The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E10

Episode Date: June 13, 2021

It’s Episode 10 of Season 16. Our correspondence marks a special anniversary.   “Hum” written by William Stuart (Story starts around 00:03:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Tommy – Kyle Akers, Jared – Elie Hirschman, Tommy Gibson – Matthew Bradford, Hum – Peter Lewis, Mom – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Dad – Graham Rowat, Uncle Joe – Mike DelGaudio “The Devil’s Dice” written by Mr. Michael Squid (Story starts around 00:30:40) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Atticus Jackson “Final Investment” written by Melissa Mason (Story starts around 00:46:40) Produced by: Jeff Clement Cast: Narrator – Jeff Clement, Jeff – Graham Rowat, Mrs. Turner – Nikolle Doolin “I Will Always Love You” written by Veronica Carhill (Story starts around 01:21:10) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Fairy of Love – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Patience – VR, Fairy of Chaos – Sarah Ruth Thomas “The Hand You’re Dealt” written by Frank Oreto (Story starts around 01:52:05) Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett, Crane – Mick Wingert, Rod – Atticus Jackson, Lodden – David Cummings, Fitzhugh – David Ault, Knock – Peter Lewis “Someone Special” written by Paula Hammond (Story starts around 02:40:15) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Mary Murphy, Louis – Peter Lewis, 911 dispatcher – Atticus Jackson     Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about William StuartClick here to learn more about Mr. Michael Squid  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “Final Investment” illustration courtesy of Miggea 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

In the dark hours, in the ante, 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. Into the sleepless hours, when you dare not close your eyes. for the no sleep. Welcome, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. It is indeed the 10th episode of our 16th season. And the number 10 is significant today.

This episode is being released on June 13th, 2021, which is 10 years to the day that the No Sleep podcast launched back in 2011. So the podcast is now officially 10 years old. We're celebrating the anniversary. by providing this episode in full, ad-free for everyone. Almost three full hours of our brand of audio horror storytelling. And if you check your feeds or our website,

you'll find a special 10th anniversary bonus episode for one and all. Another hour of audio horror as our way of thanking you for being a part of our first 10 years. That's four hours of horror for you to squirm, worm, worm, and churn your way through. I'll save most of my anniversary-themed comments for the bonus episode, but I do want to say that the past 10 years have been the most fantastical and wonderful experience of my life. I had no idea what was in store for me, lo those many years ago,

when episode one was released. Back then, it was almost a lark, a hobby, an experiment exploring the nascent days of this odd new medium called podcasting. And look how far we've come. and even though the early days had me doing most everything alone, I couldn't be more proud of the team that I've assembled over the years, many of whom joined us over eight years ago and who still share their talents with us regularly.

So to them, I give my sincerest thanks. And to you listeners, whether you're newly experiencing our show or have been with us from the start, we couldn't and wouldn't want to do it without you. Thank you for listening and experiencing the 10 years of all. horror, we hope, have kept you sleepless. So, for the 10 years of stories, of live shows, of live streams, of social media hijinks, and of those dark hours when you dare not close your eyes,

all we can do is hope there are many more years ahead. And all you have to do to experience our horror is, of course, brace yourself. And now, let's celebrate 10 years. Actually, given today's celebratory nature, I'm going to begin this episode with something a little different. Back in the very, very early days, Phil and I took Kyle Acres, Ellie Hirschman, Matthew Bradford, Peter Lewis, Sarah Thomas, Graham Rowett, and Mike Delgado on a mini tour. We always used to listen to this one song by a talented indie rock artist called Billy Stewart. We have so many fond memories listening to it, and I still have it on eight track. So I thought I'd share it with you as well. And then you play the tape back and you run your solos over it.

Oh, wow. That's so neat. Now listen, there are a few things you need to know, okay? Okay. First, there is no easy way to learn guitar. It's all practice and repetition. Don't let anyone tell you that you can just get good overnight or there's some secret formula or anything. Just work on the chords I showed you.

Try to make your fingers do what you tell them to do. Oh, but also, it's going to hurt a little bit. You see, your fingers are made for picking fruit and digging up grubs, not pressing down on metal wires all day. So you're going to get sore and you're going to get frustrated, you know? But I tell you, every one of us, even the guys on TV, we all went through it ourselves. Ain't nobody you ever heard on radio that didn't get a bruise or blister

on the end of their fingers every now and then. The thing is, to just keep practicing and always be working on something new. Uncle Joe, thank you so much. I've been saving up and bugging mom and dad, but... Well, they're busy with your little sister and all of that. And between you and me, your dad wasn't thrilled I even got you this. He wasn't? Well, let me ask you.

If you had a newborn baby in the house, would you want some little Tommy making a bunch of noise with an electric guitar all of the time? No. Me neither. But that's what he gets for the peanut butter incident. The what? Ask him about it after I leave. But give it a good hour or two before you do.

Okay. Oh, crud, we forgot to stop the tape. Huh? Ah, well, don't worry about it. Tape's cheap, you know. You know, and that's the thing. Hit record on everything. Like when you're learning or practicing,

especially if you get to the point where you're writing songs. It's like you can hear the stuff that you mess up on or you think you messed up on. And then listen back and realize, man, you were really. right in the zone. So just record it, you know? And if nothing else, it'd be fun to listen to when you're older. Man, I wish there were tapes of me and your dad when we were kids. Anyway, but for now, we can just go ahead and stop. Come here, Max. Come here. You know what, Max? It's time for a break. Go get your toy. Happy Christmas, man. Whoa, hey Jared. Merry New Year. I didn't even know you're back. We got home last night.

all over the backseat like he was dying. It was so gross. Wow, you got a guitar? Yeah. My Uncle Joe fixed up one of his old ones and gave me a couple lessons. Check it out. Well, I've only had it a couple days. Cool, because I got one too.

I haven't really had a chance to play it yet. But we just start a band. A band? A cool band with long hair and leather pants that gets all the girls like Motley Crew. I guess. Great. I've already got a name. Skull Crusher. I even made the logo in the car on the way home. It's got this skull getting smashed by a huge guy with a hammer. It's got fire. And, well, I haven't drawn them yet because my parents were right there, but it's going to have chicks with big boobs on there, too. Want to come over and see? I got a skateboard and some other stuff I haven't even opened yet. Okay. Tommy, honey, I need you to get ready, please.

Okay, Mom. Everything all right? That's fine. We just need to take little Jeannie to the doctor for her appointment, and I'll drop you off at Scouts on the way back. She sure cries a lot. Well, she's a little colicky, so we're taking her to the doctor to make sure she's not allergic to anything we're feeding her. But she's okay. Just get your stuff together so we can go. Yes, ma'am. Whoa. Show me how to do that. It's pretty easy. Just go like this.

Check this out. If you push the string behind the line here, it's Iron Man. Like the superhero? No, dickweed, like Black Sabbath, you know, Ozzy Osbourne? Shh, I'm not allowed to listen to that. My parents would kill me. Mine too. That's what makes it so fun.

But you know Tommy Gibson from science class? Yeah, other Tommy. Well, his brother is in high school and he listens to all kinds of cool stuff. He makes tapes for Tommy, and sometimes he lets me borrow them. What kind of stuff? All kinds. Iron Maiden, Aerosmith, Docking, Twisted Sister, Van Halen, you know, heavy metal, Motley Crew, stuff like that.

Can I borrow one of your tapes? Just for tonight. I'll get you one when we go to my house later. But you're really going to like it. It's so heavy, you know? Like it just makes you want to rock out. And crush skulls? Exactly.

Oh, and by the way, I already invited Tommy to be in Skull Crusher with us. He's got his brother's old drum set in the garage, so as soon as we learn guitars, we can go over there and practice. But don't worry about having the same name. He wants to come up with something different, like Killer Skull or something like that, so we don't have to worry about having two Tommies in the band. What if I wanted to be Killer Skull? I hadn't thought of that. But no, if having two Tommies in the band was a problem, we definitely can't have two Killer Skulls.

You better just stick with Tommy Fine But I'll only be Tommy If we can go to your house And get one of those tapes Let's go then Then maybe over to Tom I mean Killer Skull's house

His brother has all these posters With bikini girls on them If he's not home Tommy you'll show us Whoa Let's go I'm never really better No and then it's dead

And the finger goes And your house is like Crazy Town I know Jeannie never stops crying She's driving my parents nuts. What's wrong with her? Nothing. That's the problem. They take her the doctor like twice a week. Nobody can figure it out. Mom says some babies are just like that. Wow. So, did you learn it?

I've been working on it. I'm a little stuck at the middle part. Well, show me what you got. Um, maybe later. My fingers are all busted up from jamming. Let me have a go. It's not that hard. Where are you getting stuck? I'm not that good at the F-cord. I'm getting better at the other ones, but that one just... We need to get you down to the crossroads. I don't even know what that means. That's where Karate Kid sold his soul to the devil in return for being good at playing guitar. Oh, I haven't seen Part 2 yet.

No, Dufus, it's another movie. The guy from Karate Kid is just in it. That's what it's about. Is it good? I don't know. I haven't seen it. But Tommy Gibson told me it's based on the true story where this guy named Robert Johnson was so bad at guitar they kicked him out of the town. So he went to the crossroads and told the devil he'd give him anything he wanted if he would just make him good at guitar.

And the devil said, okay, give me your soul. And then Robert went back to the town and played the guitar so good that they let him stay, even though the preachers and some other people said, the only way a guy can get that good guitar is to sell his soul to the devil. But they still let him stay. So did he really get famous and live in a mansion and all that? I don't think so, but they let him back into the town. so he didn't have to sleep in the woods anymore, so that's pretty nice.

I guess. Still, I don't know if burning in hell forever is worth it. It would take a lot to give me to sell mine. Man, you'd sell it for one kiss from Jessica Barber. Ha-ha, very funny, shut up. Oh, Jess, I love your dress. I'm such a mess. Without you.

You're really cruising for a bruising. When I see you as cool, you're just too cool, but I'm just a fool without you. A real man, cut it out. No way, man. You know what we just did? What? We just wrote our first song for the band. No way.

That's not even funny. And besides, the fastest way to get killed by Clint Barber is to make fun of his sister. Oh, Tommy. How can I ever repeat? you for defending my honor against that horrible Jared. Oh, I might just faint right here. Oh, but wait, wasn't Jared the one who wrote the sweet song we're hearing on the radio? The one about me? And you tried to make him stop? Oh, Tommy, why? I love that song. And now I'll have to tell Clint to kill you for trying to stop it from being made. Boys, we're going to order pizza.

What do you want on yours? Pepperoni. Dad, can Jared sleep over? I don't see why not, but we've got church in the morning. You'll have to get up pretty early, so no up all night shenanigans, okay? Okay. Let's go to my house and get my stuff. Okay.

Wait, I have to stop the tape. You were taping that whole time? Yeah, it's a thing my uncle told me to do to get better at guitar. So we have a copy of our first song? That's radical. It's not our first song. Oh, Jess, I like your dress. I'm such a mess without you.

Oh, Jess, can you get a guess? Oh, oh, oh, just. Can you get a guess? Oh Jess, can you guess? Oh, Jess, can you guess? Oh, Jess, can you guess? Um, oh, Jess, my entrantress, my soul is possessed. You're always on my mind.

tear out my heart Make a new start Leave everyone behind When the devil appears We'll forget all our fears And with his powers be blessed Together we'll rule And we'll burn all the fools

and never again will I be without you Tommy Dinner coming mom Well it's not great but it's a start Guess I'm writing songs for the devil now And in the end We will win With my master's power

It's God's final hour Yeah Yeah. Uh, so, what do you think? It's, uh, good. It's just, isn't your family, like, really churchy? Where are you coming up with this? It's not that hard.

I'm just taking things out of the book of Revelation and kind of rewriting it. Rewriding it where the devil went? Yeah, mostly. I mean, I think it's pretty rad. Kind of like a scary movie. I don't know, man. I'm just here for the girls. I don't know if singing prayers to Satan is the best way to see Claire Sadler with her shirt off.

Jared, the name of the band is Skull Crusher. What the hell am I supposed to write about? Good point. Well, it's not like anyone ever understands the words anyways. And that's what my dad says every time I'm listening to music. Nah, well, that the hell. Just try to write something pretty and romantic, too, if you can. Also, dude, do you have a metronome at home?

