddie's been going berserk every bloody night and it's driving me mad. I could do without anything else. She shook her head. Elise, I'm not making it up, honest.

Look, maybe it was someone downstairs. I told you I sometimes hear odd noises. Or maybe Maddie was in the hallway. playing with a toy by herself. Maddie sleeps in my room. She wakes up barking at exactly seven minutes to three every night. One of Jules thinly drawn black eyebrows rose behind her crimped fringe. Maybe that's just the time someone in the building gets home from work?

Always at 253. Jules shrugged. Maybe someone's central heating clicks on at that time. Maybe. Strange time to set the heating off, though. and I don't see why that would send Maddie Berser. Oi, Maddie! I staggered as Maddie charged through my legs.

Yes, because she's normally so well behaved. I groaned. Maddie had spotted a game of football in the distance. Maddie, heel! I tried my most authoritative tone of voice to no effect. I'd have to apologise to the players once a quarter. She loved to chase balls, and if she spotted one before I could slip her,

lead on, then that was it. Zoom. Dog gone. Back in the lobby, we bumped into Baldie Bill, the caretaker. As he left the lift, I remembered something. Bill, I've some letters for the previous tenant. Jave a forward in a dress. He hesitated and rubbed at his ear.

Just pop them into the office. I'll sort it out. A scratchy voice like dead leaves came from behind him. If it swore Mrs. Morgan right deceased on the envelope, send it back. A craggy-faced woman, layered in long skirts, coat and shawls shuffled out of the lift. Jules wrinkled her nose.

The woman pointed at me. What's with all the carry-on in the middle of the night? I, uh... And shot that damn dog up. I don't know what they were thinking when they let you in. She wandered away, muttering. What? Maddie threw a defiant bark at her back.

That night, Jules and Rob were going to a party that I had no desire to attend. My ex would be there with his new woman. By eight I was curled up in my huge grey armchair. It was old but comfy. Dad had showed up with it one day, saying they'd already been going to throw it out anyway so I may as well have it. Mam and Dad had been dead set against me moving in with him in the first place,

so there was no way was I going crawling back to them now. I was fine. I had chocolate, a bottle of merry-down cider and 20 embassy. I had a faithful hound, a VHS collection, and possibly a ghost, but I wasn't going to think about that. It was cold again, so I brought my duvet into the living room and snuggled up in front of the TV. Maddie attempted to get under the duvet with me, but eventually ended up outside it, flopped across my legs. Her warm body soothed me. I ran my fingers through her fur and talked to her about my ex, my parents, my skintness.

She was such a good listener. By the early hours I was watching a Kate Bush video. The one where a masked man shadows her every move. That was when something scraped at the living room door. I turned the sound off. Under the duvet, my blood chilled. Maddie grew taut. She jumped off my lap and faced the door, hackles up.

Little puffs of icy air rose from her nostrils. She snarled, long and low. The air filled with static. I wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. Maddie backed towards me, growling fiercely. Then she jumped. She snapped at the air. My chest tightened.

Then Maddie charged towards the balcony and hurled herself at the glass doors. I let go of the duvet. I've been clutching it so tightly that my fingers hurt. An odd smell looked at my nose, like a struck match. Maddie whined and scrabbled at the balcony door. It's okay, Maddie. I cuddled her, robbed and soothed the thick fur around her neck,

until she calmed down enough to give my face a few stinky dog-breath licks. By morning I'd convinced myself that it had just been a few creaks. Just some of those noises old buildings make. Rats at worst. I was getting freaked out by the trivial things because I was on my own. Maddie was sensitive to my feelings. The heating system was ancient. That was why I was always freezing.

Everything was explainable. Bad dreams were just bad dreams It was a day or two later When I caught up with the old woman from the lift I spotted her on the road Heading back from the newsagents She was making a painful show Of lugging four carrier bags home

Would you like some help? She grimaced, which I took as a yes And I picked up the bags which were full of tins By the time we reached the lifts I was glad to drop the bastards Amidst the scent of ammonia I asked a stupid question So

What happened to the woman before me? She narrowed her beady eyes. Went over the balcony. After that, every time I ventured onto the balcony, I couldn't help but looked down and imagine how Mrs. Morgan's body had looked after it hit the ground. Depression poured at me. I dreaded winter. It was freezing up here already.

