The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S2E25

Episode Date: April 21, 2013

It's episode 25 and the season finale of the second season of The Nosleep Podcast! This episode features stories about freaky food, frightening farmers, and forgotten phones. Not to mention the tales about murderous mirrors, mechanical mayhem, and mental meltdowns. This episode features these stories: "Jack in the Box" written by Graham McBride (Redditor donworrryboutit) and read by David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone) & Jinny Sanders (Redditor Spookykittens). (Story starts at 00:05:35) "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" written by Anton Scheller (Redditor urban_teller) and read by Jinny Sanders (Redditor Spookykittens). (Story starts at 00:15:55) "Autopilot" written by Kevin Thomas (Redditor Skarjo) and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:26:23) "Victim's Glass" written by Ari Nestlebaum (Redditor Arithered) and read by Ray Sizemore. (Story starts at 00:38:50) "Always Leave Work on Time" written by Anton Scheller (Redditor urban_teller) and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:48:15) "Psychosis" written by Matt Dymerski (Redditor M59Gar) and read by David Cummings & Wendy Corrigan (Redditor EchoWind). (Story starts at 01:00:10) Click here to learn more about Anton Scheller. Click here to learn more about Matt Dymerski. Click here to learn more about Kevin Thomas. Click here to learn more about Ray Sizemore. Podcast produced by: David Cummings (Redditor MikeRowPhone). Music by: David Cummings This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2013. 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. Brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast. It's episode 25 of season two. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. Yes, it's episode 25, and... that means this is the final episode of season two. To celebrate, we have a fully packed episode with six tales about freaky food, frightening farmers, and forgotten phones. Not to mention

the tales about murderous mirrors, mechanical mayhem, and mental meltdowns. This is not just the season finale. It's also our 50th overall episode of the No Sleep podcast. It's hard to believe it was almost two years ago that this little show got its start. And here we are 50 episodes later, ready to take a new step into season three. And speaking of season three and its new premium season pass, I want to thank everyone for the overwhelming response to that announcement. As expected, not everyone was pleased with the news, but I was really encouraged by all the people who left comments,

affirming their willingness to support the show by subscribing to the season pass. I appreciate that you understand the reasons behind the change, and I will work my hardest to provide you with the best quality horror entertainment possible. I also want to let everyone know, whether you plan to be a free fan or premium subscriber, that there is now a No Sleep podcast mailing list that everybody can sign up for. Just head over to the No Sleep podcast. Podcast.com and click on the mailing list link. And while you're there, check out our newly redesigned website. The mailing list is the way you'll keep up to date with all the latest

episodes and news about the show. You'll also get a reminder email about when you can start pre-ordering the season pass for season three, if you're so inclined. I had originally announced that the pre-orders would start on April 21st, the day this episode is least. However, that date has been changed to May 1st. So circle May 1st on your calendar and sign up for the mailing list to be reminded about pre-orders and the start of season 3. And don't worry, I won't spam or sell your email address. I will ensure that it's not one of those annoying mailing lists that bombards you with tons of emails. Just the important stuff. It's exciting to end season two and highlight episode 50 with such an excellent array of authors and narrators.

This episode features stories from some of our most popular and prolific writers. Anton Scheller has two stories featured, which reflects his regular contributions to the No Sleep Forum. Other popular No Sleep writers are featured, including Kevin Thomas and Matt Dimerick. Matt has written many stories on the No Sleep. Sleep Forum, but this episode is going to conclude with one of his tales that doesn't appear on No Sleep. Instead, it's a part of one of his anthology horror novels that he has published. I have included links to all of these authors on the show notes for this episode. Please take the time to check out their sites and support them in their work. We also welcome back narrators Ginny Sanders,

Wendy Corrigan and Ray Seismore to this episode. There is also a link to Ray's website that I encourage you to visit. So, folks, it's been a great season thanks to all of you and the support you've shown this podcast. I hope many of you will join us as we move into season three. Please make sure you listen on May 19th for the launch of the new season. And here's hoping that the next 50, and the 50 beyond that will be as fun, scary, and rewarding as the first 50. And now, let's conclude season two and begin our 50th show. Our first tale is about a familiar ritual performed by many people with no food, but plenty of alcohol in their system.

The Late Night Visit to the Drive-Thru. Author Graham McBride describes the tale about a group of college kids who crave greasy food, but end up experiencing a bizarre encounter with a woman working the drive-through windows. Ginny Sanders and I will read the tale for you about this unsettling visit to Jack in the Box. milkshakes. Shut the fuck up. You already ordered. I wrote it down before I pulled up.

Now let me fucking order it. Nobody likes being the designated driver. And nothing makes the position of being a DD worse than when your load of drunken friends insist on going to jack in the box. When they finally calmed down, I rolled down my window. to find that the woman on the other end was in the middle of a sentence. In the box, how may I help you? Hi, welcome to Jack in the box, how may I help you?

It wasn't enough to make me suspicious in the moment. She was probably just a tired employee who didn't have the patience to watch the security footage to see when my window would roll down, and instead decided to repeat the opening line over and over again. Yeah, can I get a... Hi, welcome to Jack in the Box. How may I help you? That one threw me a little more. It was odd, but I just cut her off impatiently. Welcome to Jack in the...

Yes, hi. There was a moment of static. Hi. Hi. So I went ahead and ordered. No point in enumerating every last thing. It was a lot of greasy food. for a lot of drunk college students. When I had finished, the response was simply...

Is that all? The female voice was small and frail, and sounded scared and slightly breathless. I paused. I was starting to get nervous. There were no other cars in the CVS parking lot. There weren't even any kids loitering around the 7-Eleven, which was usually common.

at that time of night on a Friday. The lights were all functional, though, and there were cars going by on Abbott Avenue, right beyond the low lining of bushes at the edge of the lot. I tried to feel relieved. It was two in the morning, and I was dealing with a timid, odd night owl employee. Yeah, that's all.

Come to the first window. This time the voice was much. stronger. It was full-bodied and professional. It was shocking in a way I didn't really understand, but I pulled forward just as my friend Sandra reached forward and twisted the volume of the electronic song playing off of Ethan's iPod. I sighed. When I stopped at the first window, I was greeted by a charming, blonde face. She smiled through the closed window before pulling it open briskly, and announcing in that same confident voice, 2345, hon.

I handed her my credit card and she took it, turning away from me to run it. I fell into the drunken interactions that were going on in the car for a moment, asking Ethan to see if Sean was still breathing, telling Taylor to stop singing loudly and crudely. I forgot all about the window for a long moment before I realized that I was probably being rude.

When I turned back, the woman was still turned around. Ma'am? When she turned back, her skin had gone ghostly white. She was visibly shaking, and her teeth seemed to be chattering. She was scratching something just behind her right ear. Out of my view vigorously. Her huge blue eyes were wide open, communicating what I can best describe as shock. Despite the fact that she was shaking, when she brought her arm up, it was steady.

She handed me my credit card and receipt, leaning forward to do it. Her face was closer to mine than a fast food cashier's ever had been, and when she smiled, I recoiled. It was sudden, mechanical, and without a doubt, the falsest smile I have ever seen. It looked like her mouth had simply been stretched to give the illusion of a smile. She spoke in that tiny, scared voice. Drive through to the second window, please. I had to say something at that moment. Are you okay?