I don't know what that is. It's this thing that clicks a rhythm to help you play in time. I've got one. I'll let you borrow it, but your guitar is kind of all over the place. Sorry, I'm not feeling so good today. It's okay, man. Just need to tighten up some. The clicker will help.

Okay. Listen back to your tape when you get home. You'll see how Jared's guitar changes with the beats, and yours is always either a little fast or a little bit slow. I mean, it's not really bad, but it kind of makes the songs lame. You good lyrics, though, thumbs up on those. So do we want to run through it again? Nah, I need to be getting home.

Let me get you the metronoma. Guitar. Stupid chair and stupid corpse. Why is it so hard? Why can't get my stupid fingers to work? Stupid everything. Shut up, Max. For God's sake, stop barking.

Max, shut out. Stupid dog. Stupid baby, stupid everything. Why is everything so stupid? Why can it just be normal? Why can everyone just be normal? Just shut the hell up. Who's there?

Tommy. Tommy. Who's doing that? Who are you? What's you like? Jared is... Is that you? What's going on?

You... Did I call? Is this Jared doing something with the walkie-talkie again? It's not funny. I'm having a really bad day. I... Are you coming... From...

The amp? Am I dreaming? Who are you? I am the one you. Um, are you, um, like, the devil? Yes. Uh, uh, oh, God. Oh, God.

Um, in the name of Jesus, um, get thee behind me, Satan. Yes, I do. I command you to go away. You say you do not. I mean it with your heart. You don't really want me to go away. You want to know why I'm here. You want to know what I want, firstly.

You want to know what... I'm scared. You should be. What do you want from me? I want for nothing. It is you who want. You have summoned me. Jessica Barber?

You merely desire me. Me, surely you shall find one on your own. Eventually. You need not one such as I for something so inevitable. Not Jessica. She's a great older than me and dates football players. A girl like her would never go for a dork like me. Ah, what a quited love.

Story of the ages. Am I going to hell for talking to you? Most of your kind do anyway. You just get to choose your terms. You are about to be you must do to prove to me you want this favor. What do you want me to do? When you figure it out, you will know. Tommy, get your shoes on. We got to go.

Okay, dad. Get a move on, son. We're late. Coming. Hello? Oh, wait, Max! Wait. Come here, Max. Come here.

And in the end, you're my best friend. Our love will live forever. When you won by with a gleam in your eye, we will be you and me always together. Finally. No offense, Tommy, but you were kind of scaring me with all that devil shit. The band is called Skull Crusher, Jared. Skull Crusher, Jared.

I mean, he's right, though. This is one of your best. I can see this being on the radio. Tommy, telephone. Hey, boys. Tommy, have you seen Max today? Uh, no. Not since last night.

Did he get out again? Must have. Oh, well, he'll come home when he's hungry. Don't be on the phone too long. You have guests. Yes, ma'am. Back in a bit, guys. So my brother saw Robocop and said it was the best movie he's ever seen.

Ooh, I want to see it so bad. I heard there's a guy who gets totally melted by toxic waste and then splattered all over a car. So what are we going to do about? I don't know. I mean, he writes really good songs, but he can't play for shit. Maybe get him to learn bass? That's not going to help with the timing.

And that's the biggest problem. I think he just doesn't practice. I come over a lot, and his guitar is always in the same spot I left it the time before. It's always got dust on it. Well, whatever. We can talk about it after we leave. Yeah. That was the weirdest thing.

What happened? You know Cassie Schultz from 8th grade drill squad? Yeah. She's so hot. Yeah. That was her. For real? Why would she call you?

That's the weird part. She, uh, she said that, um, that, well, one of you must have told someone that I was writing songs about Jessica

Barber and like, her boyfriend fed out and got mad or something and they got in this big fight. And I don't know what all, but they broke up. And, um, Jessica thinks it's really romantic that someone in a band is writing songs about her. So she got Cassie to call and find out if it was true and wondered if I really liked her

because she always thought I was cute. No. way. I know. Dude, wait, wait, wait. You wrote like three verses to a song that's never been played all the way through, and now the hottest girl in the school is getting the second hottest girl in the school to call you and see if you like her because she likes you all of the sudden. Uh, I mean, I guess. I'm kind of, I don't know what's going on. You lucky son of a bitch. So lucky. Well, um, she and her friends are going up to the skating rink and want us to go hang out.

Really? Let's ficken go. I have to go home and change first. I'll get my mom to drop me off and see you all up there later. Hum? Are you there? I can't believe what happened. Yesterday I would have never had a shot at a girl like Jessica, and tonight she gave me my first kiss.

This. Thank you. It's everything I ever wanted. Everything. I mean, I think so. Humans find themselves wanting. more often than not. If you think about it

just a little bit, you will know what it is you want and what you must do to achieve it. Um, can I think about this? Take all the time you need. Your action are in the days to come.

When you have decided, I'll be right. Good night. Isn't that just an awesome song to road trip too? Now, Now, in our first tale, we meet a man who finds himself buying a mysterious box at a yard sale. Why? Who can tell? Maybe he likes to live dangerously. Maybe he likes a gamble. And in this tale, shared with us by author Mr. Michael Squid, gambling is exactly what this guy's going to find himself doing.

Performing this tale is Atticus Jackson. So tell yourself you'll start. that things are going too far. But who are you kidding? You'll find no sympathy here. Just one more roll. One more roll of the devil's dice. I found the rosewood box in an estate sale.

The building itself was a dilapidated old home at the edge of town that had been reclaimed by the bank. Something I was sure was going to happen to me, to be honest. I had been struggling financially after being laid off. I heard you could find some valuable treasures to resell at these events, and so there I was, hauling the curious box in my hands. It was locked, and there was no key. Just a rattle from inside.

How much? The man working the sales table by the door held up all ten of his stubby fingers. I was sure nothing of value was inside, but the wooden box might get me $50 online. I walked over and handed him a five, four ones, and four quarters. Everything else of possible value had clearly been picked off, so I sighed, trudged back to my car, and drove home with my new mystery box. When I got home, I went online to research how to pick open old locks. It didn't take long before I found some tutorials that showed how to do it with only a bobby pin.

I soon went to work on the brass tumbler. It took about 15 minutes of fiddling before the box snapped open. Inside was a pair of dice. They looked old, made of perhaps an ivory that had lost its luster. Upon further inspection, I determined they had to been made of carved bone. I picked them up, surprised by how smooth they were, aside from the indented blood-red dots. I gave the dice a roll onto my coffee table.

A one and a two landed face up, giving me a three. They had a nice feel and weight to them. Maybe they were worth something. Hopefully the box would be, at least. I went to bed that night with a glimmer of hope that they'd fetch me some money. I sleep face down, mind you, with my right hand under my pillow and my right cheek flat against that. When I rustled from whatever unpleasant dream awoke me, I felt something touched my hand. Something moving. I yelped and quickly sprang up. Lifting the pillow, I yelled at the side of

what was there. There were three human teeth beneath my pillow, brown with rod and crawling with tiny black beetles reminiscent of pillbugs. I later learned they were carrion beetle larva. At the time, I was far more concerned with how they got there. I probed my teeth with my tongue, finding none missing, but I rushed to the bathroom mirror anyway. I opened my mouth to find every molar and bicuspid in place. They were not my teeth. Questions as to how they got there stirred and uneasiness grew. Did someone break in my house and do this? How could they have gotten in? I reased around my apartment, checking the windows and front door. All were all. I was a little bit. I locked. There was no sign of any intruder. I fetched a dustpan and swept up the stained teeth,

as well as the tiny clamoring insects. I tossed the teeth in the trash and dumped the beetles out the window before locking it once again. I then walked into the living room and saw the coffee table and the two dice glaring up at me with those three red markings. The same number of teeth I'd found under my pillow. As the day progressed, I eventually began to calm down. I went about my day, applying for jobs and deferring payments as best I could. When I left to check my mailbox, however, I stared in disbelief. Three crisp $100 bills were in there, no envelope or explanation. It was impossible to ignore. I'd rolled a three, and I'd found three. I'd found three. You'd found three teeth and $300 bills. Now, I need to emphasize here the fact that I am a skeptic to the bone.

I do not believe in anything supernatural. I expected this to be an elaborate prank of sorts. Still, I needed that $300 at the moment. My pocketed the cash and returned indoors to the two dice on the table. I picked them up again. I shook the money. I shook the money. the dye, feeling their weight as they rattled in my hands before rolling them onto the coffee table. When they came to a stop, each displayed three diagonal blood red eyes. Six. Paranoia set in, and I scoured the dark shadows of my apartment. I looked under the table. I sensed a coldness and emptiness. I felt an uneasiness in my stomach like something was wrong, but I couldn't quite put finger on it. Nothing happened, however, and the hours passed until the day was done.

That night, I checked my place thoroughly, searching under my pillows, and in every nook and cranny. I made sure the locks on the doors and the windows were secure, and I eventually drifted off to sleep. When I woke up, I felt something wet and sticky on my hand. I lifted the pillow to see six bloody teeth, each with twinning roots clinging to congealed red pulps of gum and blood. I screamed and quickly got up while contemplating what to do about the gore-strewn horror staining my bed. I could call the police, but what would I say? That some deranged tooth fairy was summoned by a pair of dice? That I found money? They would most likely confiscate as evidence, and pulled teeth matching my rolls?

Or worse, what if I was charged for some terrible mutilation? Or murder? I wrapped the sheets into a ball and quickly dressed, then lugged the stained bedding to the dumpsters and tossed it all in with a dull thud. I checked the mailbox on my way back in, and within it topped the junk mail and enveloped past due. There were six bills,

Six perfectly flat, fresh off the press, $100 bills. I glanced each side, making sure nobody was watching, before stuffing them into my pocket and returning indoors. I was conflicted. I knew that these teeth had to have come from someone. Someone, somewhere, unwillingly, must have had them removed. But as far as the actual evidence went, there was nothing. solid to prove it.

I had culpable deniability. I won't say it wasn't greedy, but I did what you most likely would have done had you been in my shoes. I continued rolling the dice. I cast the dice every day that week. One day, I got snake eyes, two bloody circles glaring up at me from those carved bone cubes. The next day I rolled a five into two, seven. Each number would coincide with the number of teeth and the number of $100 bills I would find in my mailbox.

With each day that passed, my bank balance increased and I was able to chip away at my debts. But the state of those teeth appeared progressively more forceful in their extraction. The teeth under my pillow contained more meat, were gum tissue, nerves, and soon enough even chips of bone with each consecutive day. As the week reached an end, I rolled a ten, and when I woke up, I found ten teeth under my pillow. Just not as I had expected. There were ten of them snugly set in their corresponding sockets of a gum in a red, skinless human lower jaw.

The pillow and sheets were soaked through with blood. The mattress, too. Whoever's jaw this belonged was, they were likely dead. And recently so. I swore I was finished then and there. I fetched my mail, retrieving the thousand dollars in cash and sobbed at the disturbing reality of the situation. But there was something else, too. A small endorphin rush had occurred so subtly each time I picked up the dice.

It was like a drug. I made it three days without touching those damn dice. And in those days, I felt withdrawal symptoms. I was shivering and scratching incessantly. I couldn't stop shaking. And my body was wracked with the most serious aches I had ever felt. I knew I had to roll them. There was no fighting it.

I used some of the money to set up a camera on my desktop to monitor my bedroom during the night. I finally picked up that pair of dice again, and I immediately felt my ailing body returned to normal. A sweeping euphoria, unlike any, I'd experienced, rushed into my previously aching bones. A bliss graced me when I tossed them. A floating warmth that hugged me, welcoming me back. There was no doubt in my mind then that this physical dependency was real. I looked down at the two numbers staring up at me from those red holes in the bone dice. I'd rolled a pair of sixes.

Twelve. That night I slept more soundly than I ever had before. Before I looked under my pillow the next morning, I felt a cold wave of fear, dreading what I might find. I just knew something worse was waiting there for me. When I worked up the courage to lift the pillow, I was right. There were ten severed human fingers under the pillow, crudely hacked from just above the knuckle. There was so much blood, it was trickling down the side of my mattress.

