The NoSleep Podcast - Nosleep Podcast S2E06

Episode Date: July 15, 2012

The sixth episode of this season’s Nosleep Podcast features stories about terrifying visions and relentless stalkers. Highlighting horror stories from the Reddit.com horror writing community, these stories are designed to afflict your night with no sleep.This episode features these stories:Eidetic Memory written & read by Chris Eddleman – (Redditor TalksAtYou).Unknown Caller written by Seanna Hartbauer (Redditor slidewithme) and read by Jessica Prokuski & Ian Mendez. This story won the Nosleep Writing Contest for February 2012. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

As the sunlight fades to darkness and the frightful tales creep into your mind, it's time to give in to your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. Hey everybody, welcome to the no sleep podcast. This is the producer, David Cummings. It's episode six of season two, and we're going to be featuring two stories from the monthly writing contest on Reddit's No Sleep Forum. The first story was entered in June's contest and came in a close second. This story was written by our regular narrator, Chris Edelman, and he will be reading his own story for us in this episode.

Then our final tale. Yes, only two stories this time, but trust me, you won't be shortchanged. Because the final story is an epic tale that won the writing contest for February. Author Sianna Hartbauer returns to the podcast. after her story, rapid eye movements, appeared in episode three. Her story, Unknown Caller, features the narrating team of Jessica Prokowski and Ian Mendez. So, let's get things started with our first story. Chris's tale is about the skill commonly referred to as photographic memory,

the ability to recall images, sounds, or objects in memory with extreme precision. This might sound like a very beneficial ability, but could you imagine what would happen if you experienced something that you desperately wanted to forget? The author reads for us, a disturbing encounter with idetic memory. Recently, my parents brought up that when I was much younger, I had several night terrors. They talked to a pediatrician and changed my sleep schedule, and I never had them again. However, I was rather intrigued since I really don't remember having night terrors. I asked my mom to tell me what I was like during one of the terrors. She said it was a bit disturbing, as I would have a look of absolute horror on my face

and would not respond to anything my parents said. I also would say words, but they were in some sort of babbling language that was unintelligible. Our minds tend to protect us from experiences or dreams. that are often too disturbing for our psyches to handle. Combined with my young age, that's likely why I don't remember night terrors, and why victims of trauma often forget such events. Our minds act as a barrier to horrifying input. It saves us from the terrible things that would rip through our fragile heads.

But that got me thinking, What about people who don't forget? The phenomena known as photographic or idetic memory is one in which people can remember anything they've seen just by looking at it for a short period of time. It seems like a wonderful ability, especially given how much information we are required to remember for our jobs or school. But it has the obvious downside of remembering everything. There have been tales of people remembering every wrong that has been done to them in vivid detail, making it difficult to make and maintain connections with friends or family.

And what about in my case? Would I want to remember those horrible terrors? I met a man named Mark through a friend, and found out that he worked at a learning and memory center. I asked him about idetic memories and their downsides, and it just so happened that he used to work with very rare and unusual cases. At first, he didn't seem to want to talk about them, and was really closed off about his work.

After some prodding, though, he agreed to meet me at a quiet cafe, and relayed to me his stories. When Mark started at the CLM, he was asked if he wanted to take on the case of people with idetic memories who have had near-death experiences. Being a fairly religious guy, Mark thought that he would hear wonderful tales of life after death and as such readily agreed. However, his expectations were shattered after reading the file on the first recorded case of idetics in life after death.

A 37-year-old man had been involved in a car accident and was legally dead for 23 seconds on the operating table. After several days of unconsciousness, he awoke as a nurse was checking up on him. Despite his injuries, he tore out both his and the attending nurse's eyes and tried to push his eyes into her empty bleeding sockets. The doctors ran in as the man began to scream at her. Do you see them? Do you see them too? Despite the horrible account, Mark traveled to different mental institutions, collecting other accounts from idetics who had near-death experiences.

While very few were quite as severe as the first account, they were still unsettling. No single near-death idetic could be what any psychologist would describe as sane, but very few of them had any psychological disturbances before their near-death experience. They were all fairly well-adjusted people until their various experiences. Several things stayed fairly constant between the patients. Most of them were completely devoid of recognizable language and had to be constantly sedated and restrained, as many of them would attempt to remove their eyes or stab their eardrums.

When asked why they would do this, and in the rare moment that they were coherent enough to answer, they would say in anguish that they didn't want to hear or see them anymore. When not sedated, they writhed on the ground as if they were experiencing, a debilitating pain. Despite their self-destructive tendencies, they seemed to have a great fear of death and never injured themselves to the point of possible fatality. Despite all this, Marks still continued in his job until he met the rarest case of them all. After speaking with this patient, he demanded a transfer. The final patient was a lesser-known serial killer.

