The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S16E11

Episode Date: June 20, 2021

It’s Episode 11 of Season 16. Our correspondence shines darkness onto our screens. “The Bleak Stars” written by Alexander Hay (Story starts around 00:05:30) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Ault, David Cummings as Himself“She Looked at Me” written by A.J. Harvey (Story starts around 00:25:30)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Crystal – Wafiyyah White, Terry – Atticus Jackson, Burk – Mike DelGaudio, Rob – Graham Rowat, Elizabeth Dunham – Mary Murphy“The Hidden Television Channel” written by Mr. Michael Squid (Story starts around 00:46:25) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Ryan – Dan Zappulla, Host – Graham Rowat, Dan – Atticus Jackson“A Night at the Movies” written by T. Michael Argent (Story starts around 01:01:00)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Travis – Dan Zappulla, Dr. Andersson – Mike DelGaudio, Ticket seller – Mary Murphy, Atkinson – David Ault, Man in film – Peter Lewis, Woman in film – Nikolle Doolin“A Voice Exhumed” written by Joe Prosit (Story starts around 01:36:00)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Jesse Cornett, Phoebe – Nichole Goodnight, Steven – Atticus Jackson  This episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepCaliper CBD – Caliper CBD is a fast, easy way to use CBD. With precise 20 mg doses of dissolvable powder which mix quickly and flavorlessly into any food or drink, you’ll experience all the benefits of CBD without the hassles of oils or tinctures. Get 20% off your first order when you use promo code NOSLEEP at trycaliper.com/nosleep  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Mr. Michael SquidClick here to learn more about T. Michael Argent Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Hidden Television Channel” illustration courtesy of Thea ArnmanAudio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi, this is Graham Rowett. We have some great horror stories for you this week. I'm glad you enjoy listening to the disturbing tales we offer. Isn't it oddly funny how horror can help take our minds off the dark struggles in our real life? But when more than just a distraction is needed, I'm thankful for what Better Help offers us. Look, we all go through struggles, and being able to talk to someone trained to provide the kind of help we need is important. That's what makes BetterHelp so effective. Better Help assesses your needs, and matches you with your own licensed professional therapist, so you can start communicating in under 48 hours.

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Rod's therapy is like none I've experienced before. He truly cares about the whole body experience and challenging the systems and strategies I've built up around myself. He is truly a gift. So why wait? Visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's BetterHELP. and join the over one million people taking charge of their mental health

with the help of an experienced professional. And as you know, Graham, this podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. So reach out and start feeling better. And in the meantime, enjoy some of the No Sleep podcast's delightfully devilish distractions. In the dark, in the last. 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. I'd like to thank everyone for the celebratory messages about our 10th anniversary. We had a blast putting together all the content for the big event.

But we can't rest on our laurels. We're still deep into season 16, and we have another 10-plus years to get started. So let's get back into the mysterious world of the storage locker, the thickening plot bookstore, and our enigmatic benefactor. Now, the hunt for the thickening plot hasn't yielded much fruit yet, yet, I'm sorry to say. Unfortunately, it seems like when it moved, the bookstore also changed its name. So I'm looking for a needle in a haystack.

Graham Rowett has been following up on some leads too, and other members of the team are now offering to help as well. But I do have one promising yet unsettling lead. I received a package in the mail to where I am now in New Jersey. An address absolutely nobody has. It was a collection of printouts. along with a set of map coordinates. They point to a location in New Jersey.

There wasn't much in the way of a note other than this. Looks like you need some help, but first you should listen to Olivia's warning. Much love, Alexander Hay. P.S., I'm not your benefactor. So things are getting creepier. And what was Olivia's warning? She received an email from an anonymous source

with a news article about vandalism and a break-in at a certain storage compound, the one where our unit is, of course. And along with the link, the sender had written, David should go back first, signed A-H. So it looks like I'm going to have to take a trip back to that storage unit, then return here again. If I wasn't so freaked out by the events, I'd be mad. But I can't explain why.

I feel like there's a malevolence in the... these new events. I feel like, I don't know, I feel like everything's about to change. But for now, I guess I'll consent to presenting these latest printouts I was sent with the help of David Alt. He has a vague memory of the events from the printouts and remembers the time when the UK gaming scene was fascinated by a game called Bleak Stars. For a brief time between 1984 and 1985, Micromania, and I quote, for your games and your computer, was the best-selling magazine of its kind in the UK. Its blend of brash humor, coverage of all the 8-bit micro-platforms,

and focus on games made it a big hit in the nascent computing scene of the mid-80s. This came to an abrupt end when its offices and staff were consumed by a huge fire in November 1985. Rumors would soon abound with arson, black magic rights, and links to the security services all cited as possible causes. Despite none of these being substantiated, one fact remains. In its last months, the magazine faced a great deal of criticism over its in-depth coverage of The Bleak Stars, or just Bleak Stars. A controversial game whose content even led to alarmist reports in the mainstream press, and questions in Parliament. While this drew in a large number of readers

and a spike in sales, the games often lurid and horrific themes led to some asking why it was getting more attention than other less controversial games. Others spoke out in defense of both the game and magazine, arguing that this was a free speech issue. But there were also a large number of letters from readers who had been deeply affected and even disturbed by the game.

This mailbag article from the October 1985 issue is a case in point. Micro Mail, our pick of the post. Welcome to this month's mailbag. We've got arguments about whether the Commodore or Spectrum is best, whether Gavin's mum loves the Amstrad CPC. You're fired, Ed. Whether it was right to pirate games during the minor strike, and whether Jophe Smith is the Messiah or just a naughty boy.