The heating didn't work properly, but the guy the council sent round insisted there was nothing wrong with it. I kept music or the television on constantly, but nothing lifted the atmosphere. Only Maddie. She made sure I got up in the mornings. Some nights I'd wake and think someone was in the room. My breath frosted the air as Maddie's tense growls echoed. One night I woke sure something had clutched my leg. Another night I woke with the sensation of cold hands around my throat. Just vivid dreams, I told myself.

Just anxiety. Thoughts of Mrs. Morgan, Norris. at me. One evening, Jules brought a psychic round. These days everyone's heard of the flamboyant, clairavoyant, Vince Kinsella. But back then he was just Vinny, an old mate of Rob's who told fortunes of parties. Jules had told him a flat had a strange atmosphere, and that I was having bad dreams. I brought Vinny to do an exorcism, was how she put it when I opened the door.

Vince Kinsella was a skinny goth, white-faced with crimped black hair. He wore a long coat and pointy buckled shoes. It was nothing like the smart-suited silver-haired guy who now makes appearances on the ghostly channel, tours theatres and predicts the future in spooky true-life mags. I was sceptical, but made us all tea and passed the custard creams round. I relayed what old Joan downstairs had told me about the previous tenant. Mrs Morgan had unexpectedly discharged herself from a psychiatric ward,

walked home in the middle of the night, and found her husband in bed with someone else. else. She then ran screaming through the flat and jumped off the balcony. Vince thought that explained things. If you feel her presence, tell her to go to the light. Say it clearly and firmly. I doubt she means you any harm. At my raised eyebrow, he sighed and put his tea down on the upturned tea chest I used as a coffee table. I'll see what I can pick up. Could you lower the lights in here, please?

I lit some candles, put one on the tea chest, two on the mantelpiece. As I was about to switch the overhead light off, the temperature dipped, and Vinny turned as grey as the armcherry sat in. I'd heard that people's faces can change colour in an instant, but I'd never seen it happen before. I have to go. And that was it? He left. His tea was still hot.

Jules ran after him. Good job I've got you for company, eh, Maddie? We settled down in front of the telly yet again. She dropped her chin onto my knee and gave an offended wine. It had been hard to get the tenancy of this flat. I imagine the look on the council official's face if I asked to be rehoused due to a haunting. Moving back in with my parents wasn't feasible.

Even if I could put up with their smug, I told you so looks they would never put up with Maddie's molting. They were extremely house-proud. Next day I collected some photos from the chemists. The camera had been lying around in my room and I'd noticed the film had been used up. I couldn't remember what half of them were, probably picks taken on nights out,

me, Jules, Rob and assorted others. There might be some of the X on there too. I decided to drop in on Jules. We could look at them together and maybe she could tell me what had freaked Vinny out so much. In her kitchen she made us coffee. Vinny saw something. He didn't want to say what in front of you?

He didn't want to frighten you. Oh, great. What was it? She scrunched her mouth up and looked at her mug. Are you enjoying this? Come on, Jules. Spill the beans. I have to live there.

He said, he saw a woman run past. Said she was being chased. I frowned. The ghost of Mrs. Morgan, I suppose. Who was chasing her? Her husband? No. Jules chewed her lip.

He said he wasn't sure it was even human. He said it was old. She lowered her voice to a whisper. Ancient. He said he's never seen anything like. He was terrified. I stayed in Jules' flat for the rest of the day. Apart from a quick walk, Maddie got left on her own

because of her tendency to hassle Jules' cats. I scoured the Ferrent section of the local page. everywhere was either too expensive or wouldn't allow pets. Day turns to evening. Evening turns tonight. You can stay here tonight if you want, you know, keep on the sofa. Next door, Maddie barked. Thanks, but it's all right.

I've left Maddie on her own long enough. I best get back. It'll be okay. Not sure who I was trying to convince. I picked up my bag. Oh, I forgot. Photos! I pulled them out and waved them at her with a grin. We went through them, laughing and exclaiming.

Then Jules stopped. She frowned and stared at me, mouth open. What's this? She handed me the picture. It was dark, so I'd skimmed past thinking it was under-exposed. There were a few that hadn't developed properly. It was me, asleep in bed, under my new duvet. How?

The word stuck in my throat. Air pressed in on me. I can't go back, Jules. I can't go back in there. Jules put her hand on my shoulder. It's okay. You don't need to. When Rob gets back, we'll send him next door for Maddie.