His idetic memory made him very difficult to apprehend and very dangerous to his victims. His near-death experience had been after a gunshot wound that was inflicted during his tense capture by police. However, unlike the other patients, this serial killer acted completely calm and lucid. It was as if nothing about him had changed. He did not try to mutilate himself or babble about seeing things. He was still quite insane, but certainly not in the same way. as the others. Mark sat down with him in a guarded and watched room and asked him the same questions

he asked the others. He asked the man if he had seen anything and if so, what did he see? Mark told me his answer verbatim and I repeat it here. I saw and heard what I always have, the whisperers. They're inhuman. They are the exact opposite of what we are. We live and breathe and they do not. Most of you can't hear them, and even the once dead forget their words. Those that remember, though, are changed. They can't handle the truth of death. Not me, though.

I've always heard them. They tell me that they want more of you. They tell me to bring more of you to them. That was the last mark ever heard from any of the idetics. I noticed, though, as he told me the story, he began to get more and more nervous. His palms began to sweat, and he wrung his hands. After he relayed to me his story, I asked him what was wrong. He grabbed my hand then, and I could feel him trembling.

His words chilled me. The reason I started with that project is because I have an idetic memory. Now, let's settle in for our final tale, from the team of Jessica and Ian. Sianna Hartbauer's story is about a young woman who encounters an incessant phone menace who escalates things beyond her worst nightmares. So turn off the lights, lock the doors, and, oh yes, turn off the phone, so you won't be interrupted by a unknown caller.

I met my then-boyfriend, Nick, online, which was a little awkward to explain to my parents at the time. I'm from the south, and technology doesn't really get around there, like it does here on the West Coast. They really weren't comfortable with the idea at first, but after they met him, they really warmed to the idea of us dating. We did the long-distance thing for about three months, and then decided we had something really special, so I moved across the country to live with him. We moved into an apartment together the day I arrived here in the sunny state, and it was really great. It was the first time I had lived without my parents, and I had a really good time setting up the place to be home. I wasn't working yet, but Nick was, so I spent most of the time

looking for a job and playing housewife. Right around the time I had been here for a month, he started working the grave shift. That's when things started getting a little weird, but I didn't see the signs until much later. It was a Friday night, and Nick was getting ready to leave for work. I'd planned a relaxing evening of movies and chatting online, as I'd spent the entire week applying and interviewing for jobs. He gave me the customary kiss and a hug, and left for the wallboard plant almost directly across the street from our complex. I settled in with Lady and the Tramp, one of my favorites, and a hot cup of decaf. A few hours later, having finished my movie, I was talking online with my friend Seth. He was ragging on me, as per usual, for loving

Disney movies, when the phone rang. I looked at the time on my task bar and wondered who would be calling me at 2 o'clock in the morning. And then I suddenly had the worry that something had happened to Nick at work. I answered the phone a little confused. Hello? I asked. Is Nicole there? A male voice responded. The timber was somewhat scratchy. This is she, I stated, still confused. May I ask who is calling? No, he cannot ask. He said, sounding a little amused.

Uh, okay, are you calling from Koch Corp? Is Nick okay? I inquired. What fuck is that? He asked aggressively, scaring me a little. I think perhaps you have the wrong number. Who are you calling for? I asked politely, a little wrinkled at his tone. I told you. You understood that it wasn't okay.

His words are short and clipped, as if giving me a command. I think you have the wrong number. Goodbye. I hung up quickly, cutting off the last syllable. The next hour went by slowly, and I couldn't determine whether I was scared. angry, or both. Who the hell was that? You don't talk to people that way, whether or not you know them,

and I certainly didn't know him. After coming to the realization that I was pretty pissed, but more scared than anything, I wrestled with the idea of telling Nick. I didn't want him to think of me as a scared little girl, but at the same time, that guy sounded actually scary. Demanding. Remembering the way he said,

I thought you understood that wasn't okay. made goose prickles pop up all over my arms and neck. I decided that regardless of what he thought of me, Nick needed to know. The next afternoon, after Nick got up and had showered, I asked him if we could talk. What's up, lady? He looks at me curiously, picking up my serious tone. I had a phone call last night, around two in the morning. It was really weird.

I start flexing my fingers and my agitation is palpable. I clenched my fist to make it stop. Remembering the phone call makes me feel scared all over again, and I have a strong gut feeling that something bad is happening. What's wrong? Concern lines his face, and he takes one of my hands and strokes it with his thumb. I feel a little better just from the contact. Twenty minutes later, after explaining the phone call and how I felt,

he looks at me, full in the face. I know you're not some timid little girl, so don't worry about that. Thank you for telling me, but I don't think you're going to like my advice. His expression is apologetic, and I already know what he's going to say. No, I reply, adamant. I'm not calling the police. It was just a stupid phone call. His face becomes stern. Nicole, it just took you 20 minutes to articulate a 30-second phone call.