Surely's a mistake, Ed. But first, we're not. received a ton of letters about the bleak stars, the controversial text adventure from Wormwood Games. The national press has been a buzz with stories about its crazy plot, gore, twisted images and rumors that it drives players around the bend. And lots of swearing. This month we delve deep into the maddest letters sent in so far. Hold on readers, it gets C-R-A-Z-Y. So, dear, dear, Micrumania. I have to say Bleak Stars is my game of the year. I love how the story unfolds and how

the puzzles test both your mind and your courage. The best part is where you cut off your censored, Ed, and then gouge out your own eyes. Until I played the game, I never realized I've always wanted to do this. Since then, I've started finding people who want to degrade me and worse. It's the closest I can get to feeling how I did when I first played Bleak Stars, when I realized I was nothing and I wanted to be even less. And less and less. S. Hatrick, Edinburgh. Micromania says,

Talk about getting caught up in a game, S Hatrick. We're all in favour of human degradation, having worked for Gavin and met his mum. You're fired, Ed. Still, it's only a game, right? Dear Micromania, I've been playing computer games since I first played Galaxians in South End

back in the late 70s. But nothing, and I do mean nothing, prepared me for bleak stars. I prefer action games, but this is the first text adventure that I've really enjoyed. Even the images were impressive, though they're hard to look at, like your review said. What I like about the game is its twist. We all know the bleak stars are all that's left of a dead galaxy, and their gatherers keep them alive with the suffering of whole worlds. When I realized the big twist that I was a gatherer all along,

my jaw hit the floor. I started cutting myself straight after. I've not been able to stop playing the game since then. More and more, I cut myself deeper. Once I've sent this letter, I will open myself up properly. I keep dreaming about how my insides will glisten and smell. They will watch me do it. I can see the pale white gleam of the bleak stars feeding.

I'm fading fast. This is all I was ever meant to do. Teapodge of Streatham. Micromania says, Come on, Tea Podge. You know, everyone's played the game yet? You'll ruin the surprise. Still, good to see you're getting into the spirit of things.

You'd make a great horror writer. Though we prefer Gallagher in this office. Even Gavin's mum. You're fired, Ed. Dear Micromania, I used to think computer games were a waste of time. When we bought our son his Acorn Electron, we thought he'd use it to do his homework. Instead, he spent hours.

hours playing games. So me and his mum took it away from him and put it in our bedroom instead. You've never seen a tantrum like it. Anyway, I decided to play the latest game our son bought before we confiscated his computer. He never got to play it, but we have. We've played it a lot. Bleak Stars is amazing. I never thought we'd enjoy computer games, but this is more. I can feel my arms getting longer and longer, and my body is beginning to bloat and twist. and ooze. My wife lets me drink her blood every night. She bathes me in all her fluids, but soon she'll run out. I'm sure our son won't mind taking over. We've got him locked up in the attic. It's for his own good. These computer games just lead young people astray. I can taste

him already. E. Thin, a dress supplied. Micromania says, It's fab to hear parents are learning to enjoy games. Not sure taking your son's computer away is a Good idea, though. It's never good to be too harsh to anyone, least of all your own kids. Tell my mother that, Ed. Good to see you're getting into the spirit of the bleak stars, though. Just don't take it too seriously. Dear Micromania, before I start, I'd just like to thank you for being the only magazine on the market that covers all the micros which are still supported by the software houses. I still can't bring myself apart with my Dragon 32. Maybe it's time to upgrade to a C-64? For now, I know Micromania will cover my favourite platform, and I'll keep buying.

Thanks, Ed. Speaking of dragons, though, I keep dreaming about them ever since playing bleak stars. I know they're not in the game, but my dreams add them to the story. It's like they were meant to be there as agents of the bleak stars and the gatherers, but had to be left out for some reason. They're made of bone and sinew and blue fire and spite, and they fly over the country blasting everything with lay. liquid hate. The best part was when they hit my house and me and my family all melted,

screaming as the gatherers came to harvest our suffering for the bleak stars. Do you think Wormwood Games will make a sequel? I have so many ideas. I've tried burning myself to see if it's like my dreams. It hurts, but not enough. So I keep dreaming of bile dragons who will bring ruin to all in their path. P. Walson of Slough. Micromania says, the praise, P. Walson. Sorry to hear you want to set fire to yourself, though. Is living in Slough really that bad? In any case, we will continue to be the magazine for all micro-owners,

but obviously only if there's software for us to review. So, well-done, Wormwood games for ensuring their Meisterverk has been released on every platform imaginable. Dear Micromania, my mate Christian is a total pratt. Not only does he own a spectrum, which means is a massive, duh, but he also keeps playing crap games like bleak stars, which is really boring, and was made by total griebos for weirdos and people who don't like girls. Gary also keeps playing the game all the time, and I don't see him anymore, except at school and he's too weird to muck around with now. He keeps saying the world is going to end, and these things will come along and eat us or something. I think Drop Zone is a much better game and nicked it from

boots last week. Games should be well-skilled, not boring rubbish. You should only cover C-64, the other formats are for spods and smackheads, like my other mate, Kevin, G-Bend of Reading. Micromania says, sorry to hear about your mates, G-Bend, but are you sure slagging them off in a letter's good idea? They might find out if they read Micromania, the UK's fastest-growing games magazine, ABC Data Pending, Ed. The thing is, we cover all platforms, even the Amstrad. And they've all got great games regardless, so we can't just focus on one form. Sorry to hear you don't like the bleak stars either, but at least drop zones are classic too. And you really shouldn't be shoplifting, you naughty youth. That's how Gavin ended up in Borstal.

