The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E07

Episode Date: August 24, 2014

It's episode 7 of Season 4. We have five tales for you in this episode featuring dark and gritty stories which all revolve around the rough and rancorous revelation of revenge. Prepare yourself for payback. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales.  Trigger Warnings "The Cheater" written by Kaitlyn Grenier and read by Corinne Sanders. Music by Brandon Boone. (Story starts at 00:03:35) "I Kept a Souvenir" written by H. K. Reyes and read by Jessica McEvoy & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:13:05) "Drains in the Floor" written by M.J. Pack and read by David Cummings & Rima Chaddha Mycynek. (Story starts at 00:40:30) "Never Ride Between the Train Cars" written by D.B. Aaronson and read by Sammy Raynor. Music by Brandon Boone & Max Pfeiffer. (Story starts at 00:58:50) "American White Hair" written by Marcus Damanda and read by David Cummings & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:19:30) Click here to learn more about H. K. Reyes Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Follow Marcus Damanda on Twitter Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings, unless otherwise noted The NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design. This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The sunlight fades to dark. The freight freight. To give into your fear, there will be the no-sleep pot. Getting away with something is like a hide, knowing you are outwitting another person. The power of knowing you can take a life. Bloody bits of skin and tissue that had once been part of it. Now gathering maggots in a trash camp somewhere. I brought holy water, crucifixes, sage, and, just for good measure, a small loaded handgun.

That meant that falling asleep would risk humbling and gleaming two-foot diameter steel wheels in the middle of the night. Inspiration rode the wings of a short story by Edgar Allan Poe called The Cask of Amontiado. It's episode seven of season four. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have five tales for you in this episode, featuring dark and gritty stories which all revolve around the rough and rancorous revels. of revenge. Prepare yourself for payback because this one will get under your skin. I want to bookend this episode with a mention of author Marcus Demanda. You may recall we recently had a contest where people could win a free copy of Marcus' new audiobook, The Forever Show, narrated by our very own Jessica McAvoy. All 25 winners have been sent their prize, so we congratulate

them and thank everyone who entered. This episode's final tale is a story by Marcus, featuring a role by Jessica, entitled American White Hair. Make sure you check out the show notes for links to learn more about Marcus and his very accomplished writing. I want to welcome a new narrator to the show, along with welcoming back one of our original narrators from Season 1. Rima Chathamisenik shares her voice acting skills with.

us from her background in radio and journalism. It's great having her with us and we welcome her in to our show. Returning to the show is a voice you'll remember from the epic Pen Pal series of stories back around Halloween of 2011. Sammy Rainer joins us again, so we extend a warm welcome back to him. So, dear listener, it's about retribution. Whether you're seeking vengeance or perhaps being sought out for your own evil deeds, it's time for people to get what's coming to them. In our first tale, we meet a happily married woman with a loving husband. But as author Caitlin Grenier explains, there are secrets hidden therein, secrets that clash with explosive force when found out. Narrator Corinne Sanders reads the tale for us about what happens when they

Discover the cheater. When I was younger, I was in a perfect relationship. I know everyone thinks theirs is best, but we really had something. Sam and I had been together for about ten years before we even got engaged. He was my high school sweetheart, and after some on and off stuff through college, we finally hit our stride. We were committed to each other. We owned a home, had joint bank accounts, and we're simply missing the ring and the piece

of paper. After some family tragedy on Sam's end, he decided to propose. Life is short after all. Our wedding planning went smoothly and quickly. We were engaged in the spring and married by fall. What made our relationship so wonderful was our trust and the fact that our lives didn't completely revolve around each other. He had his friends and I had mine and we could all hang out together or separately without issue. He traveled often for work, so we didn't spend every second together. Sometimes I cooked and sometimes Sam cooked, and we never kept score. He was my partner.