She leaned back into the restaurant, still wearing that smile, and closed the window. But she didn't stop staring at me. The shaking subsided. The smile did not. The second window was also closed. I pulled out my phone and checked Facebook, trying to get my mind off of the noise in the car. I was used to jack-in-the-box, taking, like, two months. minutes, and when three went by, I started to wonder. When seven went by, Ethan got out of the car

and walked over to the window, knocking on it and screaming for food. When she finally came to the window, I got out of the car and pulled Ethan away from the window. When I realized it was the same woman, I froze for a moment. It was never the same woman. Either it was not. Either it was two different people, or they just closed the first window. It was an inefficient way to run a fast food place, and it just, it just wasn't done. Ethan wandered back into the car as she opened the window. She stuck out two bags, and I took them. She wasn't shaking anymore.

She looked calm, except for her vacant expression. She was looking right through me. Are you okay, ma'am? I noticed at that moment that I couldn't hear any sound coming from inside the restaurant. You can always hear the clanging of the kitchen, no matter when you visit Jack in the Box, but all I heard was the rumble of my idling engine. Suddenly, the woman's eyes snapped to mine, and once again they got big, despite the fact that her expression remained composed.

Her upper lip trembled for a moment. Ma'am? Just then I saw headlights in my rearview mirror pull into the drive-thru. When I looked back, the woman was staring intently at the headlights before her head snapped right back to me. She scratched behind her ear again, and I noticed for the first time that her head, thumbnail was missing. There was nothing but blackened, rotting nail bed. And then she dropped her hand,

and her expression molded into one of courtesy and service. She smiled that same dead smile and said, Thank you for visiting Jack in the Box. She slammed the window shut. My friends ate everything in the car, moaning with pleasure with every ketchup-covered fry and jalapeno popper. When we got home, everyone managed to stumble inside, Ethan carrying the last bag, eating the occasional stray fry out of the bottom. I went to bed without so much as a word. The next morning I noticed that Ethan had dropped the bag in the hallway.

I begrudgingly picked it up and was about to throw it in the trash can when the receipt fell out, along with a few ketchup packets. I hadn't read it. Who does? I had just shoved it in the bag. But when I picked it up, I realized that three words had been scrawled on the back in a barely legible, shaking scrawl. Don't eat it. In the days before cell phones, people relied heavily on their land. land lines. In rural areas, the phone lines were constantly in need of repair, and that's how we begin the first tale from author Anton Scheller. We hear from a woman who describes the ordeal her brother went through while fixing the phone lines for a farm many years ago. Ginny Sanders reads the tale

for us about what happened to him on that fateful day, a day that would ensure he would no longer sing that familiar children's song, Old MacDonald had a farm. In 1994, my brother Josh was working as an on-site technician for a large phone company. His role was twofold, firstly to set up new landlines, and secondly to find the problem with and fix broken lines. He was based in a small town, but most of his time was spent catering to farmers in the nearby areas. The problems were usually hard to find, easy to fix. Sometimes Josh had to walk half a mile up and down dusty roads to find where a particular cable was broken, and the repairs didn't even take 10 minutes. One of those calls,

in August of 1994, led him to a rather large family-owned farm. A girl named Casey had called in from a neighbor's house, saying that the family's phone was dead. Josh drove out the next day. I don't know how it's done now, but back then Josh told me that phone cables are buried together with other cables, sometimes even together with piping, in hollow tubes of either hard plastic or cement. In areas where that wasn't possible, the cables were usually placed on high poles. But in rural areas where not all houses were connected to the electric grid, it was sometimes more cost-effective to lead the wire, covered in a thick plastic coating simply along a road. When Josh was called out to a farm, those ground-legged cables were usually at fault. Some machinery drove over the cable, an animal

ripped it up or maybe some bored kid cut through it. Either way, those jobs kept Josh employed, and so he didn't mind slowly driving along country roads, stopping every few meters to stop potential breaks. The McDonald's farm was an easy case. Already while on route to their house, Josh spotted the ripped cable. It was a clean cut, and the separated ends had been pulled apart for several meters. Josh figured it was likely from a plow or similar device, a simple accident, likely done by the farm owners themselves. He had all the right tools and Josh fixed the cable break within half an hour. Then he drove to the farm to tell the family the good news and make sure that the problem was fixed.

He arrived at the McDonald farm around 4 p.m. The heavy wooden gate was open and so Josh drove his van straight inside to drive up to the house. When he turned into the gate, Josh saw a cow lying on the driveway. He was used to that. He honked the horn to shoe the cow, way. Usually that worked, but this particular all-brown cow refused to move. Josh slowed down, drove closer, and tried the horn again. Longer this time. Still, the cow didn't move. There was no way around the cow, other than to drive into a ditch next to the driveway, and Josh didn't want to

risk breaking the car. Finally, just a few steps away from the cow, he stopped and let the motor roar. When the animal still didn't react, Josh carefully and well aware that a diseased cow might attack him without warning, got out of the car. He grabbed his toolbox from the back and slowly walked around the car to pass the animal from behind. Only then, two steps in front of his car did he notice the puddle of dark brown, dried blood around the animal. The animal was lying with its head on the ground and towards the direction that Josh had come from. He saw a large gaping cut through the brown throat and three long slits through the enlarged stomach. Josh was on edge, but not seriously worried.

Occasionally farmers have to put pregnant cows down when the calf refuses to be born and to get rid of a cow's body isn't easy and can take days for the specialist to arrive. Josh figured the McDonald family or the vet had tried to save the calf by cutting open the mother's body like a cow's C-section, just without the anesthesia that humans would receive.

Likely, they killed the mother first by cutting her throat. Then, when the animal sank to the ground, they cut the body open. From the looks of it, Josh concluded they hadn't been successful. The bulge in the cow's body was clearly visible, the calf without a doubt still inside. The skin had been placed back into its original position, and only the cuts and a small gap between skin flaps was still visible. Josh resisted the urge to look inside the animal's body. Holding his nose, Josh walked around the cow and further towards the farm.

The driveway was long. To his right was a pasture with several cows, some standing, but most were lying on the grass, probably chewing the cud. To Josh's left was a thick cornfield that made him feel slightly uneasy. Josh reached the farmhouse about five minutes later. He called out and rang the doorbell, but there was no response. He knocked against the wooden door and called. called out again. He thought they might be out trying to organize the removal of the cow's body

in the driveway. To make sure that they weren't just not hearing him, Josh turned to the right and circled the house. He glanced through the windows while he passed them, first the kitchen then a living room window, but everything inside seemed calm and dark. At this point, before he saw it, Josh told me he began to feel uneasy. There was nothing unusual except the dead pregnant cow, but still he felt a tingling in his legs and back like a warning of bad news. Then he turned the corner. Josh only saw this scene for a few seconds, but he says he still remembers it today in vivid detail, like a photograph burned into his brain.

A large dog was lying on the back porch. Its body was split open lengthwise and the organs and intestines were pulled out. Right next to the dog, where the bodies of an older couple. The man's body was naked. His head had been removed and placed between his legs. Two large cuts went through him, one from throat to groin, and another from left to right, through his abdomen. His intestines were also pulled out and placed to his left, near the dog. The woman was dressed, but her clothes were cut open.

A deep cut went through her throat, and a large sideways cut through her abdomen as well. she too had been gutted but what Josh remembers the most the thing he still has nightmares about had the bloody spots where a brush should have been and there were two straight cuts as if someone had carefully sliced the breasts off her body

both the man and the women's eyes and mouth were sewn shut with a thick dark thread the man's lips were split in several places as if he had forcefully opened his mouth but the thread had been stronger than his lips Josh threw his toolbox on the floor and ran. He turned back around the corner, ran back onto the driveway and towards the dead cow. While running, he saw that some of the cows on the pasture were looking at him, following his movements, but most of them were still on the ground.