Among the mess of bloody digits were two glistening orbs trailing braids of muscle. Two human eyes staring up at me. I screamed. I watched the footage. It was just me sleeping until 3.33 a.m. When my head, flat against the pillow, raised slightly before lowering back down. Nothing else. Nobody came in or out of my room.

Any part of my mind that shut out spirituality or religion finally caved in. Something very dark was at play. I wanted nothing to do with it. I needed to get rid of the dice. After again hauling the disturbing mess of my bedding to the bend, I placed the pair of dice back into that ornately carved wooden box. careful not to disturb the numbers. I carried it out to my backyard and with my shovel,

I dug a hole four feet deep. I placed the box down within and shoveled dirt on top until it was no longer visible. I patted it down hard with the flat blade to compact the soil, and I even dispersed grass over top to make sure it was hard to identify where those awful dice were buried. I didn't trust myself to not dig them up. again. I prayed it was the end of it. I cried myself to sleep that night, but it was over.

That brings me to this morning. Two days of vomiting and the shakes later. I woke up today with an excruciating sting in my jaws. I winced with pain as I peeled my sticky face from my pillow, which was soaked through with dried blood. I staggered to the bathroom and investigated the mirror with shock and disgust. My whole face was caked red. The coppery taste of my blood both bitter and pungent. I opened my aching mouth to see the raw mess of red jelly and empty sockets were four of my teeth that had been removed.

I panicked, looking around my apartment, but found no sign of an intruder. I watched the recording, seeing nothing but my head shaking with a few violent jerks before the pillow began staining red. I scrambled into my clothes and ran outside into the yard. I walked over to the plot of land I'd bury those damned dice under and stood there with a rapidly beating heart. My stinking jaw gap. The wind stung my exposed sockets and torn gums as they looked at the disrupted earth and emptier than hole. The box of dice was gone. Then the revelation hit me like a pail of ice water.

It was someone else's turn to roll them now. Ah, those two brothers, you know the ones. The ones who were always notorious in your neighborhood as kids, getting up to missus. friendly, likable even, but you knew to stay away. The leader and the follower, just don't fall in with them. But in this tale, shared with us by author Melissa Mason, we join these not-so-righteous brothers when they're a little older, when they've reconnected, when they're on their last con.

Performing this tale are Jeff Clement, Graham Rowett, and Nicole Doolin. So be careful who you scam, because they might just scam you back. Make sure you plan out your final investment. In return for stealing her life savings, the old lady gifted us with a family heirloom. Such nice boys. I can't thank you enough. Mrs. Turner gently patted the head of a white Pomeranian,

snoozing in her lap, and slid a metallic object across the worn. coffee table. It joined a check edged with tiny pink and purple flowers. The crisp paper displayed doubled the amount she'd given us last time. My brother Jeff smoothly tucked the check into the pocket of a leather folder. As he lifted the heirloom for inspection, Mrs. Turner's dog raised its head to look at him. An owl-shaped pendant glinted in Jeff's palm. Two featureless silver disc sat atop a small brass oval, giving the bird a blank gaze. Intricate patterns of filigree formed each wing, and a long stick pin adorned the back.

A copper-colored necklace chain spilled out between his fingers. What a beautiful piece. Isn't an antique? The owl's eyes reflected Jeff's perfect smile. At 19, my brother lost several teeth to my neighbor's fist after breaking in his garage. Seven years later, Jeff turned up on the doorstep of my run-down Detroit studio apartment with a California tan and flawless dental work. My brothers offered to help open a Michigan branch of his company felt like a miracle. Cleaning floors on midnight shift for a year barely paid rent, let alone college tuition. I should have known Jeff couldn't run a legit business, but it wasn't

until I was a semester deep into classes, working part-time as my brother's sole employee, before I realized the true nature of his company. Mrs. Turner nudged a towering plate of cookies toward us. She took a sip of coffee from a ceramic mug and gestured at the jewelry. My grandmothers, she brought it back from a trip to Asia, I think, supposed to bring a gift to the wear. See the wing patterns? Those are carmic knots.

The filigree interlaced in dozens of squarish loops. Beautiful, but trying to trace the pattern made my head hurt. Forgot all about it until the day of Bill's funeral. Mrs. Turner's gaze shifted to a nearby photo of her late husband. Smiling pictures of them hung between framed awards, honoring their decades of charity work. Wore it to the service, and that evening, Sugar greeted me from the front porch

like she lived here all her life. My little spirit animal, aren't you, sweetie? She patted the Pomeranian again. Sugar swished her tail once, but continued staring at my brother. As if on cue, Jeff materialized a treat from the pocket of his red Stanford University jacket. He leaned forward, brown hair gelled into a neat plastic shell, and offered it to the dog.

Sugar didn't respond. After a long, awkward pause, Mrs. Turner apologized and took the treat from him. At least there was someone in the room able to resist Jeff's tricks, even if she wasn't human. I masked a smile by shoving another cookie into my mouth. oatmeal melded with sweet bursts of raisin on my tongue. Mrs. Turner baked them just for our visit. She was like one of those pleasant, rosy-cheeked grannies I thought only existed on holiday specials on TV.

It felt like stealing from Mrs. Claus. So say something. Tell her the stocks went down. Speaking up to help someone this nice should be easy. But as usual, my brain's command resulted in silence and an increased heartbeat. As Sugar finally gulped down her treat, Mrs. Turner studied the owl pendant. Her brows drawn together over thick glasses. You can remove the chain and just wear it as a pin.

I hope it's not too girly for you. An excellent opening to refuse an excessive gift. I took a breath and managed a mumbled protest, but it washed away under Jeff's enthusiastic acceptance. Not at all. He made a show of pinning the owl on his jacket atop the Stanford tree logo. It looked ridiculous, but Mrs. Turner clasped her hands in delight like a child. Oh, that's perfect.

Did I ever tell you Bill graduated from Stanford? Oh, she had. Over a dozen times. It was the sole reason Jeff ordered his coat. Sugar turned her attention to me. Her gaze felt oddly heavy for such a petite ball of fluff. I tried to push away the thought of how much of her owner's money we'd lost already by mentally reciting the formula for population's standard deviation.

Jeff thought it was weird, but math calmed me. The old lady chattered amicably with my brother. That charm must still work because it brought me you to 24% interest. That's more than you estimated the first time I invested. You can't even look her dog in the eyes for crying out loud. Say something. I concentrated on another formula and cleared my throat.

There's something important you should know about the stocks. I mean, some of them went down. It came out forced and overly loud, like a kid trying to get his parents' attention at a party. I forged ahead. My brother flashed his teeth and clapped my shoulder hard enough to knock the rest of the words from my lips. Down a little last week, but then they skyrocketed through the roof.

Tommy here deserves most of the credit. He's a stock market genius. PhD in statistics from Harvard. Mrs. Turner turned her happiness beam on me, eyes crinkling at the corners. Still grinning, Jeff shook me so hard my teeth ached. I relented and concentrated on getting a full breath into my lungs. The Pomeranian snorted, causing a little red bow on her head to bob back and forth. The color perfectly matched a thickly woven collar.

Complicated threadwork peaked out between the tufts of white fur, as the dog turned around once and tucked her head back into her owner's lap. The elderly woman regaled us with another rambling tale about her late husband before wishing us well. Are you off to see Bobby Dorner now?

He's the one who leads Wednesday evening prayer group. I told him all about your business and he can't wait to meet you. We gathered our things and traded Mrs. Turner's cozy living room for the freezing interior. of Jeff's chrome-trimmed BMW. He bought it barely a week after landing our first investors.

Heat blasted through the vents while we waited for the car to warm up. My brother pulled a sheet of paper from the leather folder and punched directions into the car's dashboard GPS before handing the dossier to me. The name across the top read Robert Dorner. Apparently, Mr. Wednesday Night Prayer Group was an avid hunter. A photo showed a red-haired man, framed by trees, kneeling next to a dead deer. He held the animal's head up by the antlers, grinning.

My stomach churned. I focused on the tiny snowflakes hitting the windshield, melting instantly from the car's heat. As we backed down Mrs. Turner's driveway, a fluffy white canine head watched from between embroidered curtains. Jeff yanked the owl pendant stuck to his jacket. Here, see if this is worth anything. The pendant flew free as the car filled with my brother's expletives. It pinged off the passenger side window before I caught it. Careful!

My admonishment earned more colorful words. The car listed right as Jeff wriggled out of his coat and tossed it across the back seat. Now I saw the cause for his outburst. A spot of bright blood soaked his white dress shirt. Tracy Batten her old junk. So much for bringing us good luck, huh? That's not quite what she said. But I kept this thought to myself

and carefully guided the straight pin back into its protective clasp. The necklace chain hung in a jumbled mess, streaked with red from my brother's carelessness. I turned the owl over. The pendant had survived unscathed. No tarnish spoiled the old metal, and its eyes shone like twin mirrors. Mrs. Turner obviously handled it with care all these years. I wanted to demand we turn around, burst into the old lady's doily covered living room

and tell her my brother was a scam artist, that her interest money came from someone else's investment check. Confess I'd never gone to Harvard, but she'd unwittingly contributed to my local college tuition. Don't need any pooches. Ask that stupid thing for a ten-point buck to impress our next client. When I didn't respond, he poked me. What's up, Tommy? Now that we were alone, the words flowed easier. Her stock picks skyrocketed through the roof. Really? In truth, they plummeted like concrete blocks tied to railway cars. Not the only ones that week either. Jeff's smile turned brittle. You mean our stock picks? Don't start with

this again, man. He launched into the spiel, usually reserved for clients. Business is all about risk-taking. It takes money to make money. Quit the sales pitch. My cash is all gone. See, that's why you're so grumpy. Stop throwing away your cut on a useless piece of paper. I pictured the stack of college textbooks waiting for me beneath a cheap folding table in my apartment. Should be home studying instead of helping Jeff major in con artistry. My mathematical prowess was far from what my brother claimed, but enrolling in the statistics program felt like climbing onto solid ground. At least math was a language I could speak without dissolving into an anxious mess.

You're the only one I know who'd call a college degree useless. Jeff thumped his chest. I'm doing great without one. Successful business owner and everything. Yeah? Tell that to the retirees in California whose calls you keep dodging. Tense silence filled the car. I leaned on my forehead against the passenger side window. Unbroken clouds seeped into the snow-covered ground. to form an endless white tunnel.

A purple line on the car's GPS screen guided us along an unevenly paved backroad I'd never traveled before. Clumps of dead brown weeds clawed up through the snow-covered field stretching out to the left. The lone frame of a barn huddled over it. Walls collapsed like a wooden deck of cards.

On my side, the land took a gentle slope up to a carpet of thick maple and evergreens. Tommy. A note of uncertainty crept into my brother's voice. You still got my back, right? I sighed. On my 16th birthday, I trekked home to our family's double-wide trailer after school to find 20 bucks lying on my bed along with a gift-wrapped stick of deodorant.

But dad was already gone again. Back out on the road to deliver insulation somewhere between. Cincinnati and Sacramento. That weekend, Jeff crashed a country club charity event in Bloomfield Hills, showed up in a rented suit, claiming to be a poker dealer. Before the staff asked too many questions, he made enough money off tips from those silver-spooned fat cats to buy the lime green Ford Fiesta

I nursed back to health every other month for the past few years, even though I couldn't really afford to. Yeah, I got your back. He gave me a thousand-watt smile. Growing up with Jeff felt like having Robin Hood for a brother. Maybe getting older hadn't made me wiser, but I knew folks like Mrs. Turner and Bobby Dorner didn't carry around $100 bills in their wallets for pocket change.

After graduation next year, I'm done. The steel in my voice caused Jeff's grin to slip for a second. second, but he recovered quickly. Sure. No problem. Now quit brooding, would you? A tawny, antlered shape emerged from the woods ahead.

Jeff punched me lightly on the shoulder. Besides, it's not like we're murdering anyone. Before I could yell warning, the deer blurred into the road. My senses fractured into Jeff cursed

and the crunch of The impact jolted me forward in my seat as the animal rolled over the car's hood. The vibration of antilock brakes sputtered to life. B buzzing filled my ears. As it died away, life lurched back into focus. Thankfully, Jeff looked unharmed. I followed his shocked gaze through the still intact windshield. The deer stood several feet away and snow-covered

grass, narrow head turned toward us. Paches of blood dotted its short brown fur, and one antler twisted at an odd angle. How could it still be standing? After a long second, the creature half collapsed and limped in obvious pain up the hill and into the trees. You okay? Without waiting For my response, Jeff unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped out of the driver's side door. My right hand burned. The owl pendant peeked out between shaking fingers where I'd gripped it tight. Bright drops of blood beat it onto my palm. How had the pin become unfastened again?