Neither of us were crazy about children either. It wasn't an absolute no on the kid's front, but we always knew we weren't going to be younger parents. There were so many places to see and things to do that we knew having kids would change our life plans. After we got married, our lives stayed the same. Like I said, we were basically married before, only now it was official. I loved my husband and I loved my life. I have been without him for almost two years. I keep thinking I should be moving past it and getting on with my life, but I think of Sam often. When I see a movie with an actor that he loved, driving by our favorite

pizza place, watching the TV show that we only watched together, using the expensive all-clad cookware he made us by because it would last forever. Our one-year anniversary was coming up, and my blissful life was still just that. I left work early one Friday to drive to the jeweler who was engraving my gift for Sam, a pocket watch, one that he had been wanting for years. It was perfect, and I knew he would love it. As I was a little, as I was a little bit. As I was a walking out of the store, which was in a somewhat upscale neighborhood, I spotted my adorable hubby walking into a restaurant. It wasn't uncommon as Sam worked pretty close and often closed deals over lunch at swanky places. A beautiful woman followed after him, and I noticed his hand grazed

the small of her back as he opened the restaurant door for her. I trust my husband. This was a work meeting. I repeated these sentiments in my head and I was 99% sure I believed them. When Sam got home that night, I asked him about his day. He didn't mention his late lunch, so I asked. We had a wonderfully honest relationship, so I asked without sounding accusatory, but simply curious. It was the first time I ever saw Sam seem defensive. Red Flag. Over the the next hour he came clean. A fair. My perfect relationship was not so perfect.

Suddenly, every adorable moment, every spontaneous date night, every gift seemed dirty and wrong. He was trying to atone for his sins. My husband was an asshole. This was not a caught-up-in-the-moment thing. He told me he had been having affairs for years. He told me he loved me. Our divorce happened as quickly as our marriage. I didn't want anything from him anyway.

I moved on, sort of. A year ago, I ran into Sam at a bar. It was happy hour and I was sitting on a stool, sipping my dirty martini. I could feel eyes on me and then I heard a whisper in my ear. It was Sam and he called me the name that seemed so cute before. or scrunchy. It was an inside joke of ours, obviously.

He apologized for his behavior, and we talked for a bit. Despite our somewhat messy breakup, we still knew how to talk to each other in a normal way. It felt nice. It took me hours before I noticed the ring, and he certainly didn't mention it. Of course. Time to go home. He walked me out in his hand on the small. of my back sent shivers up my spine.

We walked to my car and I couldn't help but think how good he looked. The man knew how to wear a suit. He kissed me on the cheek and I gave him my best sultry look, which admittedly is not my strong suit. I didn't care anymore. I was doing it. It only took five minutes to get back to my house and Sam followed in his black BMW. My mind was racing, but I knew it.

wanted it, that feeling, the touch. It had been months and all I could think about was getting my hands on him. We got into the house and he couldn't keep his hands off of me. It was so easy. I could play him like a fiddle. It went in easy that first one. I know he never saw it coming because when the knife went in, his eyes had the obvious look of surprise that didn't leave. Oh, the second and third felt amazing. I watched the life drain from his face, but I just kept going. Again, again, again, again. 23 times.

When I was done, I couldn't even tell that it was Sam. His beautifully chuzzled face was now swollen and covered in blood. His eyes frozen with the look of surprise. lifeless surprise. His crisp white dress shirt strewn on the floor and drenched in red liquid. I gently placed the woost off knife in the sink and went upstairs to shower. I cleaned the kitchen like a pro. Spotless.

Sam's body was in the garage on a few layers of tarpaul I cleaned. He was easy to move to the garage, but I still made him into smaller pieces for ease of movement. I dumped the parts and drove his beamer back to the parking lot. I walked home. It was easy. I won't tell you where he is for obvious reasons, but it's been a year and I was never found out. Sam was a cheater. I am a killer.

We all have sins that we must live with. I still think of him. I miss the relationship we had. It wasn't perfect. We both ignored the things we did not want to see, preoccupied with our own lives. Getting away with something is like a high. Knowing you are outwitting another person, the power of knowing you can take a life. I stabbed Sam 23 times.

I watched him die after the third. The last 20 were simply my way of keeping track. There is no pattern. There is no profile. Fear comes from the unknown, the random. At the time, Sam was not my ex-husband. He was not the cheater. He was simply the next number who happened to be at the right place at the right time.

Sam was just 23, so this is my confession to you all. One day I will pay for my sins and I will stand before a judge, but until then, I will be waiting and watching for number 29. The pain of childhood trauma is recalled in this tale. A trauma inflicted upon the innocent, caught between two men warring over money. Author H.K. Reyes shares this dark tale about the depths to which one man sinks in order to extort another, at the expense of a young girl. Narrators Jessica McAvoy and I will read the story for you as we find. find out what the girl means when she says, I kept a souvenir.