It's obviously disturbing the both of us. I know you're here alone at night, and I need to know you're safe when I'm not here. I know you can handle yourself, but I also know that it takes one foot to kick in a window and be in this apartment. Somewhat ashamed, I say, you know, it just feels silly. I know it does. He says, hugging me. But I'd rather you feel a little silly than a little raped. He grins, making a joke.

The horror of the statement rings in my head and I frown. That's not entirely funny. I grin, despite myself, trying to make light. We agree to call the police, and so I do as he's getting ready for work. The conversation doesn't go as well as I'd hoped, and the officer on the phone doesn't take me seriously. She collects some random information along with my address and phone number, all the while speaking in an oh my God who cares tone. I hang up, angry again, and dejected.

By the time Nick leaves for work that night, I'm already anxious. Will there be another phone call? Will I be okay? Did I lock the door when he left? Is the chain in place? Where is the largest, sharpest object I own? Around midnight, I end up falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. When I wake up three hours later,

I realized that I've sacked myself up so much I've ended up making a mountain out of a mole hill. I tell myself the whole situation is hilarious and sit down at my computer to regale the whole ridiculous story to my friend Seth. As I'm typing it out, and he's laughing at me, the phone rings. I look at the clock. Nine minutes after three o'clock in the morning.

My gut tightens. Hello? I try to sound more confident than I feel, but my voice wavers a little anyway. Nicole? Are you okay, honey? Nick asks, worry thick in his words. Oh, hey, uh, yeah, it's just so late, and I thought, but yeah, I'm good. Had a nice nap, just chatting with Seth now. How's work?

I try to play off the tension, mentally and physically shaking myself. Ah, it's a little slow. Start a call and see how you were. I know you're normally up at least until 4.05, so no weird phone calls then? He sounds tired, a little stressed. Well, now that you mention it, this one crazy guy just called me at 3 a.m. And, oh no, he's still on the phone. I pitch my voice low, mock creepy.

Do you think he's crazy? I stifle a laugh. He snorts. Go back to chatting. I'll see you when I wake up tomorrow, okay? I love you. He hangs up, clearly amused. I congratulate myself on my cleverness

and finish relaying the story to Seth. So, anyway, I'm basically retarded, I think. I don't know. It just sounds a little creepy to me. I'm glad you called the police. Nick said the same thing, but I still feel feel a little silly. It's not like I know this guy or anything. I think it was just a random call from someone who has issues. Probably. Or he's outside your window right now. Not amusing, sir.

Incorrect. I am very amusing. Incorrect. You are very stupid. Incorrect. I am a highly sought after comedian of epic proportions. Your tiny mind cannot comprehend the amusingness. Amusingness? Shut up, it's a word. Right. I don't think Miriam would agree. Webster's cooler anyway. Sack, Nick is calling again. Be right back. I go to pick up the phone again.

Cheerful this time. On my way across the room, I note it's raining pretty heavily outside. I see a few flashes off in the distance, but I don't hear anything. I find the little mini-storm calming. What's up, lover cakes? I ask, grinning into the phone. Miss me? Of course, my darling. Why else would I call? The voice on the other end of the line isn't Nick,

and the blood in my veins freezes. The creepy vibe this time is tenfold, and I know in my heart that this man is going to hurt me. All from those eight words. Fear rapidly morphs into anger, and I grit my teeth against the sudden upspike of blood pressure. You need to stop calling me, I say, my tone hard. After a shocked beat, he says

Excuse me? Don't! His words are low, threatening. I just shove a transient, speaking to me that way. He's nearly yelling. I decide to hang up, bright as thunder peals in the distance. I push the end button on the handset and immediately pull the cord out of the wall. My heart hammers and I'm shaking visibly.

I sit down at my computer and message Seth again. It wasn't Nick. Was it Mr. Creepypants? Yeah, except this time he wasn't Mr. Creepypants. More like Mr. Homicic. You okay? Yeah, but I don't... Nick?

Hey, you okay? Nicole, come on, you're starting to freak me out a little. Fuck! Huh? I just realized he said I looked like a disheveled homeless. person or something. Right before I hung up, there was thunder outside. He can see me. I just woke up from a nap and all rumpled or whatever. I heard the thunder through the phone, too. What the fuck do I do? Get out, Nick. Come over here. I'm at home. No, I can't go outside. What if he's

still there? Okay, call the police. Right now. Message me every two minutes too. Are you sure was the same thunder? Yes, I'm sure. Okay, I'm calling now. Please don't leave, okay? I'm here, go call them. Okay, I'm dialing now. On the phone still?

Yeah, hang on a sec. Still talking. I'm almost done. Okay, they say they're on their way over. They're going to send a car. Officer will identify himself when he knocks, they say. Okay, well, just keep talking to me until they're there. But don't leave me hanging.