Didn't matter now. I shoved the token into my pocket and followed my brother outside. Jeff crouched in front of the vehicle's hood. Red streaked across the bumper, but the chrome monster looked in surprisingly good condition. Just a small dent. Guess luck is with us after all. While I took deep breaths to get my heart rate under control,

Jeff whistled his weight at the trunk. He reappeared wearing a green and tan camouflage jacket and bright neon orange knit cap. Do I look like a legit outdoorsman? His baby face spoiled the effect, but saying so would earn me another job to the shoulder. A white cotton gym towel hit me in the chest. Wipe off my baby, would you? I'm going to take a photo with Bambi to impress our next client.

It should only be a minute. I knew the answer, but asked anyway. What if it's still alive? He brandished a thick, heavy flashlight and arced it down in a strong. striking motion. The queasy feeling filled my stomach again as his orange cap

disappeared up the hill and into the trees. I dragged the cloth across the bumper, trying not to think about my brother's gruesome errand. By the time the blood-soaked towel

landed in the trunk, my hands shook with cold. I climbed into the car to the sound of an urgent chiming. The car's key fob remained out of range with Jeff, and it let me know with enthusiastic rhythm. I huddled in the passenger seat, hands in my pockets. My fingers brushed the owl pendant.

Looking into its blank eyes made it hard not to picture Mrs. Turner, cuddling her weirdly intense dog and cheerfully handing over another check. If Sugar really was her spirit animal, then Jeff probably just hid hours with a car. It's not like we're murdering anyone. My brother's words rang in my ears. The owl remained silent, but the wan face reflected there didn't seem convinced. With no living family, how would Mrs. Turner survive after we bled her savings dry? And she wasn't the only vulnerable client.

I traced a finger along the owl's wings. Carmic knots. Isn't that what the old lady called them? I dug out my phone and pulled up a search page. The term carmic knot brought up images of the same square-shaped pattern and a bunch of results about spiritual practice. Something about the cycle of life and death. I didn't really understand it,

but apparently getting a knot in your life could also be a bad thing. A few sites even touted gurus who promised you and tied them for an astronomical sum. It looked like my brother wasn't the only scam artist out there. Bunch of nonsense. Even so, it felt bad seeing Mrs. Turner's precious family heirloom while tangled up. I picked up the necklace chain, managing to tease out all but one large knot.

Bits of dried blood still gummed at the links. No matter how I tugged, it wouldn't budge. The snarl seemed oddly symmetrical. I flattened it out next to the pendant. The knot bore an uncanny resemblance to the pattern on the owl's wings. My guilty conscience must be getting to me. With care, I laid the jewelry on the dashboard. How long had Jeff been gone?

I jabbed his number into my phone. Faint strains of California dreamin drifted up beneath the car's incessant warning bell. I followed the ringtone to my brother's cell phone, forgotten in a pocket of the Stanford jacket. I grabbed it with a soft curse. Unable to lock the car, I quickly shoved the leather folder under Jeff's coat in the back seat.

A barrage of snowflakes hit my cheeks as I trudged up the hill after Jeff's footprints. An inch of fresh powder crunched underfoot as I picked my way between the trees. Thick branches stretched overhead in a dark lattice. At least the stinging winds that sought out every inch of uncovered skin back along the road blue gentler here. My feet dragged heavy furrows through the snow. I imagined Jeff kneeling next to the bludgeoned deer,

twisting its head in an unnatural angle to capture the perfect scene. You'd probably ask me to take the pictures. And I'd go along again. My shoe kicked a bit of powder into the air. But I'd never lied to any of our clients. Not directly. Never purchased apparel for a college I didn't attend, or volunteered at a church potluck to find gullible retirees

to bleed out for my fake business. Sure. You're a real hero, Tom. I shook my head to clear the depressing thoughts and caught a flash of orange ahead through the trees. Stealing myself, I followed my brother's tracks toward it. The bare maple and spiny evergreens opened into a small clearing. A neon orange cap lay in a bright heap against the snow.

Someone in a camo-printed jacket sprawled near it. The tawny figure of a deer stood behind the prone figure, narrow head, gently nuzzling one hand. But it was the jacket's collar that locked my brain into an unwilling loop, struggling to pick out any familiar features in the jagged mess of meat and bone that protruded there. Blood soaked the snow around it in a scarlet halo. The pool looked hard, and fake, like plastic.

Small white dots marred its surface as though someone spilled a bag of marbles. My feet jerked forward. The marbles resolved into sharper focus. Perfect molars. I stared at the remnants of my brother's dental work. Those cost a ton. He's going to be so pissed.

One arm of the camouflage coat shifted as the deer's teeth closed around a finger, plucking at it like a particularly stubborn flower from a field. One of its antlers twisted at an unnatural angle. The deer from the road. So the poor thing survived, after all. I took a shaky breath, trying to get the world to me. make sense again. This was a joke.

It had to be. Jeff's way of getting me back for giving him a hard time earlier. A wet crunch echoed through the clearing. The finger disappeared into the deer's mouth. It chewed loudly,

dark blood dribbling from either side of its lips and spattering onto the snow. The deer and bit through another piece of flesh, one hoof, delicately pinning Jeff's forearm to the ground while it crunched tendon and bone with impossible force.

I lifted my arms to frighten it off, and then stumbled back as the animal reared up and plunged downward. Striking both front legs into the camouflage coat. The tearing noise and several cracks in quick succession reverberated off the trees as the hooves buried deep. When they withdrew, blood and viscera coated its forelegs, nearly to the knee.

The narrow head bowed gracefully as though to drink from a stream. How was this even possible? Did it have rabies? I packed a handful of snow and threw it. Get away from him! Tony head lifted. Skin and meat clung to flat teeth. The bent antlers malformed ends looped back on themselves.

One not seemed familiar. Symmetrical. I'm losing my mind. Dark eyes focused on me, and I immediately regretted getting the creature's attention. It's gaze brightened in something like recognition. Mouth stretched wide, emitting a gurgling shriek, as though trying to scream with punctured lungs. I whirled and hurtled back through the woods.

The back of my skull itched in expectation of sharp hooves crunching through bone. Crashing through the last few trees, I half slid, half fell down the hill toward the road. The wind hit in a burning torrent, blowing slid. from sky and ground alike in great gusts. A thick layer of white covered Jeff's car. I raced toward it, yanking the driver's door open just as a tawny head ducked out of the tree line. The car's rhythmic warning assaulted my ears

as I tumbled into the unfamiliar driver's seat. Red words lit the dashboard screen, but my brain couldn't process them in its frantic search to lock the doors. Through arcs cleared by the windshield wipers, I spotted the deer ambling down the hill. As they crossed the road and out of my view, my fingers finally punched the lock button. Relieved, I turned back to the dashboard. Red text flashed an urgent warning.

Three, two. Words above the countdown read, engine idle timeout. One. The windshield wipers halted mid-swipe as the engine shut off. My heart thundered in the sudden silence. I jabbed the button to start the car, but the vehicle remained dead. As panic rose in my brain, so did a sudden thought.

Deer don't have hands. If I wasn't so terrified, it would be funny. I'd wasted precious time fiddling with the locks against something that couldn't open a door handle. Now I was trapped, and it was still out there somewhere. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, straining for any sound outside the car. After several false starts, I managed to whisper a few coherent details.

The operator asked what kind of animal attacked my brother. What was I supposed to say? A man eating deer with a karmic knot in its antlers? The owl pendant lay where I left it on the dashboard. Blood-stained links knotted up. I mumbled to the operator about rabies and retrieved the heirloom. Something slammed into the driver's door so hard the car slid over a few inches. The phone flew for my hand as I muffled a scream.

A sharp crack bowed the driver's window inward like a bubble. I crawled in the backseat as glass erupted in hundreds of tiny cracks. A gurgling shriek sounded behind it. I scrabble for a weapon, but the thick flashlight lay in the snow with Jeff. My flailing arms knocked into the leather folder. Dossiers and contracts. across the floor. Another blow, this time from the other side of the car.

The owl pendants swung from my fingers. In desperation, I picked at the bloody knot. I wasn't crazy. It held the same pattern as the wings and the monster's antlers. But no matter how hard I tugged, the knot with a car tilted backward as a large weight pressed against the trunk and a bit of snow fell.

from the back window. A sunken eye pressed into the gap. I crouched on the floor, trying not to breathe. One of the contract documents lay nearby. My name jumped out as though in bold, a neatly penned signature next to my brother's messy scrawl. Jeff had typed those lies, but I'd chosen to write my fate next to his just the same. The deer's narrowed. A narrow head dragged slowly over the back window, blood-drenched muzzle squelching against the glass, until one eye aimed directly down at the corner of its mouth, lifted with trembling fingers. I grabbed the contract and tore it in half. Silence.

The monster's head tilted as the paper halved again, spying a check edged with tiny pastel flowers, I ripped that up too. A soft chiming sounded. Metal sliding over metal. I lifted the owl pendant. The chain spilled down in one unbroken loop, free of knots. The weight disappeared from the back of the car. But I kept shredding the rest of the folder's contents into confetti,

until sirens bellowed down the car. road. The police asked me to repeat my story three times, covered in a blanket in the back of an ambulance, before calling in animal control. Shivering, I recalled every deviation equation I knew to stave off the memory of bloody teeth lying in the snow. Even after a group returned from the woods with haunted eyes but whole limbs, my gaze kept darting between the trees. One of the The officers gave me a sympathetic look and wrapped another blanket around my shoulders. She assured me for the fifth time I was safe. My reply caused her forehead to wrinkle in confusion.

The owl's metallic edges dug into my fingers as I clutched it tight. Squeezing my eyes shut, I repeated the words. For once, they came out clear and firm. I want to report a crime. Once upon a time, in a world identical to ours, there was a pair of star-crossed lovers, both alike in dignity and in death, and a fairy who wanted nothing more than to keep their love alive.

It should be a beautiful story. But in this tale, shared with us by author Veronica Carhill, it's less the glory of love, and more the gorge. The decoriest love. Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas and Violet Rodriguez. Now I need to step away so you can listen to the story. So I'll go, but I know I'll think of you every step of the way.

And, dare I say, I will always love you. Once upon a time, in a world so identical to ours that it might as well be ours, deals were always being struck. These deals were struck by humans, either between themselves or with something of another nature. Beings like spirits, demons, gin, and fay, to name but a few. So many deals, and yet so many were bad. Many of the entities in our, I mean, this world,

possess so much more power than humanity, so much more knowledge, and yet frequently they would use humanity's desperation as a means of trickery and cruelty. One day, a benevolent creator brought into this world five special beings. Who this creator is? Nobody knows. Some say it was Titania. Some say it was Jan Ibn Jan. Some say it was John Ivan John. Some say Osmodeus. Some say Yamir. Some say it was Uranus, as in the primordial Greek deity of the sky and mother of the 12 Titans.

But even those who believe this tend to shy away from discussing it, Because they were born from Uranus is a hard claim to make to someone and ensure they keep a straight face. And others still have other beliefs. As is the nature of anything which is open to interpretation, perhaps one day we'll find out. Perhaps it's better that we don't. Who knows? But this benevolent creator delivering.

five special beings in response to the amount of cruel, bad deals they saw taking place between humanity and the myriad species more advanced than humanity. The purpose of these beings was simple to grant good deals. However, as the creator was fashioning these five beings, they realized they must put some safeguards in place. The beings would grant requests based on their own individual concepts, all concepts which the creator considered pure, sincere, and passionate. But as time went on, while the creator worked on fashioning these five beings, they became more skeptical of humanity as humanity evolved. They saw some of the deals that were being asked for and considered if maybe sometimes humans deserved the bad deals.

they got. So the Creator decided that while the beings would be pure, if they discovered they were being misused, then they would change. So the Creator completed their beings and released them into the world and scattered enough information and lore about them around the world so that the humans who needed them would be able to find them if they were so in need. Then the Creator said, sat back, sighed in love and affection for his new creations, as they saw these children appear around the world, and then, almost immediately, realized there were numerous plot holes in their plan.

