The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S3E15 - Christmas Episode

Episode Date: December 15, 2013

It's episode 15 of Season 3 and time for our annual Christmas episode! We have seven tales for you in this Yuletide show with stories about the dark and twisted deeds that take place during the festive season.The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. "A Christmas Feast" written by Michael Whitehouse and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:03:50)"The Dead Girl's Valentine" written by Meghan O'Hara Murray and read by David Cummings. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:23:50)"Christmas Shopping" written by Anton Scheller and read by Matt Grant. (Story starts at 00:44:05)"Don't Turn On the Lights, Mommy" written by Steven Horn and read by David Cummings & Kellie Fitzgerald. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:57:50)"Red Christmas" written by Anton Scheller and read by Barnabas Deimos. (Story starts at 01:07:00)"The Chimney Man" written by Phillip Howard and read by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 01:15:05)"The Christmas Tree" written by Michael Whitehouse and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:30:50)Click here to learn more about Chilling Tales for Dark NightsClick here to learn more about Michael WhitehouseClick here to learn more about Peter LewisClick here to learn more about Meghan O'Hara MurrayClick here to learn more about Anton SchellerClick here to learn more about Matt GrantClick here to learn more about Kellie FitzgeraldClick here to learn more about Barnabas DeimosPodcast produced by: David CummingsMusic & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise notedThe NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design.This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2013. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Welcome. Yes, come in and warm yourself by the fire in our cozy Christmas cottage. Yes, so delighted you could join us for, what is it now, our third Christmas together? Yes, three years of spending time together sharing our dark Yuletide tales. This time we have seven stories that we're. put the coal in your stockings, so to speak, my friends, and send shivers down your spine before the old fat man shimmies down your chimney. So whilst everyone else is bringing light and joy and festive songs and merry greetings, we can gather for an hour or two, for the less festive and more restless side.

of the winter solstice. Joining us for the Unholy Day Tales are three new narrators, all of whom are courtesy of our friends over at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Kelly Fitzgerald, Matt Grant, and Barnabas Damos have all been good little boys and girl, and they will all be narrating stories for us. To hear more of their talented work, you can visit Chilling Tales for Darknights.com. Oh, yes, and before we begin, it behooves me to make mention that this is our last episode of the calendar year. The podcast will be returning in 2014 on January 5th.

So make sure you join us once you have recovered from your festivities and merrymaking and nog fuel debauchery. Well, well, well, enough of my palaver. Let's settle in and begin the show with our first story. It's a tale by author Michael Whitehouse. And I hope you're hungry because Michael has laid out a tale. tale about a family who is dedicated to sharing the spirit and food of the season with those less fortunate than they. Let's have Peter Lewis read the tale for us about the real generosity that brings a family together to share a Christmas feast. He first suspected that they were

going to eat him when he noticed the distinct lack of Yuletide smells. It wasn't perhaps a conscious thought, at least not one which had been fully realized, but there was a clear, growing uneasiness within him. Somehow he just knew. Surely if a family invited you for Christmas dinner, the house would be filled with the wonderful aromas associated with that annual feast. Succulent, roast, turkey, honey-glazed vegetables, perhaps the fumes of mulled wine or a brandy-covered. Christmas pudding. But no, all of these were absent, yet the table was set. It was a particularly

bleak Christmas, and while snow was often welcome at that festive time of the year, the penetrating cold and frost, which seemed to sabotage both homes and their residents' bodies, was not. The temperature had plummeted on the seventh, and there had been little sign of any forthcoming reprieve. Families attempted as best they could to reach one another, but for many was to be a lonely Christmas day. Travel, especially for the elderly, was almost impossible for fear of slipping on the ice. One fall was all it would take for a broken hip or shoulder, and for the more fragile individuals amongst them, recovering from such an injury was not an easy task, certainly not as easy as it would be for those of a younger vintage. the Cardinal family had taken pity on an elderly gentleman who had recently moved into the

neighborhood only a few streets away. They were of an upstanding stock and took part in a local home-help initiative, spending time with the old and vulnerable. Everyone knew and loved them. Timmy was the youngest, a boy of only five or six. He was a child whom all looked upon with great adoration, never complaining, never causing trouble always adorable. And his 10-year-old sister, Camilla, was equally as admired. They were both a testament to the caring and nurturing parenting skills of Ben and Lucy Cardinal. Each year as the cold winter drew in, the Cardinal family were admired for their dedication and commitment to those around them. Their passion, almost zeal, for helping those who were less fortunate.