Okay, I'm old. Okay, I think. I don't know how he saw me. The windows are all covered with blackout shades and they're all closed. Are there gaps in the sides? Yeah, probably. Don't worry. He's probably gone now. Okay. Maybe I should call Nick. Probably a good idea. Don't forget to message me every few minutes until the cops arrive, okay? Okay, let me call Nick's work.

Take a time. I mean it, every few minutes at least. Tell me when the cops are there. If you don't say anything for longer than a few minutes, I'm coming over. Okay, thanks. Okay, it's ringing now. Okay, I'm still here. You still talking? I'm waiting. The guy that answered the phone said he'd get to Nick.

KK. Damn. Apparently they can't find Nick. He's up in the mixer somewhere. They said they'll have him call me back. Okay. Still okay? I guess.

I feel a little sick. Cops are here. Hang on a sec. Look to the people first, please. Please. Okay, be right back. Is everything okay? Yeah, talking to the cop.

I'm here. I'm okay. Okay, tell me when he leaves. Okay, he's gone. He said he didn't see anything weird outside, no one's sitting in a car or anything. He took down some info, said he and his partner are in this area a lot at night. He was really nice, gave me his card with his cell phone in case I need to call. He said they'd drive a few times by when they're here on duty.

That's nice of him. That's nice of him. Are you sure you're all right? I could be over there in like a minute. No, it's okay. It's getting late, and I should probably try to sleep. I have an interview at 10 a.m. in Walnut Creek. Kay.

Call me if something happens and you can't get a hold of Nick. I'll be right over. Okay, thanks. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Let you know how the interview went. Kay, good night. Night. For the rest of the early morning,

I tried to sleep and couldn't even manage to rest. At 7 o'clock, I heard Nick come in from work. He hadn't called me back, and I figured he had just gotten the message or was busy. When he came in, I pretended to be asleep because I didn't want to go through it all again. Over the next few weeks, the phone rang almost every night between midnight and 4 a.m. I didn't answer it anymore, and after the fourth night of it ringing, I kept the phone on silent. On the fifth night, I had caller ID installed so I could pick up the phone if it was Nick. Nick. Every time it rang, though, it just said,

Color unknown. After two weeks, Nick and I started fighting about really small, stupid things. Suddenly, during an argument one day, he stopped mid-sentence and looked at me. What's wrong with you? He asked, more concerned than angry. Nothing, I'm fine. Why do you even care where I put my dirty clothes? I asked, annoyed. You're not fine. You've been arguing over stupid shit for a while.

And it's not where you put your dirty clothes or the dishes not being done that's bothering either of us. What's wrong? His tone is exasperated, but I can tell by his face that he's concerned. I sigh heavily, feeling all the anger flood out of me. You know that weird call that got a while ago? Yeah, the dude that was yelling at you? Did he call again or something? He tilt his head, concerned and looking a little angry.

Well, yeah. Yeah, he did. The night after that. He called, and a few things he said really scared me like he could see me or something, and I heard thunder, both through the phone and outside. At the same time, I looked away, ashamed that I haven't told him this yet. He stares at me like he's seeing a blue elephant in the middle of a china shop. Why didn't you tell me that, Nicole? You should have told me that. He looks angry, but moves across the room to hug me anyway. I know Oh, but I called the cops that night, and they came out. Said they keep an eye on the house at night, that they work in this area.

Seth said he'd come over if I couldn't get a hold of you at work. I'm talking into his shoulder, trying to hold myself together. Why didn't you call me that night when it happened, honey? He squeezes hard, and it hurts my ribs a little, but the feeling is nice, nonetheless. I did. I talked to someone who said you were up in the mixer, and that you'd call me back. I guessed you were busy. I didn't get the message. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. He looks down at me, and his face goes serious.

Is there anything else you haven't told me? He, the guy, I mean, he's called after that. How many times? Uh, every night since then. Usually between 12 and 4 in the morning. I say sheepishly. He sighs, clearly disappointed, but still worried. Okay.

We're going to change our number. Right now. I'm going to call AT&T, and we're going to get it changed. I sit on the couch and breathe deeply, relieved that I've told him. I scold myself for not doing it sooner, and his voice, talking to the lady at AT&T, is soothing. I drift off to sleep after having so much stress taken away, and I dream that I'm Ariel from the Little Mermaid.

When the dream turns weird and I end up drowning, I wake up suddenly. Nick, I call out, curious. Silence greets me, and I look upon my desk. It's 8 o'clock, and there's a note on my keyboard. Hey, sorry I didn't wake you. It reads, written in Nick's handwriting. You look so tired when I got off the phone. The new number will go into effect tomorrow night.