Most of them still hadn't moved at all. Around one of them, he noticed a large, dark puddle on the grass. Josh ran so fast that he twice nearly fell over stones or potholes. He stumbled towards the cow, curved to the left, around the body, and ran around the back of his car to get to the driver's seat. Just before he reached the driver's side door, Josh stopped dead in his tracks. The cow was still there, but the flap of skin was pushed further open. The bulge was gone.

Inside the cow's abdomen, where Josh had thought there was a calf, was now just a large, gaping hole. Panicked, Josh ripped the car door open. He screamed when he felt a thick brown-red liquid on the chest. door handle. Still, he pulled the door open, looked inside the car, and jumped on the driver's seat. He felt a large squishy ball exploding when his feet pressed on the accelerator. He was looking down to his feet to see what it was, and just in that moment, he noticed movement in the cornfield to his left. He slammed the key in the ignition, turned it, heard the motor howl,

threw the car in reverse and hammered his foot through the squishy mass back on the accelerator. The movement in the cornfield came closer. The car moved backward and swerved. Josh was barely able to avoid driving into the ditch at the side of the driveway. He slowed down to regain control over the car, saw the corn being pushed aside, then pushed again hard on the accelerator. The car sped backwards through the wooden gates and back onto the country road, but not before he saw a figure emerging out of the cornfield,

a few steps away from the cow. He swears it looked like a teenage girl with dark hair, covered from head to toe and dried blood. Josh sped off. Josh walked into the police station with the cow's heart still stuck around his right foot. The newspaper article said that the McDonald's didn't have any children. Most of us know what it's like to have a regular daily routine.

We rise at the same time, head out the door and make our way to school or work, and back again. all with that same rhythm and familiar schedule. However, as author Kevin Thomas explains to us, sometimes the smallest thing can throw us off the routine, and that small change can have enormous consequences. I'll read the tale for you about just how easy it is for our lives to run on autopilot. Have you ever forgotten your phone?

When did you realize you'd forgotten it? I'm guessing you didn't just smack your forehead and exclaim, damn, apropos of nothing. The realization probably didn't dawn on you spontaneously. More likely, you reached for your phone, pawing open your pocket or handbag, and were momentarily confused by it not being there. Then you did a mental re-step of the morning's events. In my case, my phone's alarm woke me up as normal, but I realized the battery was lower than I expected. It was a new phone, I was still getting used to it, and it had this annoying habit of leaving applications running that drain the battery overnight.

So I put it on to charge while I showered instead of into my bag like normal. I thought a quick burst would at least give it enough juice to get to the office. It was a momentary slip from the routine, but that was all it took. Once in the shower, my brain got back into the routine it follows every morning, and that was it. Forgotten. This wasn't just me being clumsy, as I later researched. This is a recognized brain function. Your brain doesn't just work on one level.

It works on many. Like, when you're walking somewhere, you think about your destination and avoiding hazards, but you don't need to think about keeping your legs moving properly. I wasn't thinking about regulating my breathing. I was thinking whether I should grab a coffee on the drive to work, which I did. I wasn't thinking about moving my breakfast through my intestines. I was wondering whether I'd finish on time to pick up my daughter Emily from nursery after work or get stuck with another late fee.

This is the thing. There's a level of your brain that just deals with routine so that the rest of the brain can think about other things. Think about it. Think about your last commute. What do you actually remember? Little, if anything, probably. Most common journeys blur into one, and recalling anyone in particular is scientifically proven to be difficult.

Do something often enough, and it becomes routine. Keep doing it, and it stops being processed by the thinking bit of the brain, and gets relegated to a part of the brain dedicated to dealing with routine. Your brain keeps doing it without you, thinking about it. Soon you think about your route to work as much as you do keeping your legs moving when you walk, as in not at all. Most people call it autopilot, but there's danger there. If you have a break in your routine, your ability to remember and account for the break is only as good as your ability to stop your brain going into routine mode.

My ability to remember my phone being on the counter is only as reliable as my ability to stop my brain entering morning routine mode, which would dictate that my phone is actually in my bag. But I didn't stop my brain entering routine mode. I got in the shower as normal. Routine started. Exception forgotten. Autopilots engaged. My brain was back in the routine.

I showered, I shaved, the radio was forecasting amazing weather. I gave Emily her breakfast and loaded her into the car. She was so adorable that morning. She complained about the bad sun in the morning, blinding her, saying it stopped her having a little sleep on the way to nursery. But my wife had shifted her car seat over her. last night to make it better. And then we left. That was the routine. It didn't matter that my phone was on the counter, charging silently. My brain was in the routine, and in the routine my phone was

in my bag. This is why I forgot my phone. Not clumsiness, not negligence. Nothing more than my brain entering routine mode and overwriting the exception. Autopilot's engaged. I left for work. It's a sweltering hot day already. The bad sun had been burning since before my traitorously absent phone woke me. The steering wheel was burning hot to the touch when I sat down, but I got to work, submitted the report. attended the morning meeting.

It's not until I took a quick coffee break and reached for my phone that the illusion shattered. I did a mental re-step. I remembered the dying battery. I remembered putting it on to charge. I remembered leaving it there. My phone was on the counter. Autopilot disengaged.

Again, therein lies the danger. Until you have that moment, the moment you reach for your phone and shatter the illusion, that part of the brain is still in routine mode. Your brain is wired to accept the facts of the routine, even if wrong. It has no reason to question the facts of the routine. That's why it's a routine. Attrition of repetition. It's not as if anyone could say, why didn't you remember your phone?

Didn't it occur to you? How could you forget? You must be negligent. This is to miss the point. My brain was telling me the routine was completed as normal, despite the fact that it wasn't. It wasn't that I forgot my phone. According to my brain, according to the routine, my phone was. in my bag.

Why would I think to question it? Why would I check? Why would I suddenly remember, out of nowhere, that my phone was on the counter? My brain was wired into the routine, and the routine was that my phone was in my bag. The day continued to bake. The morning haze gave way to the relentless fever heat of the afternoon. Tarmac bubbled. The direct beams of heat threatened to crack the pavement.

People swapped coffees for iced smoothies. Jackets discarded, sleeves rolled up, ties loosen, brows mopped. The parks slowly filled with sunbaters and barbecues. Window frames threatened to warp. The thermometer continued to stop. swell. Thank fuck the offices were air-conditioned. But as ever, the furnace of the day gave way to a cooler evening. Another day, another dollar. Still cursing myself or forgetting my phone, I drove home. The day's heat had baked the inside of the car, releasing a horrible smell from

somewhere. When I arrived in the driveway, the stones crunching comfortably under my tires, my wife greeted me at the door. Where's Emily? As if the phone wasn't bad enough. After everything, I'd left Emily at the fucking nursery after all. I immediately sped back to the nursery. I got to the door Horan started practicing my excuses, wondering vainly if I could charm my way out of a late fee. I saw a piece of paper stuck to the door. Due to vandalism overnight, please use side door. Today only. Overnight? What? The door was fine this morning. Rose. My knees shook. A change in the routine. My phone was on.

the counter. I hadn't been here this morning. I'd driven past because I was drinking my coffee. I'd not dropped off Emily. My phone was on the counter. Her seat had been moved. I hadn't seen her in the mirror. She'd fallen asleep out of the bad sun. She didn't speak when I'd dream. She didn't speak when I drove past her nursery. My phone was on the counter. She'd changed the routine. She'd changed the routine and I'd forgotten to drop her off. My phone was on the counter.