You're fired, Ed. Dear Micromania. I'm really looking forward to playing bleak stars on our BBC Micro, but my older brother won't give me a chance. He keeps playing every day and now looks at me strangely like he's watching me. It's gotten so bad I now block the bedroom door with my bed every night. Mum says it's because he's going through a phase. Dad thinks it's because everything's in decimal and moans about the European Commission all day. My big brother looks very pale and strange,

and I think mum and dad are getting scared of him. Should I play this game, or just stick to playing elite whenever I can get my brother off the computer? Oh, finally, I haven't read anything for a while by Clive, who reviewed Bleak Stars back in August. Is he all right? E-Simple, London. Micromania says,

Yeah, sad to say, but Big Brothers are knobs at the best of times. Maybe you should tell someone if he keeps watching you all the time. As for Elite, it's still a great game. Can we assume you'll make it a most dangerous one day? Commander Symbol? Meanwhile, Clive's not been very well. Has to be said, but I'm happy to say he appears to be much better and says he is raring to go and set the office a blaze

when he comes back from sick leave next month. Dear Micromania, You probably don't get that many women writing in. Meow, Ed. But I need to get something off my chest. Snar, fnarr, Ed. I wanted to get a copy of that game everyone's talking about, the black scars or whatever it's called, for my boyfriend's birthday.

But all the shops in town had sold out. So I ended up buying a copy from a market stall. Would you believe it? The thing wouldn't load up. It cost me 10 quid. He was not impressed, so now he spends more and more of his time around the house of this weird hairy bloke called Jeff, who's got his own copy. Sometimes I don't see him for nights on end because he's playing that game.

I feel like a widow and we're not even married yet. He keeps telling me there's a big surprise on its way and that he'll show me something amazing soon. But he is acting strange. He is getting thinner, paler. I swear his arms and legs look longer too and he just stares all the time. I don't know what's happened to him. Jeff knocked on her door at 3 a.m. yesterday asking where my boyfriend.

was. He got very angry when I told him it was late. I'm thinking of getting the locks changed. I don't want to throw my boyfriend out, but he's not the man I met. I barely recognize him at all. Sele of Foley off Shirley. Micromania says, Sorry to hear you're having troubles with your bloke. Maybe you need to get some relationship counselling or something, and you really need to be careful if you're not buying games from a high street retailer. Software piracy is a serious issue. Have you checked if you bought a genuine copy. If not, give faster call on 01-240-6756, and you might get a £1,000 reward. Dear Micromania, I got a copy of Bleak Stars for my birthday, and I really enjoy playing it.

But then I had nightmares about the things the game made me do and what it turned me into. I don't play the game anymore, but I can't stop thinking about it. At times, I feel like it's calling out to me, but I'm scared about what would happen if I give in. I keep thinking about all the world stripped bare by the bleak stars in the game and the disgusting ways the gatherers feed and how it could happen here right now. Am I going mad? And all the time I keep hearing this in my head. I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nothing, I am nothing.

What if it's true? I want to burn the game or throw it out, but I'm scared it might come back somehow and keep whispering to me. Maybe I should get rid of my computer, but what if the game's all? already in my head. What if I'm going to turn into one of those things? I just want to sleep. D. Sliver, West Ham. Micromania says, you don't sound very well, D. Sliver. Maybe it's because you support a rubbish football team. You're promoted, unlike West Ham, Edd. Seriously, though, you really need to talk to someone. Games should be fun. They shouldn't be making you feel uncomfortable. In any case, Wormwood Games does provide a content warning on the packaging, so you

really should and know what you were getting yourself into. Dear Micromania, you are sitting at your desk, reading this letter. The office seems very cold all of a sudden, and it is getting dark. The sound of your colleagues is getting fainter and fainter. Soon, they are gone,

and you are all that remains. The room is getting smaller and smaller. You sense your body withering as entropy takes hold, and you can feel a cold breath of something behind you. It snares you in its long, cold limbs and entraps you in burning gossamer. Soon it begins to slowly, agonizingly feed on your flesh, soul, and very being, every moment of agony sharpened by the venom it used to paralyze you. What do you do?

Press C to cry for mercy. Press D to scream in terror. Or press X to allow yourself to become as one with the bleak stars. Hungry eyes. nowhere and everywhere. Micromania says, Wow, hungry eyes. Talk about getting caught up in a game.

Even Gavin's mum wouldn't take that. You're fired, Ed. Have to say, your writing was really strange, and all the drawings that came with the letter were really weird. We love how you used red ink to look like blood. Still, get some exercise. Talk to some girls. You need it. Just don't chat up Gavin's mum.

You're fired. I'm fired, Ed. Next issue. Our big topic next issue will be whether the new 16 bits will change gaming. Does tomorrow belong to the Atari ST or the Amiga? What future for the Tartung Einstein? Plus is the Amstrad CPC the naffest computer ever? You're fired, Ed.

And keep your letters coming in about bleak stars, the crazier, the better. PostScript. There was no next issue. Bleak Stars was withdrawn from sale two months later, and Wormwood Games soon went into liquidation. Its business model was flawed to say the least, and seemed more focused on spreading the game to as many homes as possible rather than making a profit.