The sky was clear and sapphire blue that day. The summer grass sent ribbons of sweet smell on the breeze. I was riding my bicycle down, tree-shaded sidewalks, past mass-produced two stories and cul-de-sac clusters. I had just run down the hill that overlooked our neighborhood, a valley of upper-middle-class suburban sprawl that had newly spread from the bloated north side of town. The neighborhood was a coil of fresh black pavement, dead ends sewn together by Elysius Street, the one real road that took you in, then right the fuck back out.

From above, the whole thing looked like a giant caterpillar lying dead in the sun. I peddled my little purple bike with sun-bleached flower stickers from one end of the neighborhood to the other, feeling the pink handlebar streamers tickle my wrists as they flapped in the breeze. A past a row of houses that belonged to five families, the well-to-do stars of county business and politics whom the locals spoke of with appropriate awe and resentment. Mine was house number three. My iPod rested in the handlebar basket, pumping cheesy beetle songs into my earbuds. You never give me your money. You only give me your funny paper.

I remember what song was playing that day. I remember everything. One. Kidnapping. Excuse me, sweet pee. I need your help. I squeezed the brake and slowed to a halt. Parked in front of a construction yard for new homes was a dented black sedan with hazard lights blinking.

A man smiled at me from the driver's seat, sunglasses reflecting pinpoints of sun into my eyes. I had never seen him before, but new face. were moving in all the time, and his fresh skin and sculpted hair seemed right at home in our little moneyed enclave, even if his car looked like something our maid Letitia would drive. I hopped off my bike and walked it over to him. His smile broadened. I was just on my way home from work, and, like an idiot, forgot to get gas and ran out. Can you believe it? Half a block from home. If you could help me push the car up to the car up.

the road to the house, I would really appreciate it. Which house? The red one, right up there. He pointed to a handsome brick house on the next block with a for-sale sign in the yard. Just sign the papers this week. He said with a grin. I looked at him, nervously tonguing my wobbly front tooth. An aging fear crawled through me, whispering something about strangers with strange

requests. But this man didn't seem like someone to fear. When my dad would walk me through city streets, he would only tighten his grip on my hand in the presence of men with shabby clothes and dark skin. This was the kind of man my dad would have over for drinks and excited discussions of numbers. Okay, I said. Good girl. The man smiled. He tucked his sunglasses into the chest pocket of his lavender polo and stepped out of the car. I leaned my bike on his kickstand near the curb. The man reached over and ran his fingers through the streamers. Such a pretty bike. Did your daddy buy this for you? Yeah, for my birthday. Oh, wonderful. I'll bet he buys you lots of nice things, doesn't he?

I guess so. Of course he does. You know, your son. You know, your son. So lucky to have the parents you do. Parents who can feed you and clothe you and buy you so many nice things. Lots of kids don't have that kind of luxury, you know. Lots of kids have to grow up struggling. Okay. He snickered to himself as though thinking of a private joke. Such a lucky, lucky girl. Here. He said as he clicked a button on his key fob. I'll open the trunk. It'll be easier to push that way. The trunk popped open, and before I knew it I felt strong hands gripped me by the neck and pushed me inside. The skin on my cheekbone burned as I scraped against the rough carpeting, and my shoulders bumped metal as my legs were fitted up and thrown in.

I flipped over, squatting and kicking at the hands that grabbed me, trying to get breath enough to scream. The wasp sting of a hypodermic needle pierced my thigh. I suddenly felt heavy and dull. The whole world was turning blue and fading away, and my limbs were limp and numb. My head lulled to the side, and I saw the fluttering streamers of my bicycle for a moment before the trunk shut, and I sank into darkness. Two. Torture I am a dangerous man, and trust me when I say your daughter's life, Depends on you making a series of smart business decisions.

I woke in darkness, throbbing bruises, sending echoes of pain through my body. I shifted around and tried to move. Stinging binds of wire dog into my ankles and kept my feet in place. I was tied to a metal chair, my wrist restrained behind my back with handcuffs. The seat of the chair seemed to have a hole cut into it, the edges of which were jagged and cutting into it. to me. I leaned forward in the chair and tried to move it, but felt resistance tug against the back. It was chained to the wall. My eyes adjusted and I saw a little pinhole of light.