That baking sun. No water, no power, no help. That heat A steering wheel Too hot to touch I walked to the car door Numb Shock put the door

My phone was on the counter And my daughter Was dead Disengaged A source of frightening fun around Halloween Can be a visit to a local haunted house attraction. Walking through these dark houses while actors jump out and scare you can really set the mood for that scary time of the year. This tale from author Ari Nesselbaum is about a

man who is hoping to rekindle the spark with his wife by visiting a haunted house. Ray Seismore narrates the tale for us as we learn that the visit became more than just fun, After the man gazed into the victim's glass. I don't scare easily. Maybe it's just that I can never suspend my disbelief long enough to get really absorbed in a horror story or movie. My wife is the exact opposite, though. Suspenseful music makes her hide under the bed,

at the same time as I'm laughing at how the movie is all but telling you exactly when the bad guy is going to pop up. I learned long ago that a bonding experience for us is most definitely not a scary movie. Truth is, not much has been a bonding experience for us lately. What with the kids and my crap job and all of our problems? She mostly spends the little downtime we have trying not to cry. I guess that's why I finally prevailed on her to come with me

to some cheesy haunted house attraction in South Brooklyn earlier tonight. It was advertised as fun and satirical, not really meant to be scary at all. It was a great way for her to enjoy what was more of a fun house, and for me to enjoy the ironic take on haunted houses in general. We hired a sitter and headed over to this reworked Victorian house a couple of hours ago, since the place only opened after sunset in true haunted house style. The lines were pretty long, and it was so weird to be out with my wife for an extended period of time that we could barely say anything to each other.

I think we've pretty much forgotten how to talk, honestly. I tried laughing at the character actors dressed like old-school horror film personalities, who weaved in and out of the crowd saying outrageous things. I tried laughing at the cheesy organ music, sending overdramatic chords careening through the cool autumn air. She barely cracked a smirk. When it was our turn, the zombie-looking, trench-coat-wearing doorman cracked a yellow grin. Uh-uh.

Couple separate in here, he ordered us. You take the left tunnel, you take the left tunnel, you take. take the right. I nervously looked over at my wife, expecting to see panic begin to set in, but she just shrugged and started down the left-hand passage without a backward glance. Weird? The zombie waggled his eyebrows at me as I turned right. Pray that you both meet again at the other end, he intoned. I swear he ended that statement with an actual mooh-ha-ha-ha, is that we'd stopped off in 1950s, Transylvania. I grinned as I started on my way.

Not much to tell here, guys. There was a lot of entertaining movie paraphernalia, a few interesting takes on beloved characters, like a campy, effeminate Jason, and a hobo-dracula who'd taken up Bloody Mary's instead of blood. And then I was already seeing the parking lot street lamps shining around the next bend of the tunnel, which doubtless meant the exit was up ahead.

Bit of a disappointment, all in all. "'Won't you have a look in the victim's glass?' asked a quiet voice. I looked down and realized that I'd almost missed one last actor, a young girl of no more than twelve, a pale, dark-haired, pretty little thing, wearing an old-fashioned-looking white dress and holding the handle of a silver-backed hand mirror. I smiled kindly at her and took the mirror from her hands. "'What's a do?' I prompted her. I thought it was funny that the haunted house people hadn't had her practice her lines.

If you breathe on it, it returns the smell of your future murderer's breath. Well, here, at least, she was flawless with her line, lacing the words with a sort of heavy melancholy and a floating English accent. I nodded graciously. I'd love to try it. I lifted it to my face, studied my reflection for a moment, and breathed. It took a moment, and then the sudden smell of cinnamon blew back against my face, mixed with the humid tang of someone else's mouth. The sensation was pretty realistic, even a bit gross.

I'll admit I was actually surprised. Creating that kind of effect demonstrated a higher level of commitment than I'd come to expect from the effects team of a haunted house. As I returned the mirror to its young owner, I mentally raised my Yelp review from two to three stars. Most people don't say they'd love to try it, spoke the voice of the girl, a little curiosity mixed in with her practiced leaden tone. Oh, so were ad-libbing dialogue. I smiled.

It's the first thing in this fun house that has actually entertained me, so I'm not sorry. She held my eyes and her forehead puckered. Funhouse, I do not understand you. This is my home. Her words hadn't even sunk in yet when I was suddenly blinded by a flashlight beam. A voice called, You coming out, cowboy? There's people waiting behind you. I mumbled an apology and headed toward the guy.

I glanced back bemusedly to discover that girl and mirror were nowhere to be seen. That's a neat trick, I commented to the zombie as I stepped out the back door. Does that kid actor at the end just go down a trap door or what? He squinted at me. We don't have any kids working here. Have a good night, weirdo. The drive home was as silent as the drive there. My wife mentioned only that she'd found the experience stressful,

and then we lapsed into our accustomed silence until the car pulled into the driveway. I'm going to sleep, my wife sighed as I switched off the ignition. This has been a colossal waste of time. Do me a favor and put the kids to bed if they're still up. I'll skip rehashing the rest of the night, mostly because I want to tell you what happened an hour ago. It was just as my wife was headed up the stairs to bed after her paradoxical evening coffee. She stopped at the foot of the staircase to ask me if she had dust in her hair from the haunted house,

sighing as I leaned in to check. It was then that I got a full-on blast of her breath. Tangy, humid cinnamon. That was about when stoic, fearless me felt my flesh crawl. in a way that I haven't experienced since early childhood. Hey, where'd you eat that was cinnamon? I asked, struggling to keep a tremor out of my voice as I pretended to be examining her hair for dust streaks. Some kind of breath candy, she replied in a bored tone.

This Victorian-looking little girl actor gave one to me right before the exit, which is good because that place left me feeling like something had died in my throat. Well, good night. I met her eyes then, and I wondered, heart thudding wildly, if I had ever truly looked at them in a long time. There was crystallized hatred there. Not the fuming hatred of an enemy who'd been wronged, but the cold, clinical disgust of someone who has seen something they don't like on the bottom of their shoe. So I'm sitting downstairs instead of being upstairs in bed. I don't know that I want to go to bed.

Not now, and maybe not ever. Of course, this can completely be an elaborate ruse on the part of the haunted house staff, but it wasn't even that type of haunted house. It was supposed to be cheesy fun, not this... Whatever this is. Or, and I hesitate to even think it, it could be true. If it is, well... Why? Oh, why didn't I ask the girl with the mirror how long before the murder occurs?

Will it be tonight? Working late. We've all had to do it, and most certainly we will try anything to ensure we do it as little as possible. Anton Scheller returns to share with us his tale about a man who is determined to never work late again, due to a most unsettling experience. It's a late night compounded by the fact that his office elevator isn't working properly. It will soon become apparent

why this man swears that he will always leave work on time. I am careful to always leave work on time. I had my fair share of abusive bosses. Now I will fight with nails and nails, teeth to not lose an inch of my free time just to print another stack of meaningless papers. I've been in this job for nearly a year, and only twice I had to stay past 6 p.m. The first time was when a meeting ran overtime. I was new back then, and careful not to make a bad impression. The second time was this Monday. Before Monday, I might have been careful.

to always go home on time. Now I am anal about it. I will never again in my life stay a minute longer at work than necessary. And certainly I will never again be the last one to leave

work, even if it's the CEO on the phone. Monday was just a bad day. I was hopping from stressful meeting to stressful phone call to finishing a PowerPoint in the last minute, and then, ten minutes before I got off, the CEO called.

It wasn't even important. He wanted to know what our team was up to, and for some reason, my team manager had forwarded the call to me. I felt like I didn't have a choice. Of course, really, I had a choice. I could have offered to call him back in the morning, or I could have transferred the call to my mobile phone and continued the conversation on my way home. But I didn't. I sat at my desk, talking, doodling, and checking my emails, while the 50-something on the other end of the line was talking about vision and goals and performance and whatever other buzzwords he picked up during his MBA.