If the phone rings tonight, do not answer it. Wait until it stops, and call me at work immediately. I love you. At the bottom is a seven-digit character I take to be our new phone number. Placing the note aside, I open up Seth's I Am window and tell him about it. As per usual, he makes sarcastic jokes about how I'm so popular I have to change my number. The night goes on without an issue, until a few minutes after 4 a.m. I had crawled in bed a little early and was reading my favorite Harry Potter book for the third time.

I had just gotten it earlier that month, and like any true fan girl, I was totally hooked. Right during the part when Harry is walking down the dark hallway, watching for Snape's footprints on the moradour's map, I heard an odd noise outside the sliding glass door that leads from our bedroom to the patio. Figuring it for the stray cat I left food out for at night, I didn't think much of it. It sounded a little like scratching on pavement, and besides, the patio was surrounded by an eight-foot wall. No one would be able to scale it without making a lot of noise. No one besides the cat, anyway. Scratching stopped and I returned to my book.

I fell asleep, dreaming about gillyweed and house elves. A few hours later, I woke up to plastic bags rustling in the living room. I went out and saw Nick bagging something up through the sliding glass door next to the couch. Both glass doors went out to the same patio, so I went back to the bedroom and put on my robe. I stepped out the door there, and I greeted him with a smile. Hey, what's up? What's that? I asked trying to peer into a bag.

Oh, just some garbage that blew in last night. A gap under the wall has gotten a little bit bigger. He answered, a little shifty. I was immediately suspicious. I look around and notice the whole patio area is wet, like he hosed it down. Yeah, but not big enough for something like what you got in that bag to blow under. What is it?

It looks heavy, not like trash. For the bag, and he jerks it away. Okay, look. He wipes his hand down his face, an uncharacteristic sign of stress. What? What's wrong? I ask, reaching for the bag again. He jerks it away a second time and holds out a placating hand. Nicole, I'm just going to tell you what we're doing it. And then I'm going to tell you why. Just listen. I need you to go take a shower and get dressed and then start packing your clothes. Just listen, okay? He asks again, as I try to interject.

Start packing your clothes. I'm going to have some guys from work come over and help us with the furniture. What? I asked, numbly, where are we going? We'll go stay with your moms for a little while. I already called her. She knows we're coming. We'll get another apartment soon. Did you lose your job? I asked confused. Sympathy creases my eyebrows, and I step forward to give him a hug. He steps back quickly, keeping the bag away from me. No, listen. I need you to... I need you to go take a shower and get rest. I promise I'll explain after I've taken care of this.

Emotions to the bag, keeping it out of my reach. Still confused, I comply. I shower and dress quickly and then meet him in the kitchen. He's washing his hands and his face is marred with stress. So what? Please explain. I'm getting really frustrated and anxious. I put my hands on my hips, but keep my shoulders down.

I'm a little annoyed, but the look on his face has me really worried. worried. Sit down. He says, as he's drying his hands. He's getting in between his fingers, under his nails, drawing out the process. Finally, he sits next to me on the couch. I'm just going to tell you without preamble and without any sort of drama. Came home this morning, and that stray cat you feed, a little calico one, he was on the porous

out there. He was dead. He'd been, I don't know, taken apart. Like there were parts of him. It was all over the place. His voice is soft, low, like he's trying to tell me without it being upsetting. I can feel my face contorting in horror first, and then sympathy for the little kitten. I wasn't sure, but he had to be less than a year old.

I would have taken him in entirely, but the complex didn't allow animals. My heart breaks, knowing he must have been scared when it happened. Did he get attacked by a dog or something? I ask, knowing by his body language, tone of voice, and the heaviness of his words that this question is ludicrous. No. Someone, someone heard him. There were numbers written on the glass backwards, so you could read them from the inside. It was our new phone number. They were kind of painted down with some leaves, I think.

Probably red paint. He says the last quickly, and I know he means blood. The little kitten's blood. All at once, I feel like I'm trapped in a cage. Mr. Creepypants, the moniker rings in my ears, and I laugh suddenly, despite myself. His voice comes back to me, and it feels like sandpaper in my ears. This doesn't happen, though. Not like that.