But behind the smiles and the skin-deep facade of a loving family lurked a far more sinister purpose. They had a tradition each year, a way to reward themselves for their kindness and generosity, one which stemmed back through many previous generations of the Cardinal family. Each Christmas they would invite a guest for dinner who would be welcomed with open arms into their home, sat down at a beautifully set table, provided with humorous and enjoyable Christmas conversation,

and then by the light of the roaring fire, the guest would be stabbed to death, and Eden, gratefully. They all reveled in the old tradition, with Timmy looking forward to it most. He had a ferocious appetite and a wasteline to match it, but children do get so wrapped up in the anticipation of a family Christmas, and his parents were delighted to see a growing boy fill his belly. Camilla was of a more quiet disposition than her stout little brother, slight of figure with a pallid complexion which reminded all of her mother. But make no mistake, she adored eating with the family

and could render anyone silent with a sharp, cold insult. Ben was the local police chief for the area, so covering up their annual feast was quite the cinch. While Lucy was, shall we say, a relation of sorts, and was entirely enthusiastic about maintaining the Christmas tradition, their guests were invariably those without family, and often of a ripe old age, forgotten by society, left to wither in their isolated little houses. Ben explained to the children yearly that it was almost a kindness to put the victims out of their slowly increasing misery. And besides, when they did eventually die, they would be shoved into

a box in the ground or roasted into ashes. What a waste of good meat. This year, Timmy and Camilla were especially excited. It was all their mother could do to calm their nerves, but on that Christmas Eve it was nearly impossible, for they knew the special treat they were in for the following day. The Cardinals were hosting a most special guest. His name was Sergio Muraru, and he hailed from Eastern Europe. They had never had foreign meat before, and the very idea of tearing into some delicious exotic muscle and fat made this year's feast something to really look forward to. They had met old man Mararu just a few weeks earlier when Ben had noticed the unusual name on his home help list.

Each year, as Christmas approached, the volunteers at the local church would be given names and addresses of pensioners in the area who had no family and would be left quite alone over the holiday season. At that festive time of year and worried that many of the frailer residents might succumb to the biting cold, church committee members would visit each of these lonely individuals and offer a friendly ear, a helping hand, and often some hearty food to the poorest of those on the list. The names would rarely change, but at least one person on that list would, sadly, pass away that year. Being an upstanding member of the community and a high-ranking police officer in the area,

Ben would often inform the church that one of their flock had sadly passed away, and with no friends or family known, he would concoct a lie. which usually involved a long-lost son or daughter appearing to take their sadly departed parent somewhere far away to be buried. That, or he would say that they had simply moved, having a bit of a deal with the local estate agent and solicitors firm to throw the proceeds from any property sales their way. The family were not without influence. It was incredible how little people questioned this, but as the Cardinal, The Cardinals ensured that each Christmas meal was not an active member in the church or community, people just assumed that Ben knew best.

This year, the Cardinals had been hoping to invite Lucy Hindridge around for her Christmas Swan Song, but unfortunately she had died during the summer. Ben had investigated, and he suspected that an intruder had been inside the house with her at the time of her death, but it seemed as though the causes were natural. No, the family would just have to have someone different for dinner. Then the name appeared on the list. Sergio Muraru, 86. Slight emphysema, no family.

Knows no one in the area as he has only recently moved here. Perfect. Ben found Mr. Muraru to be an absolute delight. While he was obviously very frail, his mind was still sharp, and he regaled Ben with numerous colorful stories about the old country and the adventures he had while in the full bloom of youth. Of particular interest were his war stories, and Ben was thrilled to know that their main course would be that of an intelligent, well-traveled man. He even looked unlike any of the previous victims. He was quite tall, although slightly hunched with age, and with a long, crooked nose and intense stare,