It wasn't even that late. It was around half past seven when I finally locked my workstation. Never shut it down, or else the IT can't run their precious updates, and will haunt you for a week about it. Only half past seven, but the office was already as empty as an Egyptian pyramid after three millennia of grave robbers. Nothing more left than posters, the modern murals, and empty half-lit cubicles that always reminded me of sarcophagi.

Not just because cubicles are the places where dreams die, but also because they seem to be made to lock their inhabitants inside. The sarcophagus doesn't just keep robbers out, it also keeps the mummy in. Passing through the row of Egyptian graves, I made my way around the corner, past the caffeine corner and the reception tables that always seem sad without the fake smiles of the two young women that realize too late that studying literature with famous professors is not worth $200,000. Press the button and wait. That's the elevator rule. If other people are around, avoid any movement and any eye contact. But if no one else is around, feel free to check your hair or pick your nose until the bing and the light call you inside.

Doors open. Empty cabin. I step inside. Doors close. Elevator begins to move. Nine floors. Eight floors, six floors, five floors, loud bang. You never notice the elevator speed until it stops abruptly.

When it blows you off your feet, makes you hit your head against the wall so hard that you don't know whether the lights are off or you just turn blind. I didn't notice the cold before, but while hammering against the last, light source, the small red emergency button, my feet and back began to freeze. Maybe the roof broke, the cold from outside broke into the shaft and froze those thick metal cables. Hello, sir. Can you hear me? Yes, yes I can. Can you hear me? Yes, sir. Is there a problem? Hell yes, there is. This thing. This thing is. This thing is. thing is stuck. Get me out of here. Of course, sir. Please stay calm.

This happens occasionally. We will get you out. Just relax. I hate the English language. Spanish, German, French, Chinese, Greek, Sanskrit, Russian. In any other language, that sentence would have been a warning. In English, it was just, we will get you out. I can see you, the technician added. So don't worry, you'll be fine. I don't know why the technician didn't turn the microphone off.

Either he forgot or he wanted to keep me reassured. But white noise is not reassuring, particularly not if there is an occasional whispered word seeping through the static. I opened my bag and searched for my phone. That's the problem with suits. In the jacket pocket, the phone makes a strange shape. The trouser pockets send it to the floor the moment you bend forward or sit down.

So you have a jacket with pockets and trousers with pockets, but still you need to put your phone in a bag. And when you search for it, particularly while locked in an elevator cabin, pitch black except for the faint and almost menacing red gloves. of the help button, the phone refuses to appear. I gave up after about two minutes. I still don't know how the phone was able to disappear in my bag, between not much more than the travel mug, two books, and the shirt that I should have brought to the dry cleaner in the morning. I sank to the floor to sit down but caught myself at the last minute, probably dirty. In fact, Instead, I leaned my shoulder uncomfortably against the wall. My eyes fixed on the red light and the white noise producing speaker somewhere above.

Maybe that was the mistake. Maybe if I had sat down, I would have noticed. Hey, I said. Nothing more than static. The cabin got even colder. It felt nearly like a draft. A draft. Hello? I said.

My finger pushed the button. Hey, can you hear me? Static. Just when I wanted to scream. Sir, please don't panic, I whispered. We are still on the case. It seems we can fix it from here. Just hang in there.

We will get you all out of there in no time. The hair on my legs stood on end. Surely I just misheard. Are you sure? I asked. Yes, we are just restarting the motor. You will hear a loud... Free fall. Just for a moment, but you know it right away.

You know how it feels when you fall, when the insides of your body seem slower than the outside. The pressure shifts. For a moment you can't feel gravity, but you know that it is exactly the same gravity that pulls you to your doom. I can't explain how, but you just know when the ground below you is not a ground.

Rather, it is moving as fast as you, falling together with you. The steel will survive the fall. You won't. The crunching sound came first, then my feet hit the floor, then my knees, then my elbows. I screamed. Sorry, sir, said the technician's voice. What the fuck? I screamed.

Did this thing just fall two floors? Just about, said the voice. Are you all okay? I took a moment to feel the pain in my left arm as well as my knees. Painful, but not horrible. Yeah, I think so, I replied. The steady hum of the elevator's motion returned. A short stuttering made me grope for something to hold onto.

Then the movement was smooth. Two floors. And your daughter? Asked the voice. I don't have a daughter, I said. One floor. The girl that's with you in the elevator. Is she all right?

The elevator binged. I screamed, crawled outside, pushed myself up, and ran. In our final tale, we meet a man who lives around. rather dreary life in a windowless basement apartment. Over the course of a number of days, his sense of isolation builds and festers into a decidedly downward spiral of mental instability. Matt Demoski shares his tale with us about this desperate man and how his break from reality came about so effectively.

It's the little things, after all, that can drag us into a state of psychosis. Sunday. I'm not sure why I'm writing this down on paper and not on my computer. I guess I've just noticed some odd things. It's not that I don't trust the computer. I just need to organize my thoughts. I need to get down. all the details, somewhere objective, somewhere I know that what I write can't be deleted or

changed. Not that that's happened. It's just everything blurs together here and the fog of memory lends a strange cast to things. I'm starting to feel cramped in this small apartment. Maybe that's the problem. I just had to go and choose the cheapest apartment. I just had to go and choose the cheapest apartment. the only one in the basement. The lack of windows down here makes day and night seem to slip by seamlessly. I haven't been out in a few hours because I've been working on this programming project so intensively. I suppose I just wanted to get it done. Hours of sitting and staring at a monitor can make anyone feel strange, I know, but I don't think that's it.

I'm not sure when I first started to feel like something was odd. I can't even define what it is. Maybe I just haven't talked to anyone in a while. That's the first thing that crept up on me. Everyone I normally talk to online while I program has been idle, or they've simply not logged on at all. My instant messages go unanswered. The last email I got from anybody was a little.

a friend saying he'd talk to me when he got back from the store, and that was yesterday. I'd call with my cell phone, but reception's terrible down here. Yeah, that's it. I just need to call someone. I'm going to go outside. Well, that didn't work so well. As the tangle of fear fades, I'm feeling a little ridiculous for being scared at all. I looked in the mirror before I went, out, but I didn't shave the two-day stubble I've grown. I figured I was just going out for a quick cell phone call. I did change my shirt, though, because it was lunchtime, and I guessed that I'd run into at least one person I knew. That didn't end up happening. I wish it did. When I went out, I opened the door to my small apartment slowly. A small feeling of apprehension, and I went out, I opened the door to my small apartment,

had somehow already lodged itself in me for some indefinable reason. I chalked it up to having not spoken to anyone but myself for a day or two. I peered down the dingy gray hallway, made dingier by the fact that it was a basement hallway. On one end, a large metal door led to the building's furnace room. It was locked, of course. Two dreary soda machines stood by it. I bought a soda from one the first day I moved in, but it had a two-year-old expiration date.

I'm fairly sure nobody knows those machines are even down here, or my cheap landlady just doesn't care to get them restocked. I closed my door softly and walked to the other direction, taking care not to make a sound. I have no idea why I chose to do that, but it was fun giving in to the strange impulse not to break the droning hum of the soda machines, at least for the moment. I got to the stairwell and took the stairs up to the building's front door. I looked through the heavy door's small square window and received quite the shock. It was definitely not lunchtime.

City gloom hung over the dark street outside And the traffic lights at the intersection in the distance blinked yellow Dim clouds purple and black from the glow of the city Hung overhead Nothing moved save for the few sidewalk trees that shifted in the wind I remember shivering though I wasn't cold Maybe it was the wind outside I could vaguely hear it through the heavy metal door, and I knew it was that unique kind of late-night wind, the kind that was constant, cold, and quiet, save for the rhythmic music it made as it passed through countless unseen tree leaves.