It starts with phone calls, and then it goes on from there. It doesn't go from phone calls to murdering animals in less than things. three weeks. This is not how it goes, I say frustrated. This is fucking crazy. Nick looks at me desperately, at a loss for words. Okay, I'm packing now. I move away, and as I pass by, he catches me up in a hug. I better keep you safe, okay? I would do everything I can to keep you safe. He holds tight, like I'm going to break apart. I feel like that might be true. He could just be crazy. He knows my name, but that's all he knows, right? Maybe he got it from our trash or a piece of mail. He doesn't know much more than that. Nick is quiet, just holding me. That night, Nick calls in

sick to work, and we continue packing. By the time 2 a.m. rolls around, we're mostly done, having feverishly worked to get everything we own back into the boxes they were taken out of such a short time ago. We were both tired and hungry, so we decided to make a post-midnight run to jack-in-the-box. I'm addicted to their crappy tacos. We'd already dismantled the kitchen table, so we ate slowly and sleepily on the living-room floor. Just as I'm finishing the last jalapeno popper,

the phone rings. I freeze with the morsel halfway to my mouth, and my stomach clenches. All the food I just ate, including deliciously misnamed tacos, tries to crawl up my esophagus. Before I can do anything else, Nick is suddenly up off the floor,

anger lining his face. As he storms over to the phone, I can see his fists held hard at his sides. He reaches forward, rips the phone off the hook, and screams into it. Who the fuck is this? Why the fuck are you calling? From the other end of the line, I hear silence, and then muffled words. Nick's face blanches, and he slams the phone back on the receiver. He turns to face me, looking somewhat surprised.

Uh, oops. number. I think I just scared some poor old lady. Despite the tension that had built up in the last few seconds, this just seems utterly hilarious to me. I burst out laughing, nearly crying from hysteria. He starts to laugh too, and pretty soon we're just caught up in the sheer stupidity of the moment, giggling at each other. It's the first time in the last month I've had a genuine laugh, and I tell him so. He's helping me off the floor when he says... It's good to see you smile. It's going to turn out okay. His face is genuine.

but I can see there's a lot he's not saying. I decide I just don't want to know, and we head to bed. He checks the doors and windows for the second time before he lies down, and I'm asleep before he's done adjusting the blankets. What seems like several hours later, I wake up to a hand pressed so tight over my mouth that my lips are digging into my teeth. I reach up to pry the hand off,

and at the same time I open my eyes to see Nick's face hovering next to mine. His eyes are wide, and his other hand is holding a single finger up to his mouth. I relax somewhat and nod. When he removes his hand, I mouth the words, What's going on? He shakes his head and then motions toward the sliding glass door across the room. The moon seems bright, and I can see the silhouette of the cherry tree behind our patio.

Next to it is the shadow of a tall person, standing motionless. My first reaction is a little deer in the headlights, And for a moment, I'm all but incapacitated by fear. Ice seems to coat my skin. And when I feel a sharp pain on my thigh, I look to see that my nails have cut into my leg. I turn to look at Nick, and he's slowly moving out of bed, reaching for something out of sight.

The shadow against the door moves as if it's walking closer to the door itself, and I'm quietly moving from the bed to the door. The phone is on the counter across the hall, but I noticed that in order to get there, I'd have to walk in front of the glass door in the living room, where the vertical blinds are open. I stop, unsure of what to do, and turn back to see Nick with the tire iron in his hand,

about to open the door to the patio. I tense and hiss out, no! Right before the door opens. The tire iron comes down, but before it makes contact with anything, the man on the patio reaches out, and punches Nick in the throat. He gasps, loses his grip on the iron,

and stumbles back. Immediately I turn and run toward the phone, My hands are shaking so badly I'm not sure I can dial, but I manage to punch out nine, and then one, before I'm grabbed from behind. I felt a hard thump on the back of my head, and I don't remember anything after that for several hours. I wake up, and the first thing I notice is that I'm cold all over. My head hurts, and I try not to move around and give away the fact that I'm awake. I slowly take stock. I can't see.

I'm freezing, and my hands are. My hands seem to be tied around something cold and hard like a pipe. I blink several times and realize I'm hooded and also naked. The floor is hard and rough under my right side. Suddenly, the hood is ripped off of me and dim light pours in, temporarily blinding me. I'm not able to turn around, and whoever remove the hood is behind me. I can hear his footsteps. After a moment of silence, I hear another set of footsteps in quiet murmuring some distance to my rear.

I feel like this is the time I should be formulating a plan to get myself out of whatever mess I was in, but my only thoughts are for Nick. Is he okay? Is he here, too? I don't see anybody on the floor with me, but my range of view is limited. I close my eyes and silently promise myself that I'd find a way back to him. My resolve wavers momentarily, when the footsteps start moving again, and a man's voice is speaking to me.

It is deep, familiar, and scratchy. Are you awake? He asks. I don't answer, out of defiance, but also fear. A sharp kick lands on my left's kidney, and I gasp out in pain. Are you awake, poor? He demands. Yes, I stutter out through the pain.

The concrete bites into my right hip as I try to roll backwards to look at him. I decide that if I'm going to die or if he's going to hurt me, I will damn well know what he looks like in the very least. His foot stops me from him. rolling and pushes my left shoulder flat to the ground. Don't move, bitch. I didn't say you could move. His voice has taken on an oily quality, and frankly, it pisses me off.