But by then, the only way to rectify it would be to destroy the beings and start afresh. And the beings really were super cute and adorable, like Hello Kitty meets Pikachu, meets Baby Yoda. so the creator decided to just risk it. At least, that's how the story goes. Calling these beings, beings, feels a little dehumanizing, so we shall call them fairies.

While there are many types of fairy, many of them rather bad, I think we can all agree that some fairies are lovely. This particular fairy was the fairy of love. After existing for some time and granting wishes for a number of humans, the Fairy of Love, who, like the other four special fairies, had been created genderless, decided to be a she. Having previously existed as an amorphous, writhing, chaotic mass, the Fairy of Love found great joy in forming a body for herself.

Most of the wishes she granted thus far had been to men who were deeply, wholly in love, usually with women. So while the fairy saw men as the primary givers of love, she saw women as the primary recipients, the focus. And as the fairy of love, taking the form of one who could evoke such love, felt right. And besides, whenever a woman had asked her for a wish, the woman's love had often felt more powerful to the fairy.

The fairy of love had previously been enjoying her existence, slowly working out the exact rules and limits and abilities of her powers. But in giving herself a body she was happy with, she felt true elation. She wondered about her four siblings. She knew they existed. She could feel them out there, but also somehow knew that they couldn't choose to meet. It made her happy to know they were. were out there, but she wondered about them. She wondered if any of the others had taken on a more

tangible form yet, or if they would in the future. She wondered what kind of wishes they'd granted, and she wondered how or if their experiences with the humans she loved had differed. It was shortly after giving herself a body that the fairy of love first encountered the couple. The thing is, humans didn't come to fairies. The fairies came to them. They were summoned, using the arcane knowledge the creator had blessed upon the world so the right people could find the right fairies just when they needed them the most. In between times, the fairies simply existed in the in-between.

So a summoning was already a delight for the fairies, but as one who had just given herself a body, the fairy of love's first post-form summoning provided a particular thrill. She found herself summoned to a grim place filled with grief and suffering. It only made her more determined to help the couple whatever they should ask for as soon as she laid eyes on them.

And when she did, what she saw was unlike any previous encounter she'd had. The man, whose name the fairy would learn was Isaac, lay on blood-stained straw, his head cradled in the lap of the woman, whose name the fairy would learn was patience. Isaac's body was torn and damaged, in a way the fairy understood would be immensely painful for a human. Patience swept tears of grief so powerful that the fairy could feel them and the love they contained. The scene, combined with the fairy's state of mind, gave her great strength of will and certainty to do whatever in her power she could to fulfill whatever request this couple had.

What is the request you wish to ask of me? Fairy of love. We are young. My husband Isaac, he has been mortally wounded and will pass on shortly. Please, can you grant us the wish of our souls being re-anchored needed as humans in the next life, born to different families in this village one decade after we die, so that we may be able to find each other in that life and rekindle our love, and then do the same for us, every time we die unless we summon you and ask you to stop. This request may seem specific and unusual to you, dear listener, but to the fairy of love, it mostly made sense. She knew she was unable to fix human bodies. She knew she could not offer immortality.

She knew she had this restriction for a reason, although she was unsure what that reason was. What she didn't fully understand, but would soon come to, was the specified time frame which patients had requested. Surely a decade after could vary wildly between them. Isaac was clearly on the verge of death. Patience seemed entirely healthy. Are you sure about the decade?

Yes, yes, everything I said. Fairy of Love, time is short, please. The Fairy of Love processed the entire wish and balanced it against her capabilities. Upon doing this, she realized that she could not grant the wish patients had requested. I can grant you almost all of this, but I cannot grant you reincarnation every time you die. Each act of reincarnation would require a separate wish to be granted.

So we can summon you in the next life and request the same wish? The Fairy of Love processed this momentarily. It seemed within her power. Yes, but as you are aware, where, we can only grant one wish. And reincarnating your souls will mean you're still the same people. The rest must be exchanges. The details are...

I know, I know. As long as you can do it. He's on the verge of death, please. I grant your request. A moment later, Isaac fell limp in patience his arms. The fairy of love felt Isaac's soul leave. his body, immediately becoming drawn to her, the request having been granted. Before she even felt her first touch of a human soul, though, patience did something the fairy didn't expect. She produced a small vial, removed the cork, and hastily drank the liquid within. Patience slumped

to the ground. Her soul left her body, and first Isaac, and then patient, entered the fairy. It was a strange, new sensation to her, cold and a little uneasy. Then suddenly, the fairy of love found herself in the in-between. Only this time, it was different. She could feel the souls of Patience and Isaac inside her. But had she not already known, she would have been completely unaware of who or what they even were. She felt time passing in an indistinguishable chaotic world.

Occasionally, she felt what seemed like a tug on her heart, then nothing. Then suddenly, the souls were gone, and the fairy found herself standing in front of a weeping stranger with a request. The fairy of love had been unprepared for exactly what would happen when she took in two souls. There wasn't exactly a manual. It wasn't anything anyone had asked of her before. Her inner processing had told her that she could do it, so she believed it was okay to do it.

So she did it. But it had left her feeling wrong. She realized she was feeling a kind of emptiness. At first, she believed it was due to the departure of patients and Isaac's souls, But soon she realized, no, that wasn't it. She'd felt it before, once, and dismissed it. But this time, she could identify it. One of her siblings, one of them had changed.

And in realizing this, she was able to realize that this was the second of her siblings to change somehow. She could still feel them both. But it was different. The Fairy of Love felt like her ability to feel had become clearer. She also realized that a decade had passed while she held the two lover's souls, a decade in which nobody had been able to summon her. Were those the tugs she felt? The Fairy of Love decided that she would grant no further requests that involved holding onto souls,

No further request, that is, except for those of Patience and Isaac, because the fairy had not only promised Patience, but she'd made a vow to herself to help Patience and Isaac with whatever they needed. And she already knew that might involve reincarnating their souls again, and again, and again. The Fairy of Love was a naive, little bitch. I went on with the fairy granting requests. At first, in her new body, she noticed the way that most men, and some women, looked at her and felt like the object of love and felt good.

But as the years passed, she started to feel less good about it, without being able to understand why. Her body no longer felt new anymore either. But it was hers, and she'd chosen it, and she didn't want to give it up. Twelve thousand, seven hundred and seventy-four days after their souls had left her, shortly before midnight, the Fairy of Love found herself once again in front of Isaac and Patience. This time, they both appeared in good spirits and good help. Despite the minor changes in her demeanor in the near 35 years since the fairy had last,

seen the couple, and what she knew was eventually to come, she felt a surge of love at being in their presence. At least they were both in good help and were simply making the deal early, just in case, the fairy thought, even though the timing of the summon nagged at something in the back of her mind. What is the request you wish to ask of me? Patience smiled at the fairy with warm, and passion. Then her gaze drifted to Isaac. The love she felt for her husband was undeniable. Please, can you grant us the request of our soul being reincarnated as humans in the next life? Born to different families in this village, one decade after we die, so that we may be able to find each other in that life and rekindle our love. Patience had reworded her request, the fairy noticed,

and it all seemed fine. Of course, but as you are aware, this is your second request, and a token representing your love must be given in exchange. Patience reached into a pocket and removed a silk handkerchief. Here is a handkerchief, stained with the tears of joy shed on our wedding night many years ago. She handed the silk square to the fairy. The fairy felt the essence of pure, undeniable love emanating from it. In the distance, the village clock began to chime.

The fairy gazed down at the handkerchief as she spoke. Very well. Upon your passing, whenever that may be, I shall take your souls into my... She felt the souls, both patience and Isaac, being drawn towards her before she even had a chance to look up. When she did, moments before the souls entered her body, the fairy saw that Isaac and Patience had both plunged daggers into each other's hearts. Their bodies had not even hit the floor before their souls entered the fairy,

and together they were pulled into the end between. You can work out the next bit. It was basically the same. Souls tugging, time spins a web, Then the dumb twat fairy wakes up 10 years later with holes instead of souls. Now imagine this cycle continued. The fairy spends 12,774 days being summoned by those who deeply love, and then, on the final day, minutes before midnight,

she finds herself in front of Patience and Isaac. The situation and scenarios change, but not by, much. They are always healthy, uninjured, as beautiful and as in love as the day the fairy first met them. As time goes on and the cycle becomes so repetitive, patience gives up on even bothering to ask for the full request. She simply asks the fairy to grant the usual. She provides the fairy with some kind of token that undeniably represents their true love. The clock's strikes midnight. The couple kill each other. Occasionally, they kill themselves. This goes on for centuries. Centuries of the fairy of love fulfilling her promise, resurrecting patience and Isaac,

each time coming out of the experience feeling a little more uneasy, a little less okay. But that's on her, right? She's not being misused that she can see. The more time that passes, the more experience she gains of humanity, the weirder the fairy of love feels about the recurring sequence of events. But it's just a little wrong in its rightness. Even a lot of the other requests she's receiving start to feel off now. But she still can't quite work out why, and she still can't do anything about it. It is across the last four cycles that the arrangement with patients and Isaac begins to go really, really wrong. For the first cycle, the gift of love they offer the fairy is to bear witness to their passion.

This involves watching them have extremely graphic sex. The fairy does not like this at all and feels a little voyeuristic, but just wants it over with, so accepts it. Second cycle, Isaac tries to make the request and claims that since all the previous ones have come from patients, this request should be granted for free. The fairy of love says no, because it's always involved both their souls. So they hastily offer her their marriage certificate, which she supposes counts. Third cycle, she appears in front of them while patience is performing oral sex on eye. Isaac. Patience pauses to ask the request. Isaac finishes, and Patience approaches the fairy with Isaac's seed still in her mouth. The fairy is all absolutely fuck this, and tells them to just

get on with it and die, and don't they dare come near her with that. Human love is weird and a bit gross sometimes, she thinks, but kinkshaming is bad. On the fourth cycle, there are three people present. Isaac, patience, and a woman Isaac is holding. She's clearly dead since her throat's been slit. Isaac tells the fairy that this is his FWB, who he cheated on patients with, and patients found out and got very upset. So he killed his FWB to prove that she meant nothing and to show his love for patience. Thus, her dead body serves as a token for their love. The FWB emanates with love between Isaac and patience and somehow sincerely counts. Final cycle. The fairy appears before Isaac and patience. The fairy of love feels like she's running on fumes. She's been feeling nothing but

contempt for the people who come to her. Pathetic, demanding, whining, mostly people using magic to have others fall in love with them. The word non-consensual has been echoing around the fairy of love's brain, and she wishes she understood why. She wonders if she's being misused, but still, isn't sure. Isaac and patients are dressed in binary. They're smirking. The fairy of love really doesn't like this couple anymore. Let's have the usual, then. Apologies. I'm not sure I understand the request. She says this purely to inconvenience them. You know exactly what? I request that you re-incorneed and reunite our souls in the next life. You understand us, Full well. Patience tosses a used condom at her.

The fairy sidesteps it and sighs. Just get on with it. Patience and Isaac shoot each other with pistols. Their souls enter the fairy. Something's very different. The request she granted included the phrase, You understand us, fool well. Something she most certainly had not.

Until now. And the fairy sees everything. She sees it all. She sees how, in the beginning, Patience and Isaac summoned the fairy of beauty. They asked to remain beautiful for the rest of their lives. Only the fairy of beauty had become corrupted due to awareness of misuse. And tricked them, they would remain beautiful by dying on their 35th birthdays. Isaac's 35th birthday had been the day they summoned the fairy of love.

The request they asked of the fairy of love ensured they would always be reborn together. Furthermore, the request to the fairy of beauty, narcissism now, meant they would be beautiful in that life too, as they were the same souls, alive and under 35. They'd taken to summoning the fairy of love minutes before Isaac's birthday just in case. He could die suddenly. And the whole suicide thing was because patience was a couple years younger than Isaac. After the first reincarnation, they'd sought out the fairy of knowledge. From that fairy, they requested that they would remember everything from their whole lives.