Ben fancied that in his youth Mararu would have been quite intimidating. His kind smile and obvious fragile frame, however, left Ben in no doubt that the kids would love him. They enjoyed eating those with character and a gentle disposition. He always enjoyed the meat more if it had a keen mind and was out of the ordinary, as the family religion, one which had managed to stay unseen yet influential, throughout the centuries, stated that the eating of another human being would transmit some of its strengths to those whom devoured it. As with many of those who can only look into the past

rather than into the future, Sergio Muraru enjoyed the company greatly and was touched when Ben invited him to sit at his family's Christmas table. The old man was extremely frail and required the assistance of both Ben and Camilla to help him in and out of Ben's car and then into the house. His emphysema was particularly bad that day, as each step was accompanied by the wheezing, fluid-filled sounds of struggling lungs. Each room of the cardinal home was draped in a multicolored selection of rather crass Christmas decorations, with numerous cards adorning every visible table and mantelpiece, showcasing just how, popular Ben and his family really were. The table was beautifully laid, with a red cotton cloth resting underneath an elegant cream dining set. The old man found that the rest of Ben's family

were just as pleasant and congenial as he was. Timmy and Camilla were kind and very well-behaved for their age, helping the frail old man to his chair carefully and then waiting on him, topping up his drink as their mother and father busied themselves in the kitchen. Finally, Lucy appeared carrying a huge centerpiece plate. It was unusually large, and as she sat it in the middle of the table, empty and devoid of food, old man Muraru caught a look on Lucy's face. It was brief, and he immediately attempted to disregard it as a product of his imagination, but it unsettled him deeply.

It was as if a private joke had passed between the eyes of Lucy and her children, a flicker of a grin, and not one of kindness or of Christmas spirit, but rather one resembling that of a conspiratorial bully, as if Serju was the unwitting recipient of some unwholesome prank waiting to be ridiculed. Just as the unease began to diminish, Ben appeared with a large, jagged carving-knife and a long two-pronged fork, which reminded Sergio more of a butcher's implement than that required to cut a decent-sized turkey, a turkey which became increasingly conspicuous by its absence. There they sat for over an hour, each member of the cardinal family replenishing the old man's drink with enthusiasm,

and showing concern for every and each cough or moment of uncomfortable breathing experienced by their guest. But it was a strange concern. There they sat, gleefully, asking Moraru questions, and then listening to the stories and answers which came about his life, where he had lived, how many battles he'd fought in. But the interest and concern seemed to be distant somehow. It was only skin deep. Each time their guest mentioned the old country,

those same conspiracy-laden glances were traded across the table, as if excited not by the content, of the stories, but rather by the simple fact that Muraru was a foreigner. The absence of not only food, but that of the mere mention of it, was unsettling enough, but what was more perplexing was that Ben repeatedly stole looks towards an antique clock which sat on a mantelpiece above the fire, looks which were poorly hidden and betrayed their purpose. He was counting down the minutes to some event. While the old man had no idea, what that event was, the certainty was apparent that it was not connected to anything cooking in the

kitchen oven. Mararu knew that there was simply no food being roasted, grilled, or even cooled on a window ledge nearby. Whatever was being planned, it was not going to involve him eating a Christmas meal. It was Camilla who stopped smiling first at his anecdotes and historical observations. She had ceased listening. No longer was she politely laughing at obvious jokes and the endearing sight of an old man repeating himself through forgetfulness. Camilla was simply staring, staring with those pinpoint cold, dark eyes as a snake before a strike. Timmy was next to abandon the act as he began to grin menacingly at Sergio and his hands gripped a small series. steak knife intensely. The most alarming thing was that the focus of Timmy's stare was not the old man's face, but his wrinkled neck. With one last glance at the clock, Ben ceased being the jovial,

attentive host and began to run his fingers along the huge carving knife in front of him with a mixture of anger and lust upon his face. Serju had seen many things in his time, but nothing as surprisingly strange and unnerving as this. Finally, when the clock began to chime, Lucy relinquished her false, endearing shell and exposed the cold-hearted and twisted personality which lay beneath. As the chimes slowly rang throughout the house, one by one echoing and lonely and piercing in their symbolism,

each of the cardinals rose up from their chairs, sharp, jagged knives in hand. and waited. The chime rang once, and they uttered an indecipherable phrase in unison. The chime rang twice, and they increased their cult-like chorus in ferocity and volume. The chime rang three times, and then they stopped. All was silent, the house devoid of sound, Christmas spirit, and of hope. The old man's wheezing grew in intensity, as the unisoned meekly bizarre sight of the twisted family about to dine, dawned upon Sergio. The family then quietly and efficiently walked around the dining table and stood motionless,