None of those who worked on the game could be traced, and it's not clear how many of them were even real in the first place. The business address for the firm turned, out to be the ruins of an old Georgian townhouse, left to rot after being bombed during the Second World War. The game itself no longer exists. Copies began to decay with shocking speed. Meanwhile, attempts to bootleg the game via home taping and memory dump devices proved fruitless. This was put down to poor-quality cassettes and duplication processes. But in any case, no working copies of The Bleak Stars remained by the middle of the middle of the

1988. Until recently, then, the game was thought of as a classic case of lost media. However, word of mouth is now spreading online, alongside rumors of depraved acts and worse that took place during the game's release. Like the original game, then, these narratives have gone viral. Several fake versions of the game have already been posted on online storefronts. Image boards with links to far-right occult groups even feature claims that there are still copies of the original code, and that this will soon be shared on the dark web. A darker rumor is that aspects of the game's imagery and subliminal content have begun to creep into modern platforms in the form of the glitches and bugs that bedevil

many AAA games. What is clear is that Bleak Stars has the honor of being the most dangerous game ever made. How much is true or false is up to the reader of. of course, but who can deny that sometimes we are the players, but more often the playthings. And whoever or whatever was behind the bleak stars may not yet have finished playing their game. A final note. In the wake of the Micromania Office Fire, Little was left of its staff, records, or a vast and priceless collection of vintage computer games. What did remain yielded few clues, apart from the autopsy of staff writer Clive Keys, his few charred remnants showed signs of,

in the coroner's words, quote, rampant deformation, end quote, while chemical analyses were quickly placed under a D-notice. But more ominous was the message he left on the wall of his apartment on the morning of the fire in a mix of blood and strange mucal deposits. Game over. Judy in the 21st century is viewed through a lens.

A camera takes a photo and that photo is placed into a magazine, but not before it's been edited and idealized to a level of perfection beyond human capacity. And in this tale, shared with us by author A.J. Harvey, we meet someone working on a photo like this during the most eerie of conspiring circumstances. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Wafia White, Atticus Jackson, Mike Delgadoio, Graham Rowett, and Mary Murphy. So tweak those imperfections and help someone become something more than human, but be careful you're not left saying, she looked at me. I clicked the mouse twice to zoom in on her face, focusing on a wayward eyebrow hair, missed by the hair and makeup team at the photo shoot. I selected the spot-healing brush in the Photoshop toolbar and blended the surrounding pixels to erase the hair.

Further perfecting the already stunning picture of the actress. A crash of thunder outside my home office window caused me to automatically hit save. I'd be damned if a power out it was going to wipe out the past hours' worth of editing work. I drained the remaining sip of whiskey from the glass sitting next to the keyboard before zooming out on the photo. Elizabeth Dunham was drop-dead gorgeous. She looked beautiful, mysterious, a little sad all at the same time. In the picture, she was draped in deep purple fabric. The cloth spilled over her shoulders held in place at her chest with her hands.

I double-clicked to zoom in tight on her mouth, curled in a whimsical smile. As I dragged the selection tool across her lips to increase the color, I felt a familiar pulse in my groin. Ah, geez, I need to get out more. I groaned and pushed away from the desk, standing to stretch. I wandered down the hallway, empty glass in hand, into the living room where the TV cast a soft blue haze over a few pieces of mismatched furniture. I left the TV on most of the time, just to have background noise to keep me from feeling too lonely. I'd been working from home for over a year since my now ex-wife left me for what she's,

She had jokingly called her work husband. A few months ago, I saw photos from a wedding ceremony while stalking her on Facebook, and I guessed the guy was now her all the time, husband. I didn't know if they still worked together. A brilliant flash of lightning followed by a rumble of thunder brought me back to the living room and the news droning on in the background. I crossed the room to a small but well-stocked liquor cabinet and splashed or refill into my glass.

Nicodemus, a morbidly rotund orange tabby, was curled into a ball on the plush recliner next to the cabinet. Nick was the only thing that my ex had left behind. She took everything else, the furniture, all our friends, even the damn ice cube trays out of the freezer. But she left the cat. We had adopted just weeks after moving in together. I reached to scratch behind his ear and was rewarded with an enormous.

glare. Yeah, he was a crappy roommate, but he had been my only companion after the divorce, and I had grown fond of him. The Breaking News jingle cut across the room, and I turned to see a flashing red graphics, somersaulting on the screen, reading police investigation. The camera cut to a pretty blonde anchor woman with the pretense of a solemn expression. We interrupt our broadcast for a breaking news update. Up and coming actress, Elizabeth Duned was found dead in her home in what one witness described as a gruesome scene. We go live now to our own KTBG News reporter, Terry Matthews, who was speaking with police regarding this tragic incident.

My mouth dropped open as I blinked at the screen. Holy crap. The camera cut to an older man in a suit holding an umbrella in one hand and a microphone in the other. In the background red and blue lights flash. in the drizzling rain. Yellow police tape fluttered in the wind stretched between two palm trees

flanking a front entryway. The door of the house was smashed and crumpled like it had exploded from the inside out. The reporter nodded and raised his microphone. Thank you, Crystal. The reporter turned to a grim-looking man in a sweat-soaked button-up shirt and tie.

Detective Burke, can you tell us anything about what has happened here, tonight. Well, it's an ongoing investigation at this point. There's not much that we can release as far as details, but we're working on it, and the department will make an official announcement when we have more details. Is Elizabeth Dunham dead? The detective nodded slowly. Yes, it has been confirmed that the actress was found dead in her home about two hours ago. The reporter almost appeared greedy at that small. bit of information, he continued questioning.