Yeah, this man. that with every reincarnation, they possessed the knowledge of their previous lives. Yeah, this meant they'd essentially lived lifetimes with ever-growing knowledge. And yeah, the fairy of love realized she'd been a dumb fucking asshole for not noticing this herself in their interactions. But she was all about love. It wasn't in her nature to search for Machiavellian plots in her summoners. Give her a fucking break, dudes!

Oh yeah, they'd all see. summoned the fairy of joy. From that fairy, they'd asked for the ability to grant joy and happiness and bliss to anyone they'd touched. That seemed weirdly altruistic, the fairy of love thought, until she looked deeper and saw what Isaac and Patience had actually been up to. They'd slowly built up an empire over centuries, putting money in banks centuries ago that would develop massive interest, working out ways to return to power over their businesses, using their joy touch to manipulate people into doing what they wanted. They ran weapons manufacturers, big pharma companies that made bank from suffering, etc. With each reincarnation, they became worse

and worse. And they did, truly love each other, because they were. were both as evil as each other and took as equal pleasure in the suffering of people around them. The only thing they hadn't managed to work around yet was the reincarnation. So they planned to use the fairy of love indefinitely while continuing to make the world a horrific, awful place. And the worst they'd ever had to suffer was being tricked by the fairy of narcissism, so they'd never live beyond 35. And the fairy of love. And the fairy of love, Love had been enabling this. Safeguard kicks in.

Fairy of love breaks. She utterly, totally breaks, while the souls of Isaac and patience are inside her. She sees, with full clarity, the vile and self-serving nature of so many of the requests she's granted, believing love was pure. She sees she's been a fucking idiot.

The fairy of chaos. is born. We incronate and reunite our souls in the next life. Fuck have you done to us! Isaac, too, tries to speak, but his head is embedded into the mass of writhing, hideous flesh that is the reunion of the two lovers. Eight limbs, two heads, two asses,

a vagina, a penis, and the rest of their bodies, all merged into one horrifying pandemonic form. This stitched together parody of physical union can't even move beyond wiggling. They certainly can't perform the required actions for a summoning ritual in 35 years, after which Isaac will die, and patience will remain alive for two more years. That'll be fun. That was what the fairy of narcissism granted them, after all.

And I've stuck to the rest of that, too. You can't do this? Patience is furious. It's clear. I'm already losing interest. Excited about my next summon. You can't do this. We still have the right to be beautiful.

That request still stands. You can't leave us like this. Beauty is in the unlawful. of the beholder, I look at the writhing, wriggling, chaotic thing that is Patience and Isaac. And I happen to think you're very beautiful indeed. Falling into the illegal gambling scene is usually unadvisable. One minute you think you've got the perfect strategy. You can't lose.

And the next moment you're sprawled in a back alley in your underwriting, in your underwear, lacking even the change for a bus ride home. But in this tale, shared with us by author Frank O'Rito, we find ourselves players in a game where the stakes are higher than we could imagine. I join Jesse Cornett, Mick Wingert, Atticus Jackson, David Alt, and Peter Lewis in performing this tale. So remember, winning isn't everything, but don't spare a thought for the losers. They know the winner takes it all.

They chose this life, body and soul, just like you. You've got to accept the hand you're dealt. Pain and nausea rose inside me. I thought I might drown in them. Rod might be a dumb thug, but he knew how to hit a guy. I tried to inhale, but his meaty fist was still jammed in my gut, pinning me to the alleys, graffiti-covered. wall.

Rod released the pressure a bit. As I slid down the wall, he turned his hand over, hoisted me back up by my belt, and slapped me hard across the face with his free hand. I would have admired the grace of it all if I hadn't been on the receiving end. Really? Rod lifted me a few more inches. I need all the money, Denny? My gut clenched as the end. inseam of my slacks pressed into my balls. Rod had been a professional bodybuilder in the 80s.

As the sport declined in his age increased, he turned to loan sharking and bookmaking. He was jowly now and had a beer punch, but the strength was still there. And he liked showing it off. $12,000. You got it? I mumbled a reply. A swift-heart backhand cut. off even that. It was a rhetorical question, asshole. You don't have it.

But what does every cloud have? When no answers seemed forthcoming, Rod pulled me a bit higher into the air. He leaned into my face and asked again, louder. What does every cloud have? The silver lining? Rod smiled and let my feet touch the ground. That's right

A silver lining You see I could use a card mechanic Danny You've done the job before Same gig There's still a few college boys out there Looking to lose their tuition

The only difference is you'd be working for me Come see me We'll talk details You know where to find me Where to find you Rod stepped back and let me slide to the ground. I felt a wad of papers land on my face.

The 300 I'd tried to give to Rod a few minutes before. Hold on to your money. Maybe you'll find the game. I watched Rod's Gucci loafers grow more distant until they left the alley altogether. After resting a few moments, I got to my knees and vomited carefully. This was my best suit.

Then I took as deep a breath as my bruised ribs aloud and stood. On the neon-lit sidewalk of East Carson Street, a steady stream of college students bar-hopped their way past, too intent on their pursuit of a good time to notice what happened in the shadowed alleys. Two doors down was Drake's Bar and Grill. I walked inside and made a beeline for the John. I waved as I passed the balding man behind the bar. Jimmy, send me up with a JD.

Jimmy tried to ask me if I was okay, but I ignored him. In the bathroom, I did what I could with cold water and a comb, then went back to the bar. Jimmy started a tab and left me to my drink. I stared into the gold-flect mirror behind the rows of flavored rums. There was a small cut over my left cheekbone. and my lip had obviously been split. The most painful parts of the beating,

the blow to the gut and the biting of my goddamn tongue, still hurt, but weren't noticeable. All in all, I might pass muster with Sharon. She was pulling 12-hour shifts and would fall right in bed as soon as she got home from the hospital. Find yourself a nurse, I remember my mother saying as we prepared for her act. They always have jobs.

and they like to take care people. It'd been good advice, but even Sharon's patience had an end. I thought I might have reached it. I borrowed 300 from her, told her I was done gambling. She asked if that included poker. It was a good question.

I didn't think of poker is gambling. I'd grown up a Carney kid, learned to Cold Reed Roobes and my mother's Mendelist act. and how to make a deck of cards dance from a drunk who'd once been one of the greatest card mechanics alive, in addition to being my father. Poker wasn't gambling. When you gambled, you might lose.

I knew all about losing. That was down 12 grand to Rod Renshaw due to a series of sporting misjudgments that climaxed when the Steelers had the bad grace to win the Super Bowl, but lose the point spread. That was gambling. I had lost hundreds of poker hands, but only to set myself up for an even bigger win. I'd lived high for the last few years thanks to ESPN's gambling coverage. It was beautiful. There were colleges full of trust fund kids who thought they knew how to play the game.

I looked young enough at 27 to pass for an undergraduate. I made friends and got into games. It was like printing money. money. Then I met Sharon and made promises. Promises I wanted to keep. The poker craze had petered out anyway. I'd give up that life and get a job selling cars or something. At least I would have, I told myself. But then came to Steelers and Rod Renshaw. I did not want to work for Rod. The man was cunning but stupid. He'd try to get the same old college scam running, but the games weren't there anymore. So Rod would put me in a room full of very dangerous people and tell me to cheat. I'd lose

Sharon for breaking my promises and eventually Rod would get me killed. I stared down into my drink, searching for inspiration. I didn't find any. Maybe in the next round, or The one after that. Are you looking for a game? I glanced up at the mirror and almost laughed. The man who spoke looked like a Warner Brothers cartoon fox. He had a long, sharp nose and a matching chin. But what really did it were the mutton chops.

They were a rich dark red and thrust out at least four inches from the man's thin jawline. I guessed him to be in his mid-fifties. The clothes, a tan three-piece Harris tweed with matching hat, were eccentric, but reeked of money. The last thing I noticed was the prosthetic hand. It seemed out of place given the rest of the picture. This guy should have had a brass hook or some high-tech thing. The fake paw looked shabby, like something you'd see listed for sale in the penny-saber along with a walker in a bedside commode. I was speaking to Mr. Strachanee, and he tells me you're quite an accomplished card player.

I shot Jimmy a look, he understood. I needed confirmation. Jimmy nodded. My name is Alexander Crane. Danny Williams. When's this game? Tonight's Mr. Williams, in just over an hour, in fact. There are usually four of us, but our Mr. Beaumont recently lost.

lost more than he could afford and has retired from playing. I must say I had a rather poor run myself lately. I'm hoping a bit of new blood may turn things around. High stakes? Indeed. And what's the buy-in? I held my breath. I had Sharon's 300, but in a real game,

they wouldn't let you take a seat without at least a grand. Oh, I can tell by looking at you that you're good for a dead. Shall we go, then? My driver is parked across the street. This was bullshit. I looked at myself in the mirror. I did not look like money. I looked like a mugging victim in a decent suit.

But Jimmy vetted the guy, and I was desperate. It was a game, and any game was a chance out of the mess I was in. Let's go. A black Lincoln pulled out to meet us, as we stepped from the bar. The enormous driver holding open the rear door wore an old-fashioned gray chauffeur uniform that made him look like a slab of granite.

As we drove, Crane filled me in on the game. They played five-card stud, an English stud dealer's choice. No wild cards. Any limits? There are no limits. Crane answered with no emotion, and my face showed none as I heard the news. But my reservoir of hope rose a few feet. Wealthy players with no limit.

$12,000 might be a stretch, but I was more than willing to stretch tonight. I glanced out the tinted windows and noticed the Lincoln had taken us deep into McKee's rocks. Hard-faced men gazed at the car with hungry eyes. Where is this game at? I had expected one of the nicer hotels, maybe even the Duke's. cane club, and he thought we were taking a shortcut to some better part of town vanished as the Lincoln turned down a narrow alley. We're here.

We parked in front of a battered duplex. Lights shone from the barred windows of one side. The other half was dark. A group of teenage boys sat on the steps in front of it, smoking and laughing. You're kidding me, right? The tallest of the youths shaped as thick. thumb and forefinger into a gun and pointed it at the Lincoln. The chauffeur got out and opened the rear door.

We are going to get shot. Crane slid out of his seat and walked briskly toward the teenagers. I followed him out of the car, but stood close in case I needed to get back in in a hurry. The tallest youth swore as Crane approached them. Crane began to speak. I couldn't hear what he said, but the boy's laughter and curses echoed in the alleyway. Slowly, one by one, they grew silent. One turned and walked away from the group.

A moment later, two more joined him in a run. Finally, only the tallest was left. Crane walked back to the Lincoln, the teenager following him. The boy was weeping. This young man has volunteered to watch our... The teenager stood at the end of the Lincoln and sniffed loudly. Crane walked toward the lighted entrance. I looked back at the teen who seemed so intimidating when we first pulled up.

The boy's wet eyes bore into mind trying to share something he couldn't put into words. I looked away. This was why I would fail Sharon. There was something very wrong here, and I was walking right into it. I pretended I was doing it for her, so I could get out from under rod and keep the promises I'd made. But that was only part of it. I wanted to read the Mark's faces and make the cards dance. I could feel the tingle in my fingers.

The location was wrong. teenager was very wrong, but the tingle in my fingers was right. And that was what really mattered, more than Sharon or Rod. I had a game. I popped the joints in my neck, pushed my shoulders back and walked up the steps. A wave of harshly scented air, bleach over decay hit me as I across the threshold. I followed the granite back of the chauffeur down a short hall into what I guessed once passed as a living room. Ghost shapes on the wall showed where a couch had been, and across from that a cheap entertainment center. I could still see the divvets in the stained brown carpet. Now the only furniture was a scarred yellow formica table with matching chairs. The chauffeur

pulled one of the chairs out for his boss and waited as Crane greeted the other men in the room. Crane took my elbow and moved closer to the table where two men sat. Gentlemen, may I introduce Daniel Williams. He'll be taking the place of Mr. Beaumont this evening. Daniel, this is my good friend, Nathaniel Lodden. I wasn't surprised at the crushing strength of Lodden's handshake. The man had the weathered look of someone who'd worked hard all of his life and done well by it. Despite his brook's brother's suit, what Lodden really looked like was a pirate.