surrounding their guest. Just as the old man was about to inquire what was to become of him, the clock on the mantelpiece burst into life one final time. The chime was different from the others. It was sharper, somehow fowler, and echoed once and once only throughout the cardinal home. From behind, Lucy slit the old man's throat from ear to ear, as Ben thrust his carving knife deep into Serju's stomach. Both parents then removed their knives and stood back watching with pride as Camilla cut and stabbed repeatedly, while Timmy thrust his steak knife in and out of Mararu's legs, neck, and arm. After a few minutes, the frenzy diminished as both children grew tired, and with one last downward thrust, Timmy drove his steak knife so deeply into the

old man's hand that it skewered it completely, embedding itself into the table on which the hand rested. The children now ran to their parents' collective embrace. They hugged and rejoiced in what was a fantastic Christmas game, and now could look forward with delight to some succulent exotic meat. Arms wrapped around one another, they stared at their victim and began to laugh,

loudly commenting on the old fool's stories of times gone by, the war in the old country. As they turned to each other once more, the laughter diminished, and they looked into each other's rosy, blood-covered faces and shared a family. family moment. This had been one of Ben's favorite sacrifices. But the laughter had not completely

ceased. One person was still laughing loudly. Confusion turned to abject horror as the bizarre truth revealed itself. It was Mr. Muraru. Sitting covered in blood, his head tilted back and the deep cut in his throat wide open, the dinner guest laughed, loud and strong, a laugh which was both young and old. His head arched forward as he pulled Timmy's steak knife out of his hand, dropping it on the floor. Camilla screamed as Lucy hid behind Ben. What they thought to be a corpse now stared at them all, as they had stared at it with a singular purpose. Timmy began to pee himself and cry as two previously retracted fangs cracked through the old man's upper gum, revealing a serrated and terrifying grin. As he rose to his feet, Lucy fainted, and with both hunch and age now gone, the Cardinal's guest bloomed tall and dark before them, his eyes piercing, telling tales of countries and deep.

decades and of centuries of Sergio Muraru ate well that Charles Dickens isn't the only one who feels that ghosts can play an important part of Christmas You see

author Megan O'Hara Murray has shared a story with us about a family who spends part of their Christmas Eve sharing ghost stories around the campfire One story had a rather odd connection with one family member,

and it leads him on a hunt for his own ghost of Christmas past, so to speak. It's a story that begins with the recollection of the dead girl's Valentine. My family has a tradition that I've always liked. After dinner on Christmas Eve, we head out to my dad's backyard, fire pit. There's booze for the grown-ups, smores for the kids, and for some weird reason, ghost stories. Not really the most festive activity, I guess, but something about sitting around a fire always seems to trigger them. We did this last year, and I was having a great time, that is, until my cousin Ben decided to tell one. Ben's a science teacher. Ben's a science teacher,

at a local elementary school, and he started telling us about another teacher that died a few years before Ben joined the faculty. The kids were convinced that Miss Kay was benevolently haunting the place. They'd invented all kinds of typical kid mythology about her ghost, crediting her when they got lucky, requesting her assistance when they had trouble, leaving notes for her on the board in her old classroom. Just before Valentine's Day, all the kids at Ben's school decorated mailboxes in art class. Just shoeboxes, really, with a slot cut out to shove valentines and candy through. These were opened at the yearly party in the cafeteria, and the kids took them home with them afterwards. Pretty cute, until the first year after Miss Kay died, when the faculty, doing post-party cleanup,

found an extra unopened mailbox. Its only decoration was the word Jack written across the front, and after figuring out that it didn't belong to any of the students, the teachers opened it themselves. It was stuffed to the brim. No candy, but way more valentines than usual. Normally, kids only give valentines to others in their grade, but this box had over a hundred in it.

They were the same little kid valentines as the regular boxes, movie characters, Disney princesses, etc. The youngest children had simply filled in Jack on the recipient line and put Miss Kay as the sender, which was enough to creep the staff right the fuck out. But several of the older children had also included some, brief message. Miss Kay loves you forever was far and away the most common. The faculty tried to reassure each other that the children had just added a little soap opera drama to their developing legend.

A second round of grief counseling was ordered, along with mandatory class discussions about how ghosts weren't real. But the next year, there was another box. and there'd been one every year since. My name's Jack, so of course my family teased me during Ben's story. My little sister didn't, though. She chewed her lip, looking thoughtful, and when Ben finished, she asked what the teacher's real name had been.