Fuck you, get the fuck off of me! I scream, squirming, tearing a gash into my hip. Fuck off! My words are met with a hard kick in the middle of my shoulder blades, and the wind is knocked violently from my lungs. I curl up, trying to suck in air. My spine feels bent Shut up

If you scream again I will remove your tongue You understand He asks Grasping the back of my neck firmly Fuck off I spit out Along with a little

Flemm and blood Fuck you and fuck off My chest heaves And I'm still trying to get my breath You got a dirty mouth You know Perhaps I could put it to use I've got a few interesting things

I could shove in there What do you think He asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. I stay silent, still trying to gather myself. The pain in my back is suddenly met with a sharp, deep pain in my calf, and I cry out. The pain lessened somewhat, but I can feel warm liquid running down my leg. If you scream again or feel to answer me, I will stab you more. What do you think about me showing something in your mouth?

Answer me, you stupid bitch. His last words are punctuated with the sharp poke in my kidney, and again, a gasp. I think whatever you put in there should probably be something you don't. My losing, asshole! I grit my teeth against the pain of the knife in my side and refuse to cry out again. Tears well up, but I stay quiet. Suddenly, I'm being lifted by my arms, and the joints in my shoulders scream and agony. Despite my stubbornness, I involuntarily...

gasp in surprise and pain. Manners are something you need to learn. He rages, jerking me around hard. He keeps himself behind me, and when I try to turn my face towards him, he cuffs me hard around the head. He starts moving forward, walking quickly, and I try to get my legs under myself, so I'm not being dragged. I see that we're in a large room, but the ceiling is low, like someone has installed

acoustic tiles. The floor is indeed cement, and it's like ice under my bare feet. I remember again that I'm naked and my footsteps falter as I try to cover myself. I have a momentary, crazy thought wondering how the hell I forgot I was naked. The surreal nature of the moment becomes overwhelming and I lose track of where we're going for a few minutes. After what feels like an eternity, we're emerging from the building. The building is huge. I can see the shadow of it on the ground.

The lot is mostly dirt, and I surmise that this must be a construction site of some sort, Though I don't recognize the surroundings. When we're in the shadow of the building and perhaps 30 feet away from the door, he shoves me roughly into the dirt. Before I can even sit up, I feel a sharp prick on my neck. If you move, I will open your jugular. He says, matter-of-factly. The lack of sinister in his voice is chilling,

as if he's simply telling me a random fact one might learn on the Discovery Channel. Going from rage just a few minutes before to this convinces me that the person I'm dealing with doesn't really have all of his eggs in one basket. I stay still, and he removes the knife and moves back from me. I hear more murmuring, and I realize he's talking on a cell phone. Again, I assess my situation. Technically, I could stand up from the position I was half sitting, half lying down in, but I'm unsure of how far I'd get before he'd be able to tackle me.

I'll let my muscles fall loose, keeping my head turned away. I lay fully on my right side again. As I'm listening, he's still talking on the phone. I hear the words, girl, take, and ass at. I decide whatever he's doing I don't like. This is the moment I realize my brain has gone fully into snark mode to combat the fear. Upon realizing this, the defiance fades a little, and I can feel the terror sliding into me like the knife did into my side.

I twist a little and look at my left flank. Blood is slowly oozing out of the wound. This pisses me off again because what the fuck? You don't just go stabbing people. How rude! Again, the sassy defiance floods in and I can still hear him talking on the phone. I'd start thinking that no matter how far I get before he tackles me to the ground, it'll still be further than where I'm sitting here like a Christmas duck.

I don't even like duck. My breathing slows so I can hear him better. From the cadence of his voice, he sounds somewhat agitated, but not wholly angry. He also sounds like he's facing him. away for me. All right then, I think. I can only focus on getting back to Nick. He said he'd keep me safe, but I'll be all kinds of damned before I let that duty sit fully in his realm of responsibility. I'm a capable human being, so I decide to help him keep that promise. He'll keep me safe. I know, but so will I. Slowly, so as to not draw attention, I pull my legs up, angling my feet so my

toes are pressed against the ground. I figure that once I start rising, he'll notice, so getting up is going to have to be done quietly, quickly, and in one smooth motion. Anticipation, fear, anxiety, determination, adrenaline and bald terror, cool in my stomach, and I feel like I want to cry. Tightening my stomach, I pull my arms in close behind me. When I'm ready, I'm going to roll onto my right knee, push myself up, and run like my life depends on it. I realize suddenly that it does, and my bladder lets go as my heart pounds. Fortunately, I had not had anything to drink with all the salty jack-in-the-boxy food, so I don't make a mess. I'm silently thankful for this, because what would Nick think if I told him that during my own daring escape, I peed myself. I stifle a laugh.