I decided not to go outside. Instead, I lifted my cell phone to the door's little window and checked the cell phone. signal meter. The bars filled up the meter and I smiled. Time to hear someone else's voice, I remember thinking, relieved. It was such a strange thing, to be afraid of nothing. I shook my head, laughing at myself silently. I hit speed dial for my best friend Amy's number and held the phone up to my ear. It rang once, but then it stopped. Nothing happened. I listened to silence for a good 20 seconds, then hung up. I frowned and looked at the signal meter again. Still full. I went to dial her number again, but then the phone rang in my hand, startling me. I put it up to my ear. Hello?

I asked, immediately fighting down a small shock at hearing the first spoken voice in days, even if it was my own. I had gotten used to the droning hum of the building's inner workings, my computer and the soda machines in the hallway. There was no response to my greeting at first, but then, finally, a voice came, said a clear male voice, obviously of college age, like me. Who's this? Uh, John, I replied, confused.

Oh, sorry, wrong number. He replied, then hung up. I lowered the phone slowly and leaned against the thick brick wall of the stairwell. That was strange. I looked at my received calls list, but the number was unfamiliar. Before I could think on it further, The phone rang loudly, shocking me yet again. This time I looked at the caller before I answered.

It was another unfamiliar number. This time I held the phone up to my ear but said nothing. I heard nothing but the general background noise of a phone. Then a familiar voice broke my tension. Was the single word in Amy's voice. I breathed a sigh of relief. Hey, it's you, I replied. Who else would it be?

She responded. I met a party on 7th Street, and my phone died just as you called me. This is someone else's phone, obviously. Oh, okay, I said. Where are you? She asked. My eyes glanced over the drab, whitewashed cinder block walls and the heavy metal door with its small window.

At my building, I sighed. Just feeling cooped up, I didn't realize it was so late. You should come here, she said, laughing. Nah, I don't feel like looking for some strange place by myself in the middle of the night. I said, looking out the window at the silent, windy street. that secretly scared me just a tiny bit. I think I'm just going to keep working or go to bed. Hence, she replied.

You, your building is close to Seventh Street, right? How drunk are you? I asked lightheartedly. You know where I live. Of course, she said abruptly. I guess I can't get there by walking, huh? You could if you wanted to waste half an hour, I told her. Right, she said.

Okay, have to go. Good luck with your work. I lowered the phone once more, looking at the numbers flash as the call ended. Then the droning silence suddenly reasserted itself in my ears. The two strange calls and the eerie street outside just drove home. my aloneness in this empty stairwell. Perhaps from having seen too many scary movies, I had the sudden inexplicable idea that something could look in the door's window and see me, some sort of horrible entity that hovered at the edge of aloneness, just waiting to creep up on unsuspecting people that strayed too far from

other human beings. I knew the fear was irrational, but nobody was. the else was around, so I jumped down the stairs, ran down the hallway into my room, and closed the door as swiftly as I could while still staying silent. Like I said, I feel a little ridiculous for being scared of nothing, and the fear has already faded. Writing this down helps a lot. It makes me realize that nothing is wrong. It filters out half-formed thoughts and fears. and leaves only cold, hard facts. It's late, I got a call from a wrong number, and Amy's phone died, so she called me back from another number.

Nothing strange is happening. Still, there was something a little off about that conversation. I know it could have just been the alcohol she'd had, or was it even her that seemed off to me? Or was it... Yes, that was it. I didn't realize it until this moment, writing these things down. I knew writing things down would help.

She said she was at a party, but I only heard silence in the background. Of course, that doesn't mean anything in particular, as she could have just gone outside to make the call. No, that couldn't be it either. I didn't hear the wind. I need to see if the wind is still blowing. Monday. I forgot to finish writing last night. I'm not sure what I expected to see when I ran up the stairwell and looked out the heavy metal door's window.

I'm feeling ridiculous. Last night's fear seems hazy and unreasonable to me now. I can't wait to go out into the sunlight. I'm going to check my email, shave, shower, and finally get out of here. Wait, I think I heard something. It was thunder. That whole sunlight and fresh air thing didn't happen. I went out into the stairwell and up the stairs, only to find disappointment.

The heavy metal door's little window showed only flowing water as torrential rain, slid. slammed against it. Only a very dim, gloomy light filtered in through the rain, but at least I knew it was daytime, even if it was a gray, sickly wet day. I tried looking out the window and waiting for lightning to illuminate the gloom, but the rain was too heavy, and I couldn't make out anything more than vague, weird shapes moving at odd angles

in the waves washing down the window. disappointed I turned around but I didn't want to go back to my room instead I wandered further up the stairs past the first floor and the second the stairs ended at the third floor the highest floor in the building I looked through the glass that ran up the outer wall of the stairwell but it was that warped thick kind that scatters the light not that there was much to see through the rain to be begin with. I opened the stairwell door and wandered down the hallway. The ten or so thick wooden doors, painted blue a long time ago, were all closed. I listened as I walked, but it was the middle of the day, so I wasn't surprised that I heard nothing but the rain outside. As I stood there in the dim hallway, listening to the rain, I had the strange, fleeting impression

that the doors were standing like silent granite monoliths, erected by some ancient forgotten civilization for some unfathomable guardian purpose. Lightning flashed, and I could have sworn that for just a moment, the old grainy blue wood looked just like rough stone. I laughed at myself for letting my imagination get the best of me. But then it occurred to me that the first of me, that the same. the dim gloom and lightning must mean there was a window somewhere in the hallway. A vague memory surfaced, and I suddenly recalled that the third floor had an alcove and an inset

window halfway down the floor's hallway. Excited to look out into the rain and possibly see another human being, I quickly walked over to the alcove, finding the large, thin glass window. rain washed down it, as with the front doors window, but I could open this one. I reached a handout to slide it open, but hesitated. I had the strangest feeling that if I opened that window, I would see something absolutely horrifying on the other side. Everything's been so odd lately, so I came up with a plan, and I came back here to get what I needed. I don't seriously think anything will come of it, but I'm bored, it's raining, and I'm going stir crazy. I came back to get my webcam.

The cord isn't long enough to reach the third floor by any means, so instead I'm going to hide it between the two soda machines in the dark end of my basement hallway. Run the wire along the wall and under the door, and put black duct tape over the wire to blend it in with the black plastic strip that runs along the base of the hallway's walls. I know this is silly, but I don't have anything better to do. Well, nothing happened. I propped open the hallway to stairwell door, steeled myself, then flung the heavy front door wide open and ran like hell down the stairs to my room and slammed the door.

I watched the webcam on my computer intently, seeing the hallway outside my door and most of the stairwell. I'm watching it right now and I don't see anything interesting. I just wish the camera's position was different so that I could see out the front door. Hey, somebody's online. I got out an older, less functional webcam that I had in my closet to video chat with my friend online. I couldn't really explain to him why I wanted to video chat, but it felt good. good to see another person's face. He couldn't talk very long, and we didn't talk about anything

meaningful, but I feel much better. My strange fear has almost passed. I would feel completely better, but there was something odd about our conversation. I know that I've said that everything has seemed odd, but still, he was very vague in his responses. I can't recall one specific thing that he said, no particular name, or place, or event. But he did ask for my email address to keep in touch. Wait, I just got an email. I'm about to go out. I just got an email from Amy that asked me to meet her for dinner at, quote, the place we usually go to, end quote. I do love pizza, and I've just been eating random food from my poorly stocked fridge for days, so I can't wait. Again, I feel ridiculous about the odd couple of days I've been having.