I was wearing a blindfold, I realized, and a tiny tear in the cloth allowed me to use a fragment of my peripheral vision. The room was tiny, barren concrete, no windows that I could see, light coming from a single bare bulb overhead. A table sat at a fairer. A table sat at a few. few feet in front of me with a dusty black toolbox on top. Beyond the table was a plain wooden door. I could hear a man's voice on the other side, passing from left to right and back again as he paced in the next room. When he passed close to the door, I could hear snippets of his words.

Fucking right, I'm crazy. And if there's one thing you'd better respect, it's a crazy man's trigger finger. You'd better be prepared to move fast and get the thing. My spine seized in a shiver and I looked down. I had been stripped completely naked. The door burst open and the man came in. My body froze and tried to collapse into itself, but I was secured too tightly to move. He stood by my side and pressed a phone into my ear.

I heard my own shaking breath in the earpiece. Sweetheart. A voice said. Is that you? Dad, I cried. An explosion of pain as a fist struck my jaw. Hot blood erupted in my mouth and burst from my lips, running down my chin and a slick foam.

A hand grabbed my face and pulled my mouth back. Smile, sweet pea. Smile for daddy. Tell him how good a time we're having. So much better than your rich kid's summer camps. He reached his fingers into my mouth, pinched the wobbly front tooth and twisted it out. A bolt of pain arced from my mouth to the back of my skull, and I screamed. I could hear my dad's voice, frantic and small from the tiny speaker.

The man held the phone to his ear. 1.5 million in the account by noon tomorrow. After that, the price goes up, and you'll get less of your daughter in return. As a businessman, I'm sure you'll appreciate the value of a speedy investment. With my dad still yelling on the other end, he hung up. He leaned his face and close to mine, and I could taste the sting of his cologne as I sucked sobs of air. My bladder gave out, and I emptied through the hole in the seat, splattering my ankles with droplets of waste. He's snicker.

You're going to make me alive. How to money, sweet pea. I'm so happy we came into each other's lives like this. He left and shut the door behind him. Three. Bloodshed. I struggled. I tried to rip my hands from the cuffs, pulling at them until capillaries burst and spines

of pain exploded in my fingertips. I jerked my legs, sinking the wire deep into the skin around my ankles, trying to saw my feet off a millimeter at a time. Again and again, I tip the chair forward. forward, trying to break the chain from the wall, banging my spine against the metal backing and feeling sharp tingles jolt down my leg. Fear rolled over me in waves until I broke, sobbing and screaming and begging for help. When I did, I heard footsteps stomp down stairs and stopped just outside the door. I went silent, strangling all but the tiniest whimper,

and waited until the footsteps left. I must have worked myself to exhaustion, because Because the next thing I remember is waking up to the sounds of angry shouts outside the door. More time? You want more time? Papa money bags, you just got asked a million dollar question, and boy, did you ever give the wrong answer. The door exploded open and banged against the wall inside the room. I started screaming for help, screaming for protection, screaming for my dad, the police, God, someone.

The man held the phone in front of my face, and flux of red spits battered on the plastic as I screamed. He brought it back to his ear. Listen to her. She's so scared. Aren't you scared, sweet pee? She wants her daddy to come rescue her. She wants him to quit stalling for time

and pay the fucking money. already. Do you understand how serious this is, money bags? Because she does, she understands the kind of danger she's in right now. She understands what's about to happen to her. He stepped in close and ran his iron-hard fingers through the strands of my hair. Bile burned in my throat as my stomach seized and disgust. Such a pretty girl. You sure did good with that 20-year-old you married, big guy. Top-nutch genetic material, that? Did you ever stop to think that she was your daughter's age

the first time you drove some mom and pop outfit out of business? No, you don't think about things like that. Consume but never reflect is the capitalist's motto. He walked to the table and flip. opened the toolbox. Metal clanged on metal as he rummaged through the contents, and through the pinhole I saw the sharp black metal of old wire cutters in his hand, rust caked on the tip like ancient blood. He knelt down at my feet in the abyss below where the pinhole allowed me to see. I squeezed my feet to fists, but he pried back my big toe

and set it in the mouth of the cutter. His heavy hand rested on the front of the cutter. His heavy hand rested on flesh of my thigh. Be brave, sweet pee. It'll only hurt for a second. Like getting your shots at the doctor. Maybe this will help your daddy love you a little more. The metal pinched harder and harder. White pained screaming up my leg as flesh tore open and rusty metal sawed at the bone.