The man's hard features were set off by a bristling salt and pepper beard that came down to his chest. A large black patch covered his left eye. The gentleman to your left is Mr. Leo knock. Knock. Looked like Colonel Sanders. If the colonel had been a hundred pounds overweight and dyed his hair. The spiky tufts of dull gray spilling from Knox's ears and nostrils ruined whatever effect the Jet Black die job was supposed to have. I found the man grotesque, except for his hands. Knox's hands were long and slender. More of the hands of a beautiful woman. than an obese old man.

I shook one and nodded a wordless greeting. Last but not least is our handler of debt, Dr. Fitzhue. I hadn't noticed the man in the fifth chair. He sat in the far corner of the room away from the table. As Crane named him, Fitzhue hopped from the chair and approached me. He stood no more than five feet tall and was bald as a toad. I extended a hand, but Fitzhue ignored it and began patting me down. How you doing, Danny, Willie?

Hey, easy, buddy. You gonna buy me a drink? He was both thorough and indelicate. Very fine player, I think. Without any more comment, he went back to his chair, picked up a metal box and returned to the table. Fitzhue opened the box and my heart stuttered. Beneath two unopened decks of playing cards lay stacks of gold coins.

Dr. Fitchiou tossed the unopened decks in the center of the table and stacked the coins in front of the men. His job done, he took the now empty box and returned to his seat in the corner. I sat down across from Lodden. The old pirate grinned at me. The first coin I glanced at. looked old and had a large American eagle stamped on it. The second was older, and I thought the face it bore was some sort of emperor. I hefted the golden emperor and felt the solid weight in my palm.

What was something like this even worth? For all I knew, I could palm a few of these and not worry about the debt to rod. The familiar sound. The plastic coming off a new deck sounded to my right. I looked up from the coin to see one of Mr. Knox's beautiful hands handing out a fresh deck. Shall we begin? I took the proffered deck and began to shuffle. I'd play straight at first.

I needed to see what level these men were at. I also needed to read them. See who sniffed or blinked when they drew a weak card or perhaps bit their lowered lip when they bluff. I worried about the pirate. How do you read a man with only one eye and a beard covering half his face? As I rifled the deck, I noted a king of spades on the bottom. My mind automatically went into the routine of how to track that king and get it into my hand when I needed it.

Do they look from below, Mr. Williams? My stomach lurched, but my hands continued innocently shunct. shuffling as I glanced blankly at the bearded man. The pirate smiled into my blameless face. I've just got what eye, Mr. Williams, but it's a very good one. I'd never been caught cheating. Accused, sure. But those accusations were mostly sour grapes.

Not real suspicion. I had a routine for the occasion full of righteous indignation and sarcasm. I didn't think it would work with these men. No one seemed angry or tense, not even the pirate. So I simply dealt the cards and played straight. But that was my plan anyway. At least for now, I dealt, I wagered, and I watched the other players. They were good.

But I was better. even straight and I'd been trained to read people by a professional I glanced to my left where Crane studied his hand Crane had no obvious tells but he played like he had a lot to lose and could be bluffed the pirate was as hard to read as I feared

moreover he was a mumbler he kept up a constant half-heard monologue most of it seemingly directed at the cards in front of him. The mumbling annoyed me because I was sure it was an act and the man, despite his odd behavior, was watching me like a hawk. I tested the assumption by moving an ace I'd seen on a cut from the top to the bottom of the deck and back again. As I did, the pirate picked up a gold coin with Lady Liberty on it. Very prettily done. He held up the coin, but looking pointedly at me.

I nodded and rifled the deck a few times. Colonel Sanders was my salvation. He was a great technical player but had a tell. When he drew a card he liked, he would look from the card to me or crane. And when it was a card he didn't like, he'd look first to the pirate. And by itself, the tell was a great advantage.

And one made it golden, and was the other two men hated the guy's guts. I saw it in their faces whenever Knock won a hand. When I realized Crane and Laden would rather lose to me than Mr. Knock, I knew I would finish the evening ahead. I hadn't been brought here by accident. I was a hired gun, and Knock was the target. The next hand, I bottom-dealt knock a broken strait.

The pirate didn't blink. I spent the next two hours methodically taking Knock apart, one hour into the job. I could smell the big man's sweat. By 4 a.m., half of Knox coins were redistributed to the other three men, as he lost another hand. Knock closed his eyes and groaned. I'm finished. The pirate looked at Knock with feigned surprise. It's early yet, Leo.

Are you sure you want to square up now? Your luck could turn. You'd like me to go all out, wouldn't you, you bastard? I'd like nothing better, fat man. Before things could get more tense, Dr. Fitzhue approached the table. The game is over, gentlemen. Are we ready to resolve debts then? Yes.

You're damned right, yes. Lodin pushed himself out of, of his chair and walked toward the door at the rear of the room. The other men followed more slowly, except Dr. Fitzhue, who was looking at me. Are you ready to resolve debts? Sure. What about the coins? Dr. Fitzhue gestured to the doorway.

If you'll just follow the other gentleman, sir, all debts will be resolved now. I stood and walked toward the door. I didn't want to go through it. The elation I felt at tearing apart knock was gone. I had a bad feeling. I felt into my fingers, and my fingers didn't lie. I should turn, grab what I could carry from the table and run. Don't worry, Mr. Williams.

The debts tonight are in your favor. I stepped through the doorway into what had once been a small kitchen. The only furniture were two large wooden chairs in the center of the room with a plastic TV tray between them. Mr. Knox sat on one of the chairs. His black-dyed hair stood out starkly against his sickly pale skin. The pirate sat on the other, half turned in his seat to face the fat man. He was laughing. Fitzhue pushed past me.

to the two men. He sent a leather case on the tray and opened it. You are ready, Mr. Knock? He's ready. You know what I want, don't you, fat man? I think I'll have the left one. Decor him, Mr. Lodden. Knock stood from his chair.

I'll let him have his fun. Ian buttoned his suit, tossed the jacket on the floor, and removed his shirt and pants. I took a step back. Under the suit, Knock wore a white mesh step in like something out of an old sears and rowboat catalog. Beneath the mesh, he was writhing.

Knock unbuttoned the shoulder straps of his undergarment and let it fall away. He looked at Lodden. You're small time, Lodden. Someday I'll own you. I gagged. Knock wasn't fat. The man's body was festooned with limbs.

An entire third arm hung down from one armpit. Hands were sewn in a row from his sternum down to his groin. No two the same size or skin tone. There were other things, numerous ears, assorted fingers, a patch of long pink tongues hung. in concentric circles from his left breast. Eyes, a dozen or so at least, rose-like postules on his right. The man was a forest of borrowed flesh, and that flesh was alive.

The hands stroked the skin around them. The tongues lashed the air. The third arm bent, and its hand pointed. to the rash of blinking eyes. Take your pick. Lodden smiled with malice as he spoke, but I could hear envy

in his voice. Have, and it'll be the left one. Beaumonts. Knock squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. The eyes in the place where eyes should be, that is. And I knew then that Lodden's claim wasn't for one of the oculi

that Knox's. extraneous arm had pointed to. Dr. Fitzhue took a tightly rolled piece of leather and offered it. Knock shot one more contemptuous look at Lodden. He sneered and bit down on the leather. I think of this as alone. Nausea rolled over me as I watched Fitzhue's scalpel bite into Knox's face just below his left eye.

It wasn't until Fitzhue pushed his left eye. thumb into the incision and began working the eye loose that I fell to the ground and wretched. When I looked up again, Crane knelt before me, blocking the grisly scene. I could still hear Knox's harsh grunts. I think Mr. Williams should collect next. This is all a bit new to it. I noticed Crane had removed his prosthetic hand and rolled his sleeve up to expose the stump. I stood as soon as my...

I got loud. I kept my eyes locked on crane and ignored the sounds from the chairs. I think I'll take my winnings in cash. No, you won't. You'll collect your debt. There are rules to this and they will be kept. You didn't. No, but you're in good and proper now and you'll abide by them.

I closed my eyes and turned to the wall as a harsh grunt. coupled with a wet ripping sound came from the chairs. But I didn't try to leave. And when Dr. Fitzhue called my name, I shambled forward and sat in the chair. Lodden now stood beside. Lodden leaned in against me. Just relax, boy.

First time is always the hardest. At least you won. He's not so piratical now that he has two eyes. I thought. The new eye had a red cloud over half of it as if a blood vessel had burst. Black sutures, like fly's legs bristled around the socket. Beaumont's eye, Loden, had said. My mind flicked back to my first conversation with Crane. Beaumont had lost more than he could afford. I shot a glance at knock in the other chair. The top of the man's thigh bristled with fingers.

I wondered how much a Beaumont hung from Knox's body. Someone said my name as if from a long way off, but I couldn't bring myself to speak. I'll choose for him. Give him the hand. I saw him admiring it. I heard my name again, and I thought I might be nodding. Dr. Fitzhue bent over Knox's arm.

I ignored him, instead watching with fascination as a red flower blood blossomed and the white gauze taped where Knox's eye had been. Put the leather in his mouth when he screams. I watched the doctor turn toward me in slow motion. I wanted to explain that it didn't matter. Old Danny has left the building, Doc. He's watching things from way up on Mount Washington. You can do your worst. He's not coming back.

I looked on impassively, as Dr. Fitzhue pressed what looked like chrome pruning shears against the flesh of my armpit. Someone took my shirt, I thought, lousy trick, taking the man's shirt when he isn't around to argue the point. Pain exploded. My scream poured out loud and high for the half second. It took Lodin to jam the leather in my mouth. I was back in the here and now, and the pain was blinding and gigantic in every sharp two thing. And behind the leather, I kept screaming.

I won! I woke in the Lincoln. The pain was gone. I savored that for a while. When I opened my eyes, I saw Dr. Fitzhue. And back with us, Mr. Williams. I blinked. The pain wasn't gone after all.

It was just a different sort of animal now. Annoying, not deadly. There was something else. Another feeling I didn't try. try to examine yet. The words came out cracked, so I swallowed and asked again. Downtown, I didn't know where you wanted to go. I looked out the window and saw the mirrored walls of PPG Plaza. Something throbbed in my armpit. I tried not to think about it. What time is it? Two in the afternoon. I'll take it from there. Fitshew said as much

to the chauffeur, and we rode in silence as the Lincoln headed towards Station Square. Fitzhue held out an open palm toward me. On it were four of the gold coins from the night before. I didn't reach for the gold. Last night, you won. Fitzhue leaned forward, pulled on the collar of my shirt, and spilled in the coins. something caught them. The next game is Friday, be it Drake's at 9. Mr. Knock says he wants a chance to win his own back. The Lincoln stopped as Fitzhue finished speaking.

I got out of the car and headed toward the incline without looking back. The incline stuttered its way up the side of Mount Washington as I watched the city and thought. Finally, I took it. took a deep breath and reached beneath my shirt and touched a stranger's long, delicate fingers. My mind registered sensation from the new flesh. I felt the round solidness of the coins it held. I pressed my thumbnail into the new hand and felt pain. The sensations weren't confusing.

I had a third hand growing from my armpit, and if I had to describe how it felt, the only word that came to mind was natural. I let out a brittle chuckle. A few hours before, I'd been worried about losing my girlfriend and being owned by a murderous thug. Those were the days. I opened the fingers on my third hand. Coins spilled down my torso and caught where my shirt tucked into my pants. I took the coins out and looked at them. A spasm of panic made me flinch.

The incline reached the top. I pushed my way through a group of tourist eager to get on. I needed to get control, but didn't know how. I thought of Knox's writhing torso. The memory hunched me over like a gut punch. Life had always been like poker for me. The cards might go against me for a while, but then I'd spot that ace on the cut and be back in control.

The Rod Rittenshaw situation was bad, but I would have seen my chance eventually. I had no chance with cranes and, the moment I agreed to the game. I'd been used as a weapon against Knock. And now that Crane and Ladin had their fun, the three of them would pick me apart. Another game on Friday.

Mr. Knock wanted a chance to win his own back. I closed my eyes and tried to rub the images away. All that flesh and Knock wagered. It wasn't his own. Through closed eyes, I saw the tentacle-like tongues sprouting from Knox's chest. The man was playing with other people's property. My eyes opened. I still felt shaky, but I thought, just maybe I'd caught a glimpse of that ace.