I should destroy this journal when I get back. Oh, another email. Oh, my God. I'm almost left the email and opened the door. I almost opened the door. I almost opened the door, but I read the email first. It was from a friend that I hadn't heard from in a long time, and it was sent to a huge number of emails that must have been every person he had saved in his address list. It had no subject, and it said simply, seen with your own eyes don't trust them they what the hell is that supposed to mean the words shock me and I keep going over and over them is it a desperate email sent just as something happened the words are obviously cut off without finishing on any other day I

would have dismissed this as spam from a computer virus or something. What the words. Seen with your own eyes. I can't help but read over this journal and think back on the last few days and realize that I have not seen another person with my own eyes or talk to another person face to face. The webcam conversation with my friend was so strange, so vague, so... Erie, now that I think about it. Was it eerie? Or is the fear clouding my memory? My mind toys with the progression of events I've written here,

pointing out that I have not been presented with one single fact that I did not specifically give out unsuspectingly. The random wrong number that got my name and the subsequent strange return call from Amy. the friend that asked for my email address. I messaged him first when I saw him online. And then I got my first email a few minutes after that conversation. Oh my God!

That phone call with Amy! I said over the phone. I said that I was within half an hour's walk of 7th Street. They know I'm near there. What if they're trying to find me? Where is everyone else? Why haven't I seen or heard anyone else in days? No, no.

This is crazy. This is absolutely crazy. I need to calm down. This madness needs to end. I don't know what to think. I ran about my apartment furiously. holding my cell phone up to every corner to see if it got a signal through the heavy walls. Finally, in the tiny bathroom, near one ceiling corner, I got a single bar.

Holding my phone there, I sent a text message to every number in my list. Not wanting to betray anything about my unfounded fears, I simply sent... You seen anyone face to face lately? At that point, I just wanted any reply back. I didn't care what the reply was or if I embarrassed myself. I tried to call someone a few times, but I couldn't get my head up high enough, and if I brought my cell phone down, even an inch, it lost signal. Then I remembered the computer and rushed over to it, instant messaging everyone online.

Most were idle or away from their computer. Nobody responded. My messages grew more frantic, and I started telling people where I was, and to stop by in person for a host of barely passable reasons. I didn't care about anything by that point. I just needed to see another person. I also tore apart my apartment looking for something that I might have missed, some way to contact another human being with. without opening the door. I know it's crazy.

I know it's unfounded. But what if? What if? I just need to be sure. I taped the phone to the ceiling in case... Tuesday. The phone rang! Exhausted from last night's rampage,

I must have fallen asleep. I woke up to the phone ringing and ran into the bathroom. room, stood on the toilet, and flipped open the phone taped to the ceiling. It was Amy, and I feel so much better. She was really worried about me, and apparently had been trying to contact me since the last time I talked to her. She's coming over now, and yes, she knows where I am without me telling her. I feel so embarrassed. I am definitely throwing this journal away before anyone sees it. I don't even know why I'm writing in it now. Maybe it's just because it's the only

communication I've had at all since... P, God knows when. I look like hell, too. I looked in the mirror before I came back in here. My eyes are sunken, my stubble is thicker, and I just look generally unhealthy. My apartment is trashed, but I'm not going to clean it up. I think I need someone else to see what I've been through. These past few days have not been normal. I am not the one to imagine things. I know I have been the victim of extreme probability. I probably missed seeing another person a dozen times.

I just happened to go out when it was late at night or the middle of the day when everyone was gone. Everything's perfectly fine. I know this now. Plus, I found something in the closet last night that has helped me tremendously. A television. I set it up just before I wrote this, and it's on in the background. Television has always been an escape for me,

and it reminds me that there's a world beyond these dingy brick walls. I'm glad Amy's the only one that responded to me after last night's French. pestering of everyone I could contact. She's been my best friend for years. She doesn't know it, but I count the day that I met her among one of the few moments of true happiness in my life. I remember that warm summer day fondly. It seems a different reality from this dark, rainy, lonely place. I feel like I spent days sitting in that playground, much too old to play, just talking with her and hanging around doing nothing at all. I still feel like I can go back to that moment sometimes, and it reminds me that this damn place is not all that there is.

Finally, a knock on the door. I thought it was odd that I couldn't see her through, the camera I hid between the two soda machines. I figured that it was bad positioning, like when I couldn't see out the front door. I should have known. I should have known. After the knock, I yelled through the door jokingly that I had a camera between the soda machines, because I was embarrassed myself that I had taken this paranoia so far. After I did that, I saw her image walk over to the camera and looked down at me.

She smiled and waved. She said to the camera brightly, giving it a wry look. It's weird, I know. I said into the mic attached to my computer. I've had a weird few days. Must have. She replied. Open the door, John.

I hesitated. How could I be sure? Hey, humor me a second here, I told her through the mic. Tell me one thing about us, just to prove to me that you're you. She gave the camera a weird look. All right. She said slowly, thinking. Well, we met randomly at a playground when we were both way too old to be there. I sighed deeply as reality returned and fear faded.

God, I've been so ridiculous. Of course it was Amy. That day wasn't anywhere in the world except in my memory. I'd never even mentioned it to anyone. Not out of embarrassment, but out of a strange, secret nostalgia and a longing for those days to return. If there was some unknown force at work trying to trick me, as I feared, there was no way they could know about that day. All right, I'll explain everything, I told her.

Be right there. I ran to my small bathroom and fixed my hair as best I could. I looked like hell, but she would understand. Snickering at my own unbelievable behavior and the mess. I'd made of the place. I walked to the door. I put my hand on the doorknob and gave the mess one last look. So ridiculous, I thought. My eyes traced over the half-eaten food lying on the floor, the overflowing trash bin, and the bed I'd tip to the side looking for, God knows what. I almost turned to the door and opened it, but my eyes fell on one last thing. The old webcam, the one I used for that

eerily vacant chat with my friend. Its silent black sphere lay haphazardly tossed to the side. Its lens pointed at the table where this journal lay. An overwhelming terror took me as I realized that if something could see through that camera, it would have seen what I just wrote about that day. I asked her for any one thing about us, and she chose the only thing in the world that I thought they or it did not know. But it did, it did know. It could have been watching me the whole time. I didn't open the door. I screamed. I screamed in uncontrollable terror.

I stomped on the old webcam on the floor. The door shook and the doorknob tried to turn, but I didn't hear Amy's voice through the door. Was the basement door made to keep out drafts too thick? Or was Amy not outside? What could have been trying to get in, if not her? What the hell is out there? I saw her on my computer through the camera outside.

I heard her on the speakers through the camera outside. But was it real? How can I know? She's gone now. I screamed and shouted for help. I piled up everything in my apartment against the front door. Friday. At least I think that it's Friday. I broke everything electronic. I smashed my computer to pieces. Every single thing on there could have been accessed by network servers, or worse, altered.

I'm a programmer. I know. Every little piece of information I gave out since this started, my name. My name is a programmer. I know. My name. my email, my location. None of it came back from outside until I gave it out. I've been going over and over what I wrote. I've been pacing back and forth, alternating between stark terror and overpowering disbelief. Sometimes I'm absolutely certain some phantom entity is dead set on the simple goal of getting me to go outside. Back to the beginning, with the phone call from Amy. She was effectively asking me to open the door and go outside. I keep running through it in my head.

One point of view says I've acted like a madman, and all of this is the extreme convergence of probability. Never going outside at the right time by pure luck. Never seeing another person by pure chance. Getting a random nonsense email from some computer virus at just the right time. The other point of view says that extreme convergence of probability is the reason that whatever's out there hasn't gotten me already. I keep thinking,

I never opened the window on the third floor. I never opened the front door until that incredibly stupid stunt with the hidden camera, after which I ran straight to my room and slammed the door. I haven't opened my own solid door since I flung open the front door of the building. Whatever's out there, if anything's out there, never made an appearance. in the building before I opened the front door. Maybe the reason it wasn't in the building already was that it was elsewhere getting everyone else.