We've received information regarding Ms. Dunham's involvement in some kind of occult activity earlier in the day. Can he tell us anything about that? The detective grimaced. He looked pale. We're following all available leads to make sense of what happened here tonight. And what about reports of strange sounds coming from? I'm sorry, I can't share any more details at this point. The detective turned and walked off screen. The camera focused. on the reporter.

Well, Crystal, as you can see, it's a disturbing scene here in front of the home of Elizabeth Dunham. I had spoken with neighbors earlier who shared their concerns after witnessing three individuals entering Ms. Dunham's home late this afternoon. They appeared to be wearing long black cloaks. Her neighbors thought she was rehearsing for a movie.

It turns out, there may have been more sinister events taking place. My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket throwing my heart into my throat. I pulled it out to see an incoming call from my boss, Rob, managing editor of the magazine. I muted the TV before answering. Uh, yeah? Almost done. Another hour, probably.

Are you still using it for the cover? Have you seen the news? Hell yes, we are. Are you kidding me? I need that pick ASAP, Jim. The article will change, but this is going to drive up sales. Hedder will read, gone too soon. People will eat that crap up, Amigo.

Huh. You always were a... sweetheart. Okay, I'll have it finished in a bed. Get on it! I need to update the website and our social media within the next hour. I want to use that picture. It's the last professional photo taken of her. She looks smoking hot in it. Sure thing. I ended the call and turned my attention back to the TV where the pretty blonde anchor was shuffling a stack of papers and looking concerned. Still muted as she moved her mouth silently. The screen flashed again to the report. her at the scene. He was gesturing to the windows of the house. All broken, jagged shards of glass littered

the lawn. I shuddered and drained the remaining whiskey in my glass as I walked down the hallway to my office. Elizabeth Dunham's red lips filled the computer screen, still zoomed in from my last few edits. I felt a pang of sadness. I had really liked her as an actress. She had started out as a scream queen in horror movies, and recently had been starring in lead roles in more serious, dramatic movies. She had been cast as the villain more than once, and she always nailed the role. You know, she had this, an otherworldly, exotic look, and she could instantly give viewers chills with her dark eyes and husky voice. She was known for a few quirky habits on set, mostly meditation and a fondness for candles. Her background was. Her background

was a little mysterious. I remembered a talk show interview from a couple of months ago where she was asked about her childhood experiences, uh, growing up in a remote village, a commune, really, in rural Oregon. The talk show host mentioned rumors of witchcraft. Elizabeth had a sad, almost longing expression and quickly changed the subject to her upcoming movie. Now she was dead. I sank into my chair and clicked to zoo. out for the full photo. Something wasn't right. I studied the image on the screen, trying to pinpoint what was making me feel uneasy. At first, everything seemed perfectly normal, just as I had left it. Her head was tilted back into the left, showing more of a profile. She was laughing,

and her long jet black hair fanned out behind her whipping in the wind. Her skin was soft, creamy white, almost glowing after I had carefully airbrushed her face. Her eyes, her eyes were wrong. She had been looking up and away in more of a classic old Hollywood pose. But now, no, she was looking at me. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. She was still looking at me. I checked the file name, wondering if I had opened the wrong photo,

but it was the same I had been working on before I got up to refill my drink. What the sharp crack of lightning immediately chased by booming thunder caused the lights to flicker before a single loud pulse and click rang through the house. Then the lights went out. Elizabeth Dunham's image lingered on the screen before fading into the blackness. Damn it! My voice sounded too loud as I sat stupidly in the dark. A confused yowl from Nicodemus floated down the hallway.

I got up and clicked the flashlight on my phone, throwing a single white circle of light onto the floor. Hang on, Nick. I followed the beam of light to the kitchen, where I kept a stash of candles and matches in a drawer near the sink. Lightning flashed again, and I banged my knee against the corner of the cabinet. Shit. I swore softly and pulled the drawer out next to the sink. Three candles rolled next to a single box. of matches. I set my phone with the light facing up on the countertop and retrieved a candle

along with the matches. I set the candle next to my phone and struck a match. As the flame hissed to life I heard a voice behind me. See me. I whorled around to face an empty kitchen illuminated faintly by the light of my phone. The match burned to my fingertips and I dropped it. There was a faint. echo of laughter across the room. I snatched up my phone and I held it in front of me using the light as a shield. Two green orbs floated a foot above my kitchen table. Oh, cat's eyes. Oh, Nicodemus meowed and jumped off the table, his large body landing with a heavy thump on the dial floor. Oh, I let out the breath I'd been holding and relaxed my shoulders. The rain poured outside the, the windows splashing noisily on the ground. The storm, combined with the whiskey and disturbing

news, had played with my mind, I reasoned. Another pulse and click sounded, and the lights in the house flickered to life. Down the hall, I heard the pleasant chime of my computer. I turned off the flashlight on my phone and jammed it into my back pocket before heading down the hall to my office. Nicodemus twisted around my feet, purring loudly. I'll feed you in a minute, Nick. As I rounded the doorway, I froze. The picture had changed. She was still looking at me, but Elizabeth Dunham's face was no longer turned to the left.

She had turned completely forward, facing me. I stumbled backward into the hallway. My feet landed on Nick's tail and screamed, jumping over me as I tripped and fell. The door to my office slammed shut in my face. Shit. I backpedaled like a crab into the living room. The news was still on the TV. The screen flashed a picture of Elizabeth Dunham,

and she was smiling. She was looking at me. I scrambled to stand, and I watched with horror as the mute symbol disappeared on its own. The volume bars displayed, and the sound resumed. I just want to be seen. Elizabeth Dunham's previous. recorded interview played as different images of the actress were posted in a slideshow.