Losing wasn't so bad if you were playing with other people's money. A week later, I said looking at myself and the goal. old flecked mirror of Drake's bar and grill. My lip is almost healed, and the mark on my cheek has disappeared altogether. A slender, lovely hand growing from my left armpit makes a slight bulge beneath my jacket. They kind of bulge of thug might and a stake for a gun. Rod did the night I met with him. He took one look at my sports coat and opened his own to display a pearl-handled smear.

Smith and Wesson. Instead of a pistol, I pulled out a thick roll a hundred dollar bills. I'd gotten 15,000 for the coins. It would have been more if I'd let the dealer run

a theft check on them, but it was enough. Rod acted happy to get his money back, but I saw the disappointment in the set of his jaw. He didn't want my 12,000. He wanted to, me. So when I asked Rod to loan me the 12 grand back plus eight more on top, the big man didn't

just laugh in my face and throw me out. He listened to the angle. How there was a chance to take out some wealthy gamblers, and I just needed the 20,000 for sit-down money. Rod wasn't smart, but he was cunning. In the end, too cunning to let me. me just walk away with 20,000 of his hard-earned dollars. I watch as Alexander Crane moves through Drake's Friday night crowd toward me. The hand crane extends his olive-skinned, manicured, and hadn't been there the week before. I stand. But it's Rod who shakes Crane's new appendage.

Rod Rinshaw, nice to meet you Crane's eyes question me Danny told me there was some money concerns about him getting a seat in the game tonight No worries I'm backing him Crane looks from me to Rod

and now smile is playing on his lips Are you saying you will be responsible for Mr. Williams' losses? Yeah, I'll bank them. I'm good for it. I'm sure you are, Mr. Renshaw.

You'll excuse me. I need to phone my associates. Rod turns back to his half, finished Gimlin on the bar. You do that. I down the remnants of my own drink and one nervous gulp. I know I can't just walk away from the strange games crane has drawn me into. I recall the words of Mr. Knock. You'd like me to go all out, wouldn't you, you bastard?

That's the only way. Like Beaumont, I'd have to lose more than I could afford, but losing isn't all that bad if you're playing with other people's money. Crane approaches us again. Crane's face looks hungry as he speaks. It's unusual, but the other players have agreed. Rod slid from his barstool. Of course, I'm coming along.

Better watch out for my investment, right? Most assuredly, Mr. Wrenshaw. In fact, we insist. I follow the two men out of the bar. Crane has his hand on Rod's arm like a farmer with his prize pig. The plan can go wrong. In this strange, not so according to Hoyle world, I find myself.

Rod Smith and Wesson might still beat a scalpel, no matter what dark power wields it. But things can always go wrong. That doesn't matter. It's time to read the faces and make the cards dance. Crane's chauffeur pulls up as we step to the curb. I can feel the tingling in my fingers. All 15 of them.

A smile. As I slide into the Lincoln, I have a game. In our final tale, we meet a woman who's recently lost her husband, or at least he's passed away. But is he still with her? What seems so, and time goes by so slowly. But time can do so much, is he still the man she loved? And in this tale, shared with us by author Paula Hammond,

it becomes increasingly clear that maybe death might have changed her husband. Performing this tale are Mary Murphy, Peter Lewis, and Atticus Jackson. So don't sit down at the pottery wheel and expect answers. question everything. Unchain yourself from your feelings. Ask yourself, is this really someone special? He'd been gone for three months. Whenever I closed my eyes, he'd cuddle up and tell me how lonely it was to be dead. How much he wanted me with him. The chasm of my grief made me press him close. I was hungry for his touch, as cold and as insubstantial as it was. him that I wished I had the courage to join him, and he in turn whispered his encouragement. After, after the accident, I'd found it hard to accept what had happened. I knew that was normal.

There will be good and bad days, the priest had said, you need to give yourself time, come to terms with what's happened. But somehow I never could. I found myself saying stupid things, things like, now that Lewis has gone, or when I lost Lewis like I'd mislaid him down the back of the couch. It was never when my husband was killed, never when Lewis died. Father Hanlon tried to explain it to me, all the things that I would have to process, work through. He made it sound so easy, as though it was just a matter of ticking off the stages, denial, guilt, anger, tick, tick, tick, and you'll be back on your feet in no time, kiddo, But it wasn't like that. No, not at all.

I was in denial about my denial. Every day, I found new ways to claim the guilt for Lewis's death. And angry? I wasn't angry. I was incandescent. At that stupid, fast and furious wannabe doing 60 in a 35 zone, trying to impress his girl. At myself for not making him wear a seatbelt,

for not insisting. and at Lewis, the man I'd loved since I was 14, the man I planned to grow old and gnarly with, the man who always laughed and told me not to worry, bouncing through life with a wink and a whistle. And then, a shattered windscreen, a snapped neck, his body flip-flopping through the air, leaving a trail of smeared blood on the asphalt. The coroner said that the death would have been instantaneous. Lewis died with a smile on his face. Can you imagine that?

God damn stupid bastard. What the hell was I supposed to do now? How was I supposed to deal with all this impossible crap called life all on my own? It felt like I was broken. Some days, I'd catch myself singing along to a song on the radio and wonder what sort of monster could do that. A widow for only three months, and I was already over him. Other days, burning a slice of toast would dissolve me into hysteria.

The one thing no one ever spoke of, though, was the fear. At the funeral, while his brothers drank and cried and drank some more, I played the stoic widow, dry-eyed, popping valium, furiously thinking happy thoughts. I was so afraid, afraid of losing it, afraid of people seeing just how bad I was. afraid of doing something stupid. I'd always been taught that it was a sin. Suicide. But there were days when it was all I could think of.

I tried to tell myself that I had to live on. Make the best of it. It was what Lewis would have wanted. Only now I know that isn't true. Lewis has made that quite clear. Months after I'd lain his broken shell in the ground, I still found myself making coffee for two. listening for his footsteps in the hall,

like I was willing him to come home. And then, one day, he did. I didn't really see him. I simply felt his presence. Slowly, his essence distilled beside me, like a sleepy genie emerging from its bottle. Then he was there, a pall of nothing occupying the space beside me.

Now, wherever I'd go, he'd be by my side, whispering. Always whispering. I need you. Do it now. Do it now. Was that, I think, that began to unnerve me. His eagerness, his desperation. Lewis had never been one for the big cell.

Even when we were dating, still finding our feet as a couple, He never tried to move things faster than I wanted. It just wasn't his style. Then there was Pepper, our Bay Retriever. At first, whenever Lewis appeared, she'd whimper and tug at my sleeve, like she did as a pup when she needed to go out. Later, things got really bad. She would stare at the space beside me in silence.

Back to the wall. Hackles raised. She would sit like that all night. chewing her tail raw, soiling herself rather than move. I told myself that she was a rescue dock. She'd always been highly strong. She was bound to be upset. But all the same, it was strange.

Lewis had been her favorite. After all, there were other things, too. The sort of things that couples never forget. That disaster date. The first time I stayed over. But whenever I tried to talk about the past, He'd hush me. It hurt to remember, he'd say. I wanted to believe in him, in us, but it all came back to fear again. Fear of death, of the unknown. And yes, fear of him. I tried staying away, visiting friends, but it wasn't like the movies. The house was in his focus. It was me. I started to wonder, was I mad? I didn't think of so, though I wasn't exactly sure what crazy was supposed to feel like either. I went to my priest,

but it came to nothing. Back when Father Hanlon took Sunday Bible study, little Chrissy Magus, far too wise by half, would always arrive primed with questions. Why did the Bible say slavery was okay? Why did Lot's daughters sleep with him? And Father Hanlon would look at her with the exact same mix of shock and alarm that he gave me then. Talking to my doctor was out of the question. Sleeping pills were about all he was good for. Friends, family? When you're being haunted by your dead husband, your options quickly start to narrow. Every evening I would sit on the porch watching with growing unease as the sun raced towards the horizon, knowing that once its final rays were extinguished, I would no longer be alone. I tried ignoring him, filling my evenings with

needless tasks. I tidied, ironed, scrubbed, labeled, and color-coded, and he would stand beside me, watching, waiting, whispering, until finally the sun would rise, and I would be free to sleep. I regularly awoke on the floor, numb and raw, with a cleaning cloth clenched in my hand, That should have told me something, I suppose. The grief shrouded my mind, making it hard to think clearly. The months drifted past in a haze of exhaustion. Only now, when the darkness rose beside me, it was like the turbulent buzzing of a million stinging insects.

Lewis had never so much as raised his voice to me, but I felt his anger now, like static in a storm. No wonder he was angry. I reasoned. I had betrayed him. I had been cowardly. It wasn't much to ask. An ending in a new beginning together.

That's what he called it. You know you want to. He'd say, you know you do. I prayed then. Prayed like I had never prayed before because it was true. I did want it. It was just, just, just. ultimately desperate, exhausted, living on caffeine and cigarettes.

I knew I had no choice. The pills were the easy part. I'd been stashing them for weeks. Booth? I'd never been much of a drinker, but I imagined it would make the transition easier. That's how he described it. Moving from one state of matter to another,

I wouldn't feel a thing. He watched me hungrily, as I counted out the tablets and poured myself a glass of jack. I had no idea how many pills it would take, but I emptied the bottle before I laid myself down. Instantly, he was beside me. I tried to hold his hand, but his shadow fingers slipped through mine,

and I was left grasping at the starched bedsheets for comfort. It was as a pill started to take me to that other place that the terror set in. I was clutching at air, begging him to hold my hand, to talk to me, make it easy. I was babbling, I knew, but I couldn't stop. Did he remember? Couldn't we? Shouldn't we?

The buzzing intensified. My skin prickled, and I felt a sudden pressure. I realized with the start that he was stroking my hair the way he used to do. I sobbed then, calling out his name, pouring out my left. confessing all my silly doubts. It was in that moment of ecstatic celebration that it happened. He called me Linz. I hated that name.

Lewis, my husband, Louis, always called me Li. We were Lilu, had been since high school. Lilu, the inseparable, indefectible lilu. Strange how, after everything, it should be such a little thing that finally made me admit what I'd suspected all along. The thing in my bed was not the man I loved. For a moment, the horror of that knowledge paralyzed me. Then I was up.

As the world twisted under me like a bucking mule, I misstepped and fell. I was giddy, but adrenaline staved off the pills just long enough to get me to the dresser. I reached for my cell, but before I could close my hand around it, it was pulled from my outstretched fingers and hurled across the room.

In that moment, as I hovered between life and death, I finally saw him. It, the Lord of Flies, a bubbling, writhing cloud of darting eyes and flickering tongues. Somewhere in the modal mist, I glinticles and the face of a bloated bug. Stay with me, Lee. It buzzed, and inside its open mouth,

More mouths, each one imploring. Stay with us, limbs. Stay with us. I was untethered, slipping between worlds. As a creature reached out and enveloped me in its sinuous limbs, I could feel its jellyfish skin, warm, tacky, and grotesquely swollen, could hear its million mouths screaming in torment. I howled, thrashed out, catching my arm against the doorframe.

Pain gave me focus. Somehow I found my phone, but I couldn't see my fingers. I was wrapped in a wall of pulsing, stinging flesh. It crawled over my face, filled my mouth. I slammed my free hand down, hard. More pain, more clarity. The phone's keys still eluded me, but I could see its wall. paper. Lewis and I in our wedding day. Me, feigning outrage with a blob of frosting on my nose.

Lewis, guilty and laughing, always laughing. And then I felt his smile, the warmth of his regard. That old Lewis magic I used to call it. The way he always made me feel safe. I felt a whisper of a kiss, and a second later a voice clear and calm over the ether. He watched as they loaded me into the back of an ambulance. For a moment, he looked beyond me, puzzled. Then came an obelisk of light. He shimmered and was gone. They tell me it was a close call, but I'm making good progress. I haven't told them much. Being labeled a suicide is bad enough. They'd probably lock me up for good if I told them about Lewis, about it. Still, they say I'll be well enough to go home soon. Surely you have someone waiting for you, they ask. Someone special? And I look at that inky spot

beside my bed and wonder if it looks darker today, if the buzzing is louder. As I see them follow my gaze, I force myself to smile. Someone waiting? Maybe. Maybe. Thank you for sharing the first 10 years of the No Sleak podcast with us. We hope you'll join us again as we enter our second decade of horror. 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. Media, Inc.