And then it waited until I betrayed my existence by trying to call Amy. A call which didn't work until it called me and asked me my name. Terror literally overwhelmed. me every time I try to fit the pieces of this nightmare together. Short, cut off. Was it from someone trying to get word out?

Some friendly voice desperately trying to warn me before it came? Seen with my own eyes, don't trust them. Exactly what I've been so suspicious of. It could have masterful control of all things electronic, practicing its insidious deception to trick me into coming outside. Why can't it get in? It knocked on the door. It must have some solid presence.

The door. The image of those doors in the upper hallway as guardian monoliths flashes back in my mind every time I trace this path of thoughts. If there is some phantom entity trying to get me to go outside, maybe it can't get through doors. I keep thinking back over all the books I've read or movies I've seen, trying to generate some explanation for this. Doors have always been such intense foci of human imagination.

always seen as wards or portals of special importance. Or perhaps the door is just too thick. I know that I couldn't bash through any of the doors in this building, let alone the heavy basement ones. Aside from that, the real question is, why does it even want me? If it just wanted to kill me, it could do it, any number of ways, including just waiting until I starve to death.

What if it doesn't want to kill me? What if it has some far more horrific fate in store for me? What can I do to escape this nightmare? I told the people on the other side of the door, I need a minute to think, and I'll come out. I'm really just writing this down so I can figure out what to do. do. At least this time I heard their voices. My paranoia, and yes, I recognize I'm being paranoid, has me thinking of all sorts of ways that their voices could be faked electronically.

There could be nothing but speakers outside, simulating human voices. Did it really take them three days to come talk to me. Amy is supposedly out there, along with two policemen and a psychiatrist. Maybe it took them three days to think of what to say to me. The psychiatrist's claim could be pretty convincing if I decided to think that this has all been a crazy misunderstanding and not some entity trying to trick me into opening the door. The psychiatrist had an older voice, authoritarian, but still caring. I liked it.

I'm desperate to just see someone with my own eyes. He said I have something called cyber psychosis, and I'm just one of a nationwide epidemic of thousands of people having break. breakdowns triggered by a suggestive email that got through somehow. I swear he said got through somehow. I think he means spread throughout the country inexplicably, but I'm incredibly suspicious that the entity slipped up and revealed something.

He said I am part of a wave. of emergent behavior, that a lot of other people are having the same problem with the same fears, even though we've never communicated. That neatly explains the strange email about eyes that I got. I didn't get the original triggering email. I got a descendant of it. My friend, could have broken down too, and tried to warn everyone he knew against his paranoid fears. That's how the problem spreads, the psychiatrist claims. I could have spread it too with my texts and instant messages online to everybody I know. One of those people might be melting down right now after being triggered by

something I sent them, something they might interpret any way they want, something like a text saying, seen anyone face to face lately? The psychiatrist told me that he didn't want to lose another one, that people like me are intelligent, and that's our downfall. We draw connections so well that we draw them even when they shouldn't be there. He said it's easy to get caught up in paranoia in our fast-paced world, a constantly changing place where more and more of our interaction is simulated. I have to give him one thing. It's a great explanation.

It neatly explains everything. It perfectly explains everything, in fact. I have every reason to shake off this nightmarish fear that some thing or consciousness or being out there wants me to open the door so it can capture me for some horrible fate worse than death. It would be foolish after hearing that explanation to stay in here until I starve to death just to spite the entity that might have gotten everyone else.

It would be foolish to think that, after hearing that explanation, I might be one of the last people left alive on an empty world, hiding in my secure basement room, spiting some unthinkable deceptive entity just by rebuttal. refusing to be captured. It's a perfect explanation for every single strange thing I've seen or heard. And I have every reason in the world to let all of my fears go and open the door. That's exactly why I'm not going to.

How can I be sure? How can I know what's real and what's deception? All of these damn things with their wires and their signals that originate from some unseen origin, they're not real, I can't be sure. Signals through a camera, faked video, deceptive phone calls, emails. Even the television, lying broken on the floor, how can I possibly know it's real? It's just signals, waves, light, the door. It's bashing on the door.

It's trying to get in. What insane mechanical contrivance could it be using to simulate the sound of men attacking the heavy woods so well? Oh, at least I'll finally see it with my own eyes. There's nothing left in here for it to do. deceive me with. I've ripped apart everything else. It can't deceive my eyes, can it? Seen with your own eyes, don't trust them, they. Was that desperate message telling me to trust my eyes? Or warning me about my eyes, too? Oh my God, what's the difference between a camera and my eyes?

They both turn light into electrical signals. It can't be deceived. I have to be sure. I have to be sure! Date unknown. I calmly asked for a paper and pen, day in and day out, until it finally gave them to me. Not that it matters.

What am I going to do? I poke my eyes out. The bandages feel like part of me now. The pain is gone. I figure this will be one of my last chances to write legibly, as without my sight to correct mistakes, my hands will slowly forget the motions involved. This is a sort of self-indulgence, this writing.

It's a relic of another time, because I'm certain everyone left in the world is dead or something far worse. I sit against the padded wall day in and day out. The entity brings me food and water. It masks itself as a kind nurse, as an unsympathetic doctor. I think it knows that my hearing has sharpened considerably. now that I live in darkness. It fakes conversations in the hallways on the off chance that I might overhear.

One of the nurses talks about having a baby soon. One of the doctors lost his wife in a car accident. None of it matters. None of it is real. None of it gets to me. Not like she does. That's the worst part. The part I almost can't handle. The thing comes to me, masquerading as Amy. Its recreation is perfect. It sounds exactly like Amy, feels exactly like her. It even produces a reasonable facsimile of tears that it makes me feel on its.

life-like cheeks. When it first dragged me here, it told me all the things I wanted to hear. It told me that she loved me, that she had always loved me, that it didn't understand why I did this, that we could still have a life together. If only I would stop insisting that I was being deceived. It wanted me to believe. No, it needed me to believe that she was real. I almost fell for it.

I really did. I doubted myself for the longest time. In the end, though, it was all too perfect, too flawless and too real. The false Amy used to come every day, and then every week, and finally stopped coming all together. But I don't think the entity will give up. I think the waiting game is just another one of its gambits. I will resist it for the rest of my life if I have to. I don't know what happened to the rest of the world.

But I do know that this thing needs me to fall for its deceptions. If it needs that, then maybe, just maybe I am a thorn in its agenda. Maybe Amy is still alive out there somewhere, kept alive only by my will to resist the deceiver. I hold on to that hope. Rocking back and forth in my cell to pass the time, I will never give in, will never break. The doctor read the paper the patient had scribbled on. It was barely readable, written in the shaky script of one who could not see.

He wanted to smile at the man's steadfast resolve, a reminder of the human will to survive, but he knew that the patient was completely delusional. After all, a sane man would have fallen for the deception long ago. The doctor wanted to smile. He wanted to whisper words of encouragement to the delusional man. He wanted to scream, but the nerve filaments wrapped around his head and into his eyes made him do otherwise. His body walked into the cell like a puppet and told the patient, once more, that he was wrong and that there was no.

nobody trying to deceive him. For sleepless tales and second season have come to an end. Thank you for joining us during the darkness of the night. Please visit the nosleeppodcast.com and sign up for our mailing list to keep in touch with all the news about the show. This is David Cummings, and on behalf of all the authors and narrators, we hope you have enjoyed our second season. Join us again on May 19th for the start of season three.