She was looking at me in every picture. The interview audio continued. That's why I became an actress. I was so lonely as a child, growing up the way I did. Acting allowed me to be seen, to be hurt, and loved. It was a way for me to connect with everyone. I continued walking backwards towards the front door, afraid to look away from the TV screen. I heard the door to my office squeak open. My hand reached behind me to clutch the doorknob. I began to twist it open when the TV froze on a single image of Elizabeth Dunham. It was identical to the one on my computer screen, with Elizabeth facing forward, smiling and staring directly into my eyes.

Do you see me? She whispered so close to me I could almost feel hot breath in my ear. I screamed and the TV blinked off. In the black screen I could see my reflection, my body crouching in front of the door, except my reflection wasn't alone. Someone, something, was standing next to me,

leaning over me. Its body looked long. stretched too tall, towering above me. I watched its face turn from staring down at my reflection to look at the TV screen, to look at me. Elizabeth's face, she twitched and writhed like a marionette puppet, jagged arms reaching to embrace me. She smiled, red lips pulling wide, you know, horrible grimace. I bolted towards the kitchen, rushing to the back door. I was almost there when I heard the faintest meow from my office. My heart twisted in my chest. Yes, he was a stupid cat, but he was my stupid cat, damn it. The only thing I had left, a world around, terrified,

and saw I was alone. No towering ghost was chasing me. The kitchen was empty. The living room. Beyond it was empty, too. Thunder outside sounded, subdued, more distant. The rain was slowing. I could hear big fat drops pattering on the back porch. I willed my breathing to slow, trying to stop the ragged, shuddering gasps for air. Nick meowed again, and I laughed softly, sounding a little unhinged. I wiped clammy hands over my face. I'm losing my damn mind. I forced myself to push away from the door and took a few steps to peer down the hallway. No mysterious figures, just my hallway empty.

The door to my office was open. I took a few tentative steps out of the kitchen. My phone pulsed twice in my pocket. It was a text message from Rob. Asking, done yet, buddy? Almost, I sent back and slowly walked to the door of my office. There she was on the screen. Still facing forward.

She was closer, though. Her mouth frozen in a smile that split her face, showing a hideous number of jagged teeth. Her eyes were now black holes set in rotting dapple-gray skin. In the picture, her arm was raised. She was pointing behind me. I heard the creek of floorboards and felt a whisper on the back of my neck. Me.

Now that's one photo I'd rather not focus on. Instead, let's take a quick break to focus on the way that... I'm sick of your... Mr. Maths with an S. Well, now you listen here. Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, what's going on here? Why are you two fighting? My so-called friend David is being a jerk.

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I'm feeling better just talking about Caliper CBD. Me too. I don't even remember what we were fighting about. There, you see? When you're calm and relaxed, everything feels right again. It almost feels like you two. were friends again, right? Well, what do you say? Friends again, David? Friends again, Jessica. Ah, peace at last. Well, that is until we return to the show and tune in to the horror. Back in the day, there used to be just a handful of things you could watch on TV. Now look at it. So much choice,

so many options, so many different streaming services. There could be anything lurking out there on the airwaves. And in this tale, shared with us by author Mr. Michael Squid, we join two brothers who find something a little unexpected among their available broadcasts. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Dan Zapula, Graham Rowett, and Atticus Jackson. So sit back, relax, and watch the box. But remember, this is less Netflix and chill, and more 90s cable and chiller. As we discover the Hidden Television Channel. I've long held a memory that has been the source of pain and anguish through my life since childhood. My psychiatrist has convinced my memories are warped in an attempt to suppress trauma,

and I began to believe him. I've been on anti-anxiety medication for nearly 22 years in anti-depression meds for 18. I'd eventually been convinced that those memories were, in fact, a result of suppression. I was finally starting to move past it all. And then this afternoon I saw it. I saw the hidden television channel I'd been convinced was a false memory. And I screamed. My brother went missing when I was nine years old.

And his friend was found dead in our living room. I was questioned, so was my father, but the nature of Dan's death defied explanation. And the lack of evidence made the case unsolvable, so it went cold. I was considered an unreliable witness after my tearful testimony to the police. In the following months, I was taken to a child psychologist and eventually prescribed medications before undergoing years of repressed memory therapy. I was there when it happened, though. And as of today, I'm now certain what I saw was in fact real.

My parents raised Ryan and me in the suburbs of Hatfield, Pennsylvania. We had a yard, a good education. good friends, and the latest 16-bit video game consoles. I was happy at age 9. Enjoying the summer vacation as the sweltering heat of June baked the streets. My older brother Ryan was 14 and a bit of a smart ass, always cracking jokes and getting into trouble. Still, he looked after me and was always quick to stick up for me

if any bullies made the mistake of giving me a hard time. I truly was lucky, in retrospect. One weekend when Dad was working, and mom had driven off to run errands, I was playing Genesis in my room, when Ryan began yelling from downstairs. Check this out. I heard the din of scattered applause from the TV in the living room. I shuffled out of my room and peered down at Ryan, who flashed me his trademark smile,

marked by the mole on his cheek. It had been a sore spot growing up and led him to growing thick skin, after being called Marilyn Monroe many times in elementary school. I looked past my grinning brother to the TV to an image that warped and shamed. shifted like a scrambled adult station, bending the image. Yeah, dad locks the porn channel, Perv. I shook my head, but then the image on the TV fixed itself. On screen, there was a panel of shifting people whose faces looked somehow wrong.