It screeched like an animal. My face hot and slick, snotty tears spattering and cool. in my lap. I felt a wet snap reverberated my calf, and the man stood up. I saw a pink nub of flesh between a sticky red fingers, like a scrap of trash from a butcher's table. He brought it to his mouth and kissed it. My crimson nail polish shining under the naked light. He spoke into the phone. One little piggy to the market. He said as he knelt back down. Nine more left to go Four

Hours passed in a fog of shock Like a hypothermic body shutting down the limbs To protect the core My brain had numbed in my senses To preserve what was left in my sanity I remember my head being forced back And water pouring down my throat My belly swelling like a cold balloon

I remember shouts from the other room Listen to me you son of a bitch Moneybags I'm talking two million. Don't push me because I'm trigger-happy. Water's going to be chopped to messes. Most of all, I remember thinking about the knobs of flesh he had held up under the light, bloody bits of skin and tissue that had once been part of my body,

and were now gathering maggots in a trash can somewhere. My dad had taken me waterfowl hunting the month before, and when I had cried over the shredded, twitching mess of a shot duck, He had held me by the shoulders and told me. No, it's just meat, honey. Everything is made of meat. In that moment, I could feel the meat in my body. The pulsating lumps of wet sinew knit together by a filmy tendon

and the soft membrane of my skin. Just meat. An anguish drawer shocked me back into reality. The door smashed open and the man threw the toolbox against the wall over my hand. It broke open, and heavy steel reigned onto the floor of the chamber, pinging like warm movie bullets. Through the pinhole, I caught a glimpse of his face, purple and bulging, his neck vein taut and looking ready to burst. I've given you enough time. What the fuck are you waiting for? Give me my fucking money now. I've earned it. You think you can fucking stonewall me?

You think the cops are going to track me down? Oh, you think I won't really do it? He reached behind his back and pulled a handgun from his waistband. He jammed the barrel against my forehead, the cold metal trembling and warming against my skin. I should do it right now. I should pull the trigger, scoop up her brains in a Cuban cigar box,

and mail you some every Christmas, you fucking parasite! I could feel the bullet waiting in the chamber, ready to explode and spill my meat out the back of my skull. I could feel it waiting patiently for the signal to wipe my mind clean and set me free. He set the gun onto the table. You have one hour! He said to the phone. He stomped out of the room and up the stairs.

I heard an engine roar, then the squeal of tires fading into the distance. I relaxed into the silence. Only an hour I thought, and it will all be over. I scanned the room through the pinhole, soaking up the cloudy gray of cracked concrete and trying to enjoy the last room I'd ever see. The toolbox contents were scattered like dull metal toys, and I looked at each piece. Hammer, screwdrivers, tape measure, nails. key ring.

I blinked. Barely a foot away from me they sat on the concrete, glinting yellow and silver. Most were time-worn house keys, but one was tiny in chrome, a shining stub small enough to fit a pair of handcuffs. My whole body instinctively tried to leap for them, only to awaken raw pain in my wrists and ankles. I writhed and pulled, searching for some kind of weak point in my binds. my chrome savior calling to me and drowning out my screaming nerves. Rists went nowhere, ankles went nowhere. I tipped forward, stopped by the chain again and again and again.

I froze. It was tiny, almost imperceptible, but I was leaning forward a fraction of a centimeter further. Behind me, a faint crackle of concrete dust crumbled onto the floor. I tipped forward again, throwing a little bit of concrete dust. much of my tiny body into the momentum as I could. Whatever was securing the chain to the wall was coming loose in a powder of weakened concrete. Fractions of freedom coming with every movement.

I flung myself into a crazed abandoned, sweating, muscles tight, teeth clenched and squeezing red foam. So close. So close. Maybe one last push. The chain ripped free and I tumbled face first to the ground. My teeth cracked on the claw end of a hammer and a wet vibration ring in my head as my nose broke open on the cold floor. I tip the chair onto its side, feeling splinters of bone shift through the torn flesh of my nose. I looked at the sticky red stain where my face had landed and started to laugh.