Ben's answer froze my blood. In life, Miss Kay had been. been Mia Karasovic, a former friend of mine from years ago. We'd been practically inseparable, that is, until she'd revealed herself to be a manipulative psycho bitch with all the tenderness of a rabid honey badger. She'd left my heart in shreds, and I hadn't spoken to or seen her since. I'd moved away shortly after the bullshit with Mia, only coming back for Christmas and the occasional Thanksgiving, and somehow I'd managed to completely miss the news

that she died. Died and became the patron saint of first graders, apparently. I hadn't said a word since Ben started his story, but my siblings and parents remembered me a well, and the fire pit buzzed with their hushed speculation and excited theories. Forget salt in a little. Forget salt in a little bit. an old wound. This was salt with a lemon garnish and piranha chaser. I knew better than to try to drag my family off a subject they had their teeth sunk into. I muttered excuses and headed inside, grabbing my iPad and heading to the front porch for some quiet, a smoke, and a consultation with Dr. Google. Mia's obituary came up right away, and the photograph. made my heart lurch.

In her prim and proper teaching outfit, Mia looked more like snow white than ever, all doe eyes and deceptively sweet smile. She'd looked at me like that the day she told me about that guy, too. Wide-eyed as a toddler with its hand in the cookie jar, like she had no idea what I was pissed off about. Those were the kind of misty, water-colored memories I was chewing on when Ben found me. All those valentines are in a box in the teacher's lounge, he said, helping himself to a cigarette out of my pack.

All of them, from every year, I could get you the box if you wanted to see them. Aren't you a science teacher? Why are you on board with this ghost crap? I yanked the pack back towards me with a little too much force. It's not me, dude. For one thing, that lady was a tramp. There could be a dozen jacks. Ben recoiled from the venom in my tone, but I continued bitterness rising.

I knew it wasn't fair to take it out on Ben, but I... couldn't seem to stop myself. Not to mention that Jack is the most fake, least imaginative name those kids could have possibly picked. It's the ultimate kid's story name, isn't it? Jack Frost, Jack Horner, Jack and Jill, Jack Be Nimble, Jack and the Beanstalk. Ben sat quietly as I ranted on, his face blinking red and green from the garish display across the street. I finally paused long enough for him to get a word in edgewise, and he asked how much longer I'd be in town. When I told him my flight left the day after Christmas,

he suggested that we stopped by the school on Christmas evening. He had a key, and I could look through the box of Valentine's. I started in on a list of things I'd rather do that included root canals and colonoscopies, and that time he did cut me off. Look, I know you think it's bullshit, and if you're sure it isn't you, I believe you. But would you do it as a personal favor to me? I already sent out a mass text to the staff, and they're really excited about this. I'll be a hero next semester, and there's this insanely hot secretary in the office.

That's how Christmas evening, when I should have been lounging in my sweatpants watching my nephews bicker over Legos, I found myself dashing through the snow in Ben's junker old Corolla. Empty schools are creepy as hell. Without the crowd of bodies and backpacks, the metal lockers and tile amplify every footstep into a resounding echo. And in the half-lit shadows, even the holiday decorations seemed sinister. I screamed like a girl when we rounded a corner, and I collided with a paper-mache Santa Claus. I'm sure somewhere, some third graders were proud as hell of their creation. But damn, the uncanny valley didn't even cut it.

His bulging eyes bore tiny, furious pupils, and his mouth stretched in a grin of pure insanity. The horrible thing was made even worse by blood-red strobing lights, which I quickly realized were the fake flickering bulbs of an equally mutated menorah. Sorry, should have warned you. I guess it's too late to ask Santa for new pants, huh? Let's just fucking get this over with. I growled.

Like I said, the acoustics of the place were all distorted, and I whirled at the auditory illusion of small footsteps streaking past us. Probably a bird at a window or something, but I was counting the seconds until we got out of there. Ben ducked into the teacher's lounge, returning a few moments later with a large cardboard box and leading me down the hallway. He pushed open a classroom door and hit the switch. I'd thought having proper lights on would help, but somehow the harsh fluorescence just made everything seem more sinister. There were posters about fractions, a banner reading, math is fun,

Functional. Desks clustered in a circle. A whiteboard listed the homework as, Have a 100% wonderful holiday. See you next year. Ah, math teacher humor. Beneath the assignment, way down at the bottom of the board, someone had scrawled. Merry Christmas, Miss Kay, in small childish letters. This used to be her classroom, I asked, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer even before Ben nodded. He handed me the box of Valentine's, then said he'd be down the hall getting some grading done.