They all had normal features, eyes, noses, and mouths, but they looked strangely shaped and sized like each was in the wrong place, or perhaps the wrong shape. It looked deformed and almost fake, and it was pretty creepy. What the heck is it? Just come down here. Check this out. Ryan dropped to sit cross-legged in front of the glowing screen. I was curious and had nothing better to do.

I shuffled my small feet down carpeted stairs and stood next to Ryan watching the strange people on the screen. This is not a real station. Look! His finger pointed at the corner of the screen. The station read 23.3. a station in between stations and then he pointed to the dial our TV was one of the old-fashioned dial sets the knob was resting between stops

and this show is fucking weird I then sat next to my brother as the image went in and out of scrambled distortion and we watched a TV show unlike anything I'd ever seen before seven individuals with strange looking faces all conversed in whispers between themselves A shiny-faced, bald man who appeared to be the show's host,

paced back and forth in front of a large reflective black panel on the wall. The image bent and shifted as the scrambled effect came in and out. But I soon realized it was a large square of black glass, maybe 12 feet square and likely fairly thick as well. After some deliberation, the seated individuals on the panel held up large cards with numbers from left to right. 3.21, 53, 501, 401, 413, 842. I had no idea what those numbers could possibly mean, but I began to feel nervous watching. The people with pinched and strange features creeped me out more than anything.

It was like they had all received severely botched plastic surgeries, warping them so far out of normal proportion. They all looked terrifying. What is this? I don't know. Stop talking. The camera switched to show a close-up of the standing man, the presumed host. My skin crawled immediately once his close-up filled the screen. Fuck was right.

The man was bald, and the close-up revealed the skin on his grisly face was made up almost entirely of scar tissue. Shiny pink skin was pulled tight around the contours of his skull. It was reminiscent of a burn victim who's had his damaged skin grafted, but in a way that didn't make any logical sense. His teeth were pristine, sparkling white, but his lips were jagged, blended at the seam that was uneven, as if they'd been split and patched together by unskilled surgeons. It was like some horrifically butchered cosmetic surgery had been performed on him for the sole purpose of making him look more disturbing. The host peered into the camera with small black eyes, beneath folded creases of misshapen lids, little obsidian beads that stared

into me from the flickering screen. My neck hairs raised as he cocked his head slightly, as if he'd become aware of something. I held my breath, and then he excitedly pointed at the camera and spoke. My brother and I looked at each other in shock. Our address was 2913, on our lane. It was surely a creepy coincidence, but I was nine years old and absolutely terrified at that point. Turn it off! Ryan just gawked his jaw hanging open as he watched the television.

The host pointed with a twisted finger to the audience in a slew of about 20 individuals whose backs were to the camera. The person who'd been pointed at then stood and turned to the side to move down the aisle. It was a woman who looked sickly and tired. She was gaunt, emaciated with bags under her eyes above sunken cheeks. Her age was a mystery as her face had been mangled in a similar fashion to the rest. There was no way to tell if she was 25 or 85. She dragged one foot behind her as the host kept pointing a gnarled finger at her. As she shuffled out of the aisle and onto the path to the stage,

it was clear her left foot was dangling at the base, connected only by skin itself. Ryan exhaled in a hushed voice. The woman limped up the stairs to the black floored stage and made her way to the panel, taking a seat at the end of the strange-looking individuals. A wide-angled shot showed a black-clad assistant rush over from behind a curtain, and stage left and hand her a placard reading 2913 in thick black numbers.

These did not look like special effects, and they were far too graphic for television as far as I knew. Turn it off! Ryan was still. He seemed mesmerized by the bizarre television show. The camera then showed a close-up of the woman holding the sign, and my heart pounded in my chest. It wasn't a woman, it was a mutilated girl, much younger but cosmetically butchered just like the rest. Her face was scarred in lines under the eyes and cheeks, making her appear older. She looked very familiar, however. It took me a while to figure out where I recognized that nose speckled with that particular pattern of freckles.

I made the connection as my stomach sank to the floor. It was Amber Darden. The girl who'd been all over the news after having gone missing, presumed abducted from her yard last year. I'd seen her face so many times in the papers. On the post office wall and even on milk cartons, there was a little. no mistaking it. It was impossible to ignore. Her face had been terribly altered

in what appeared to be an attempt to conceal her identity. I couldn't stand it anymore. Ryan, that's Amber Tarton, that girl who's gone missing. Ryan, call the police. Fuck, you're right! Holy shit!

Ryan stood up, stumbled back, and raced to the cordless kitchen phone. He picked it up and dialed, but just seconds later, the image on screen warped back into wavy bands of a scrambled station just before clicking to Channel 23 or a baseball game was being aired.

No! I approached the old TV set, hitting the side to try to restore the image. I fiddled with the knob, trying to balance it between the stations, but it wouldn't stick or find that hidden station, no matter how slowly I rotated the dial. That strange show didn't come back.

Not when my mother returned home and listened to our pleas to believe us. Not when a uniformed police officer officer arrived at our door, which made our mother really lose it, once she explained the hyperactive imaginations of her boys, forcing us to apologize to the man. Nobody believed us. Ryan and I were both determined to find the station throughout the week, but had no luck. The station clicked very clearly between the actual stations, and the phenomenon Ryan had discovered seemed to be a one-time fluke. Might have been pirate broadcasters. Back in 87, hackers did it in Chicago with a max

headroom mask. I don't know. He sounded like he was desperately trying to get over it and dismiss it as a prank or as a fluke. I don't think he wanted to face the possibility that what he saw was real. Days passed, and honestly I thought that was the end of it. I wish it had been. A few weeks later, Ryan's friend Dan from school came over, and they watched horror movies late at night after mom and dad were asleep. I sneak watched the thing from atop the stairs without them knowing.