I stopped when I heard it. Car engine purring up the driveway, stopping, going dead. A car door opening and shutting. The chirp of a remote lock. I tip the chair again onto my back. I felt around for the keys, half-crushed fingers blindly scraping the floor, hoping I had landed in the right place.

My heart jumped as I found them, and my hand scrambled through the mess of metal to find the one I needed. I heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Heavy footsteps on the floor above. There, the crowing. one. My finger scraped at the keyhole, trying to hold still enough to stick it in. Floor boards creaking down the stairs. Key in, turning, hands coming loose. Mind screaming,

please, God, please. I tipped over the side and pushed myself upright. Footsteps approaching the door. I ripped off the blindfold, light flaring in my cloudy vision. I twisted and turned my battered body, scooting the chair toward the table, eyes fixed on the gun. I leaned forward, palms on the table, gun just beyond my fingertips, squeaking moan of the door opening. I snatched the gun and pointed it at him. He froze. He was holding a bundle of blue plastic tarp under one arm, and it crinkled as it shifted with the movement of his breath. We stared at each other, silent, save for the crackle of plastic and the jittery tremble of shaking gunmetal. He smiled.

I knew there was more to you than just rich girl frailty. You're not just some weak trust-fund baby after all. You're a fighter, a survivor. You're like me. He laid the tarp onto the ground and held his hands out in front of him. Your daddy's going to pay the money. I'm sure of it. Look, no one wants you to get hurt.

This was all just theatrics for the sake of the transaction. Boiler room bargaining with high stakes. It wasn't anything personal. He began to shuffle his feet toward me, glancing from my face to the gun. Come on, come on, just hand that over to me so you don't hurt yourself. you'll be back home before bedtime. I stared at him, hands trembling and vision going fuzzy from held breath. In my mind's eye, I saw a messy clump of twitching feathers leaking fluid into marshy grass,

I said. What was that, sweet pea? All you are is meat. I squeezed the trigger. An explosive bang shocked my heart. recoil sending the gun flying back to gash my forehead. I sat in the ringing days, shaking my head in order to clear the double vision. I looked down.

The man was laying in the doorway, wet noises gurgling from deep in his chest. I scooted over to him, tipped the chair onto my hands and knees and leaned over his body. He laid on his side, gritty chunks of pink and bone oozing from where the bullet had erupted through his spine. His fingers clenched in rigid talons. His face was a mask of confusion and agony as his brain sent messages to limbs that would not obey. I ran my hand through his hair and picked up a pair of pliers that laid on the cold concrete. I stuck them into his gaping, fish-like mouth and closed them around the gleaming enamel of his front tooth.

Guess what, sweet peat. I'm happy we came into each other's lives, too. The tooth splintered and cracked as I twisted it loose, and his feeble moan soothed my racing heart. Oh, I was going to pay. Dad assured me. Really, I was, but I needed to keep it quiet. We're closing the big deal in China this week.

Remember our trip to Shanghai with Mr. Lee? It could have jeopardized the whole operation if the news got wind of this. So I just needed a little time to get the money sent quietly in a way that wouldn't attract attention. You understand, don't you? Of course you do. You're my brave little fighter. How about a big bowl of ice cream? I went to doctors, lots of them.

Surgery to patch at my face, physical therapist to smooth out the injuries, psychiatrists to fix the rest. Years of hypnotherapy to support the cover-up. I was at camp all summer, they told me to say, and fell while riding a horse. A rough time, but gosh, was it fun. I repeated it over and over, meditated on false memories until they became almost real. A vivid film reel I could call on whenever the lie was needed. So, so close to being real. But every now and then, my dad will glance at me over the glow of his laptop, and he knows I remember.

I remember because I kept something. Something I carried out of that house in a clenched fist. Something I keep in a little plastic bag under the soft pad of my mattress. I'll peel the bag open it. night and roll the white enamel between my fingers, calmed by the creamy texture that glows pale in the moonlight. I'll put it in my mouth and suck on it, remembering the taste of warm copper and the chewy bits of flesh that clung to the root. The memory of meat, soothing me and lulling me to sleep. Your episode has come to an end. Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep

If you would like to learn how you can hear the full-length version of this episode, featuring many more stories, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com and click on the season pass link. Purchasing a season pass will help support everyone who contributes to the podcast, and in return you'll get 25 full-length episodes and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 19, This is David Cummings. Thank you for listening and join us again for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.