I nearly asked him not to leave me, but after his crack about pants from Santa, there was no way I was giving him more ammunition. Instead, I headed for the teacher's desk, setting the box down and taking a deep breath. The first Valentine I pulled from the box was a character from one of those freaky kids' shows, fuzzy and striped in shades of green with impossibly long arms. Even though I'd been told exactly what to expect, it still sent a chill down my spine to see my name scrawled next to that thing. After a few minutes I got more efficient, learning which cartoon characters went with each age group. The ones with Elmo, Dora, that green thing, and his freaky friends went in the not-bothering to read these pile. I picked up the stack of older kid valentines that were left, flipping through them like playing cards, scanning the brief messages.

My eyes narrowed as I read, leaning closer and closer. And I got that feeling, you know, the being-watched feeling. I looked up and called Ben's name, but he wasn't there. I heard a mouse-like squeak, but when I looked over, all I saw was the same old whiteboard, with its math-pun holiday homework and the small Merry Christmas jude. back beneath. I returned my attention to the Valentine in my hand. Kermit the frog this time.

Nice to see some appreciation for the classics. Then I froze. Hadn't that board said Merry Christmas Miss K before? I set Kermit aside, moving towards the whiteboard, trying my best to explain away the alarm spreading up my spine. My eyes had still been adjusting to the harsh, bright light when I'd looked the first time. Both things ended with a K. And the kids did usually leave messages for me.

No, damn it, not me. They're made-up fairy tale fictional Jack. I bent without thinking, picking up the red Expo marker that had fallen on the floor. The word Jack had been written in Rewski. red, and there were those dirty smudges all around it, the kind you get when you erase something on a whiteboard with your finger. My heart sped up. I was probably just spooked, but it really looked like Jack had been written in smoother, more adult handwriting. As I reached out to touch it, the overhead lights flickered and died. It's embarrassing to remember, but...

I freaked the fuck out, stumbling backwards until I hit one of the desks and sat down hard on top of it. I was so panicked, I'd imagined all kinds of stupid things. I struggled to adjust to an inverted world. The room had been hideously bright before, the window's dark, but now the snow-filtered moonlight provided the only illumination in a room consumed by... deep shadows. My eyes played tricks on me, producing an after image of a darkened, moving, feminine silhouette. My other senses heightened and distorted, picking up the faint scent of a live tree somewhere in the building and trying to convince me it was Mia's old clover perfume. I shivered against an imaginary chill. The hairs on the back of my neck prickly.

as they lied about a presence behind me. And then, the point at which I knew I'd managed to totally spook myself out. I heard a soft voice whisper my name. This is the really fucked up part. Instantly turned me on. I never actually hooked up with Mia. Never even kissed her. I'd come damned close once, though.

She'd sounded just like that when she'd whispered my name that night, full of longing and almost, almost like she was saying something holy. Almost like Jack was another word for amen. I'd never forgotten it. Believe me, I'd tried to forget. But I'd heard that soft whisper against my neck. in a thousand dreams. All those details came crashing back, sending a heated shutter through me that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. I could feel her beside me, touching me. And although I knew it was merely the onslaught of memory, I could have sworn I felt fingers

softly stroking my cheek. Despite the Dark, I closed my eyes and tears well beneath my eyelids. I hated her so fucking much. And yet, part of me had always missed her. Missed her deep down in my bones. Missed her like a part of me that had been ripped away and never replaced. Against my will, against every sane, part of my brain. I found myself leaning into that phantom caress.

Hey, Jack, you okay in there? I blinked at the break in my reverie. Ben stood in the doorway, using the screen of his phone as a flashlight. The light hit me in the face, and I winced away. A breaker must have tripped or something. I didn't even realize this section had gone dark until I came to check on you. At that moment, half hard and tear-stained, I was damned grateful for the darkness. Ben said he'd go check the electrical box, and a minute or two later, the lights snapped back on.

The whiteboard flared to a painful brightness before me, and I reflexively checked the corner, which still read, Merry Christmas Jack. Then I saw the homework assignment. The second line, See You Next Year, had been underlined three times

in a different color marker. I'm not sure how long I sat there, staring pale-faced at that board. I knew that hadn't been underlined before. Thank you one and all for listening. to our festive rites. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, I wish you and yours a healthy and happy holiday season,

and a very happy new year. Now, run along and enjoy the darkness of the winter now.