You can both stay here tonight. We'll sort something out. Nodding, I sniffed and wiped my nose on my hand. Rath the Wippet appeared at my side, whimpered and licked my hand. Maddie barked again. Rob worked in a city centre pub. He wouldn't be back until after midnight.

I should go and fetch her. I'll just grab her and come straight back. Jules stood with me by my front door, paler than usual. I took a deep breath before turning the key. When it opened, there was that weird smell again. Sulfurous, like matches. Maddie? The end bedroom door that faced the front door.

The one I always kept shut tight because... because the flat was so drafty, was wide open. I ran down the hall to the living room. Maddie, where are you? I had to get out. I needed air. I see fingers wrapped around my throat. I clutched my neck.

The balcony door was open. I ran through it. Maddie appeared next to me, barking madly. I clung onto the rail and gulped in cool breathfuls of air. Every detail of what happened next has remained clear in my mind ever since. Something shoved me. Hard in the back. If the rail had been any lower,

or if I hadn't been holding it so tightly, I'd have gone over. Something rolled up the ridges of my spine. Pressure on the back of my neck pushed my head forward. I stared down at the brown. Fighting it, I pulled back and looked into Maddie's eyes. Her head was level with mine. She was being lifted over the balcony. I've replayed it so many times.

Everyone says she must have jumped, but she didn't. I saw it. I still dream about her. Joy fills me as I see her face. But then I remember, in slow motion her body silently bucks and rides through the air. Her huge dark eyes hold mine, filled with fear and confusion. She falls away from me. My hands stretch out, but it's too late.

She plummetes to the ground and hits the concrete. Everything turns red. I moved back in with mum and dad the next day. Whenever I walk past the supermarket where the heights used to be, a search for the spot of sky where I once lived. What happens to ghosts when buildings get demolished? Where is that ancient being now? I still think of myself as logical and down to earth,

but these days my mind is more open than it used to be. The playing field where Jules and I walk the dogs is still there. At the edge sits an old oak tree. On its trunk the words, RIP Maddie, are carved deep into the center of a heart. After that haunting tale, we'll take a quick break, and we'll...

What is that? If we don't take emergency action, the Nebulon fleet will attack with their full Quasar force. Wait a sec. What's Atticus doing in the next room? Engage tractor beams and fire up the neutron resistors. We'll show those nebutards we mean business. Atticus, what the heck of you do?

I asked you to get prepped to record an ad this week. Right. That's what I'm doing. You said we're talking about a space station, so I've built a replica of the ship guarding it. No, no, no, no, silly. I said ship station. Ship station is the perfect solution for online sellers who want to make it super easy to manage and ship all their orders from all their sales channels faster, cheaper, and more efficiently. Oh, I get it. Ship station is exactly what's needed these days because more.

people are shopping online than ever. Like, I bought all these space props online. You said our budget was like 10 grand, right? 10,000? Oh, forget it. I'll deal with you later. The point is many people are selling stuff from their own homes. Their art, crafts, apparel, the market is booming. No matter where you're selling, Amazon, Etsy, your own website, ship station funnels all your orders into one simple interface that you can manage from anywhere, even your cell phone. You'll even get access to amazing discounts with major carriers, including UPS, FedEx, and USPS. Easily compare carriers and choose the best solution every time. With ShipStation, small businesses can now access the same rates usually reserved for Fortune 500 companies without the contracts or commitments. It's no wonder

Ship Station has more five-star reviews than any other shipping software. And with Ship Station, you'll spend a lot less time on shipping and a lot more time growing your business. Ship more in less time. Just use our offer code, no sleep, to get a 60-day free trial. That's two months free of no hassle, stress-free shipping. Just go to shipstation.com, click on the microphone at the top of the page, and type it no sleep. That's shipstation.com. Enter offer code, no sleep.

Make ship happen. Now, while the listeners return to the horror, I want you. you to explain how you spent all that money. Code Red. Beam me down to vector base alpha. Stat. Atticus, get back here. Women are regularly judged on their looks.

Expected to make an effort, expected to be presentable at all times. So it's no wonder that a disfiguring injury could especially cause body dysmorphia in a woman. And in this tale, shared with us by author S.H. Cooper, it's even more impactful because the woman is dead.