After it was finished, they began chatting about strange. real-life horror stories and unexplained phenomena. And then, Ryan brought up the show. There's a hidden television station, swear to God. My little brother and I both saw it. Ryan explained this despite the scoffs of Dan, a larger kid who always wore leather jackets and fancied himself the long-lost member of the misfits.

When Ryan was done, Dan smirked and then shook his head. Bullshit. If the station existed, hundreds or even thousands of people would have seen it. I swear it was real, man. Ryan walked up to the TV and began fiddling with a station knob. We'd done this a dozen times since the incident, and of course there was never any signal again. Dan was chuckling as he drew out a marlborough from a pack in his jacket pocket

and headed to the door to go out for a smoke. But then it happened. There was a pop of static. A crackle as the image flickered, and then wavy bands of color streaked up and down the screen. Dan stopped midstep, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lip. Holy shit.

I felt my guts squirm at the side of it. It was something dangerous, something too dark to explore. Ryan and his tough guy friend Dan were the type to chase thrills, though. I watched from the top of the stairs as though sickening faces appeared once again on the screen. The panel of disfigured individuals and that shiny-skinned host with beady eyes and perfect teeth

beneath the ravaged flesh of his face. What? The actual fuck. This is fucking crazy. I watched for a few seconds as the panel of individuals raised placards with numbers. 814-2-601-21B-3F-210-2002. The host faced the screen once more in a grotesque close-up. I twinged with a shiver at seeing that terrible,

butchered face staring intently into the camera, squinting malformed lids over shiny black eyes. 913, quick! The host pointed a gnarled finger to an emaciated male in the audience, was staggered slowly up and onto the stage, to hold a newly painted blackard reading 2913, our address again. My throat closed and my heart pounded in my chest.

The host then walked to the large black glass square inset into the stage. I felt sick to my stomach but couldn't look away. The black's... Square pane of glass began to brighten as if a light was being turned on from the other side. The illumination revealed a room of a house and two people facing the camera. My heart skipped a beat as I realized what I was seeing. Behind the glass was a reflection of our living room, as viewed from the other side.

Standing in it, facing the audience, was my brother Ryan and his friend Dan. What the fuck, man! Dan took a step back from the screen. His actions were mirrored in the large square panel As if it were a window into our home There was a harsh, distorted tone that rumbled through the television low and deep It sounded for a second, stopped for two, Then sounded again on repeat

My fear had built at the point that I couldn't take it Turn it off! Only then did I alert my brother and his friend to my presence at the top of the stairs. That analog, deep rumbling tone kept sounding. My brother ran to the TV fidgeting with the dial. The image remained as he switched stations. It remained even after he pressed the power button. This can't be real.

Ryan yanked out the plug of the television, and the screen finally went black with a crackle. Tone sounded again, distorted and deep, rumbling loud enough to tremble the upstairs floor beneath the carpet. There was a sharp bang, followed by the cracking of wood. Ryan screamed a shrill scream, facing the out-of-view front door of our home. I ran into my room and slammed my door shut, locking it with shaking fingers.

There was a horrible series of snaps and crunches, followed by the most horrible, shrill scream I'd ever heard. Everything after was a blur. I remember my parents' voices, confused by the sounds that awoke them. My mother's scream. Trantic yelling. My parents checking if I was okay. Sirens.

Police. Ambulances. everyone was asking if I knew where Ryan was. I did not. Dan was found splayed on the carpet. His wrists, ankles, and neck had been severed clean through. Though the skin remained unscathed, it was as if they'd been severed from within his body.

His official cause of death was listed as internal hemorrhaging, though how he got his injuries was a complete mystery. And that was the end of it. I grew up into a scarred adult, with some issues due to the trauma. I have an at a van with breakfast and a paxil at lunch. I have been to therapy sessions through my teenage years and into my adult life. I was convinced there must have been some crazy trick,

or perhaps my mind had envisioned what had feared the most on the screen. Ryan was presumed kidnapped and killed. We even had a funeral form seven years after the incident, once he was legally declared dead in absentia. I hadn't seen or heard from him in 30 years. Not until this afternoon. Today I was scouring the news and forcing down a TV dinner. I was flicking the stations not paying attention to the channel, only to what was on.

News, cooking, cartoons, and then my blood froze. I stared at the image. I'd struggled all my life to convince myself was a delusion. A vivid hallucination or some transfigured, repressed memory. The station read 23.3 and the familiar nightmarish television. television set appeared once again. It was that same studio stage and a row of

disfigured people who appeared to have had horrific plastic surgeries. They were all new, but the exact same setup. The host was a bald, heavily scarred man, but clearly a different person. I watched the familiar routine of raising signs

of street addresses when the close-up cam fixed on the mutilated visage of the host. 21B! The host gurgled frantically, his crooked finger aiming at the screen before lowering to single out a woman in the audience. My heart stumbled in my chest until it hurt. My throat dried and my eyes widened and dread. I felt the icy claw of horror traced on my spine. I lived in Apartment 21B on my street.

But it wasn't the address that sent me screaming at my apartment door, down the stairs and into the streets. It was the butchered face of the host. It was the unmistakable mole on his mutilated cheek. We place the letters back in their envelopes. It's time to take our leave. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White.

Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No. Sleep Podcast. We thank you for listening and for being ever curious. This audio production is

copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.