What am I doing? I'm procrastinating. I listen again, tense myself, and when I hear his voice again from far behind, I hope he's facing away. I really, really hope he is. Smoothly and with great pain, I roll onto my knee. I get my left leg up,

my foot planted on the ground, and as I push, all my weight is on my left thigh. My side is bleeding heavily, and I can actually feel it running down my leg. With one long exhale, I push with my leg and I'm suddenly standing. My head spins and for one split nanosecond I think I'm going to go back down. Instead, I get angry because fuck all of this. Without looking back, I start moving forward on the balls of my feet.

One step, two, and I'm running now. Three, four, five, and I hear him shout behind me. Like a rapport from a rifle, his voice sends adrenaline running through me, and I sprint forward. I'm shaking all over, and my hands are numb behind me. It's hard to keep my balance without my arms out, but I run anyway. My life depends on this, I tell myself, I can do this. I will do this.

After approximately 30 yards across the dirt, I hear his running footsteps close behind me. The fear swallows me whole and my legs feel numb. Determined not to be the silly girl that trips and falls in her killer's path, I keep running for all my worth. As I crest a small hill, I see a car parked in this distance, perhaps 50 more yards. The headlights are on, and it seems like a natural thing for me to run towards it. I move slightly to my right, making a beeline for the vehicle.

I realized then that the car might belong to the man chasing me. I just as suddenly come to the conclusion that I don't care. If I can make it to the car and get in, lock the doors, I might have a chance. Otherwise, I'm out in the middle of nowhere, completely nude, without even shoes. It's the car or nothing, so I run. My breath puffs out in great clouds in the cold air, and I can feel my lungs protesting. Usually it's about at this point that I'd stop and catch my breath for fear of an asthma attack. It's a little different when you're running for your life, however. This thought injects more grim determination into my stride, and I feel like a gazelle.

As I come closer to the car, maybe 25 or 30 yards away, I recognize the color. It's a little blue Saturn sedan, and my whole body sings with hope as I see the driver is standing next to the door. It's Seth. Seth! I scream. Seth! Over and over I scream. I hear my voice, and it sounds unnatural, shrill, and high.

Please, Seth! Nicole? What do you? Oh my God! Down! He yells. Shock on his face. Without a word, I dropped to the dirt, skidding across several feet from the momentum I was carrying in my run.

Just as I hit the ground, a shot rings out behind me. The pain in my side suddenly comes back with raw vengeance, and the wind is knocked out of me, both from impact and sensation. The world is momentarily blurry, and as I'm trying to catch my breath, I know that I'm in the middle of an asthma attack. I try to slow down, just to get a little air, and it isn't worth. Seth is suddenly next to me, frantically trying to help me up. I hear running, and I realize we're both being chased now.

I see Mr. Creepypants. The misnomer is odd in my head now, no longer amusing. Some 20 yards away, closing fast. I get my feet under me, and I'm almost bodily thrown into Seth's car, across the driver's seat. He dives in next to me and slams the car into reverse. In the seconds it takes me to orient myself, I look out the windchie. and see him coming towards us with the gun raised. He fires once, twice, missing the car entirely.

My eyes go wide. In the muzzle flash of the second shot, I see his face. I see Nick's face. Almost a week later, I'm still in the hospital. The police officer outside my door is standing at rapt attention like he has been for the last six days. Beside me, Seth is looking at me like I'm broken. It's making me angry, or at least it would if I had the energy to be angry.

He wasn't there. No, were there any signs of another car being present. They think he just walked in and out again. The woods are thick on the other side of the building. He says this apologetically, like it's his fault Nick got away. I'm quiet, not entirely sure of what to say. Finally, I settle with, it's okay. He goes camping a lot.

He's good with the outdoors. I doubt they'll find him. You said there is someone there in the patio that night he took you. Is someone helping him? Did you see who it was? He asked, concerned. No, I never saw that person, just his shadow. He was tall and thin.

Could be anyone, I guess. I close my eyes, the pain of betrayal even greater than that of my nicked kidney. I try to will the tears away, but they come anyway, completely oblivious to my wishes of not crying in front of Seth. He squeezes my hand, says, I'll go get you something to drink. I'll be right back. I pull the sliding table across the bed and turn on my laptop. This is the point in my story where we come to present day. As I lay here typing this, it's been hours since Seth left. I figure he had work and had to leave because he sent me a text saying he would be back tomorrow.

I'm just not really sure what to make of all this mess. Typing it out like one of my regular stories seemed to have helped some, but still feel like my world has ended. It's early in the morning, and I haven't slept at all since I got here. I don't even know what to do with this story now that it's all done. Perhaps not, though. I want it to be over. But as I sit here, alone in this hospital bed, the phone is ringing.

Who would be calling at 2 o'clock in the morning? Besides him. Our time together is drawing to a close. Thanks for listening to this episode. Join us again next time when we unleash more disturbing tales, designed to afflict your night with no slug. Sleep.