Performing this tale are Alexis Bristow, Danielle McCrae, and Matthew Bradford. So if you wear them, take your glasses off. Maybe it'll blur the lines between reality and nightmare. Or at least it'll stop you getting too close a glimpse of the shy lady. You can only see her when you can't see her. There are a lot of theories surrounding her. She was a great beauty who died of a wasting disease that left her hideous in death. She was attacked by a spurned suitor and committed suicide after he disfigured her face.

She was murdered and mutilated to keep people from identifying her. Whichever version of her untimely end is given, what follows is always the same. When the shy lady appears, you're in trouble. No one knows how or why she picks her victims. They can be a man or woman. child or adult, any race create a religion. The only thing that links them is their bad eyesight. She waits until they've taken off their glasses or removed their contacts before she makes herself known.

Always standing at a distance. Always just out of clear view. Descriptions are vague, but it's been said that she seems to be wearing some kind of dress. White or red, it varies. And she has long, pale hair. Could you love a creature like me? she asks. Don't say yes. If you do, she'll pull you into a bone-breaking embrace and squeeze the life out of you. Don't say no. If you do, she'll fly into a fit of rage and you'll end up a cut-up mess that only dental records can identify. If you run, she'll just show up again later to get her answer. I didn't know any of this. Not until the first time I saw her. Or rather, saw her. I've been nearsighted my whole life and can't see more than a few inches in front of my face.

Without my glasses, my eyeballs are pretty much just for decoration. The only times I don't have them on are when I'm sleeping or showering. It was when I was doing the ladder that I first encountered the shy lady. I was in the middle of washing my hair and singing nonsense down at the brown blur that was my dog, Samwise, lying on the bath mat just outside the frosted glass shower door. He could be a high, strong critter at the best of time. so when I heard his first growl, I didn't think anything of it. A bird could chirp a mile away and he'd be grumbling about it.

The whimper that came after was more unexpected. And when he started clawing at the shower door, desperate to get in, I knew for sure something was wrong. As I started to turn toward him, a flash of color from the door which was opened into my bedroom, caught my eye. Red. I had no red in my bedroom. It was all white with splashes of purple. something my sister teased me endlessly about when she visited.

What I found calming and peaceful, she found sterile. But now there was red. I almost slipped with how fast I jerked around. Between my fuzzy eyesight and the opaque glass, how I could see was a human-shaped blur in shades of red sitting on the end of my bed. Allison? It felt dumb, leaving my mouth.

My sister lived a thousand miles away. There was no way she'd be in my house, sitting in my room. The figure on my bed hadn't moved. I began to try and rationalize it. I'd left a dress out without remembering it. My husband had snuck flowers in a really, really tall red vase into our room before he left for work.

Something he'd never done before, but no time like the present to start, right? Samwise continued to claw wildly at the shower door. Could you love a creature like me? Samwise howled. I screamed. I'd learned a long time ago that the best spot for my glasses

was always within rage, and I was never more grateful for that lesson than in that moment. I snatched the plastic case I kept in the shower and snapped it open to grab my glasses. By the time I'd put them on, the woman was gone.

There was no work for me that day. Just checking that all the doors and windows were locked, looking for signs of a break-in and searching every square inch of my house for any shred of evidence. anyone but myself and my husband had been inside. Of course, there was none, and I was left doubting whether I'd actually seen anything at all. It was that doubt that made me keep the experience to myself. I didn't even mention it to my husband Alex when he came home that night. He would have

listened, been supportive, offered insight into what I might have seen, but I didn't want that. I just wanted to forget how deeply unsettled I'd felt, how that voice had made myself. How that voice had made my skin crawl if there'd actually been any voice at all. Samwise had been barking so much and the water was running. I could have interpreted a completely innocent sound as words. I've read somewhere that brains do that sometimes. Same with finding faces and objects. We try to humanize things. Alex and Sam Wise went to bed before me that night. I stayed up to watch the tail end of the movie we'd started. At some point, I started to doze off and took my glasses off to rub my eyes.

The moment they'd been removed, and the room became a swirl of colors and vague shapes, I heard her again. Could you ever love a creature like me? The question came from the kitchen behind me. It was dark, barely lit by the glow of the TV screen, and I could barely see anything except a slash of red against the shadows. She was closer this time.

My throat constricted painfully. cutting off the yelp that was trying to force its way out. Instinctively, I shoved my glasses back on while reaching for the table lamp. Once again, she was gone as soon as I could see clearly, but this time a quiet, frustrated hiss lingered where she had been. Alex was confused and then concerned when I leapt into bed and shook him awake. He let me ramble on about what I'd seen in silence, nodding every now and again to let me know he was still listening.

I told him I thought the house was haunted. he laughed. Out of all the reactions that I might have gotten, that was the last one I expected. I was hurt that he wasn't taking me seriously, and when he saw that, he took my hand and apologized. It's just not like you. What isn't?

Not to get so wrapped up in a story. When I just stared blankly at him, he continued. You remember when I told you about the shy lady? We'd watch that show about urban legends. You asked if I'd remembered any from when I was a kid. I didn't, but I had had a few beers before then, maybe too many looking back on it. You know, you can only see her when you can't see her. That one.

She haunts people with bad eyesight or something. I don't really remember the details. So, you're telling me... Your imagination is working overtime. I let Alex go back to sleep after he comforted me a bit, but I had trouble making myself turn out the light and take off my glasses. I sat up in bed beside my husband. Samwise curled up between us and hugged my pillow to my chest. Slowly, hesitantly, I slid my glasses halfway down the bridge of my nose

until I could just peer over the top of them. My heartbeat was so loud, I'm surprised Alex didn't wake up again. She was there, standing at the foot of the bed, a blur of red and pale yellow so close she could reach out and grab my leg. When she spoke, her raspy whisper had gone for her. I'm sad to simmering. Could you ever love? Samwise stirred, his hackles raised.

I pushed my glasses up quickly. My vision was perfectly clear again, and the shy lady was gone. I laid a hand on Samwise's head, both to comfort him and to take comfort from his sturdy little presence, and tried to calm my shuddering breathing. Whatever Alex wanted to believe, I knew what I'd seen. I knew I was being stalked by something and that it was getting closer and angrier every time I saw it. My glasses didn't come off again for a long while. I read a lot online in the next few days.

Anything and everything even remotely related to the shy lady. I learned the various rumors about her origin. What supposedly happened when you answered her question, a certain fate that seemed to follow her sightings. But that couldn't be all there was to it. people knew about her. There had to be a way to escape her. All anyone said was that you had better invest in some 24-hour wear contacts.

When I grilled Alex for more details, he just shrugged and said the only thing he remembered was that she chose people with bad eyesight to avoid being really seen. You can only see her when you can't see her. I don't know if it was brave or stupid what I did next, but after hearing that she didn't want to be seen, I got an idea in my head.

The next time I was home alone, I locked Sam Wye safely in my room, where he whined and pawed at the door, as if he knew what I was going to do. I turned on every light in my house, despite it being the middle of the day, and I pulled one of the dining table chairs over to the wall. Once I'd sat down,

my back to the wall, and the house opened up in front of me, I took a deep breath and removed my glasses. I'd barely gotten them off before I heard her. her angry and growling. Could you ever love a creature like me? She was only feet away, still blurry and indistinct, but obviously a woman. I could see deep red lines, the same shade as her dress, running across the pale skin of her face.

Her breath was slow, gurgling, and sour. My nails bit into the seat of my chair as I clutched it, both to keep myself from running, and from putting my glasses back on. Samwise was shrieking from the bedroom. The door shook as he clawed and leapt at it. Could you ever love a creature like me? She wanted her answer. The shy lady and I stared at each other.

I was almost afraid I wouldn't be able to speak. My voice shook when I finally forced the words out. Let me get a better look at you. Come closer. She howled and said, swept backwards. Her hands were in front of her face. It seemed to be working. Emboldened by my success, I stood and dared to take a step toward her. The shy lady coward further away. I continued walking toward her, convinced that at any moment my legs would give out and I'd collapse. She continued

to shrink away, weeping and mulling until I'd backed her into a wall. Come closer! With a final, furious cry, She crumpled to the floor. I blinked, and she was gone. I'd never vomited from fear before, but I did then. All over our hardwood floors where she'd just been. I've not seen her since, but I still keep my glasses close at hand. Who can say if the trick I used once will be enough to ward her off a second time? Still, I wanted to pass my story on in case anyone else ever finds themselves in the presence of the shy lady.

At least now, you might have a chance to escape her. As we place the letters back in their envelopes, it's time to take our leave. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. 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 $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being ever curious. This audio production is copyright 2021 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.