The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E14

Episode Date: May 24, 2015

It's episode 14 of Season 5. We have four tales this week featuring stories about utterly unwelcome beings from homes, prisons, forests, and schools. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales. Trigger Warnings "Strange Things" written by Paige Fane and read by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:03:45) "Super Max Dreams" written by Marcus Damanda and read by Mike DelGaudio & Jessica McEvoy & Jesse Cornett & David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:25:25) "The Donacrann" written by K. M. and read by Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:07:20) "An Incident at My School" written by Paul Bae and read by David Cummings & Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 01:42:35) Click here for the USA Today article Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin Click here to learn more about Paul Bae's new podcast Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings "The Donacrann" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2015. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Warning. This is a horror fiction podcast. Beware. It's intended for mature adults, not the faint of heart. Aware. Join us at your own risk. Close your eyes. Cales of horror to frighten and disturb as the sleepless hours tick past.

Brace yourself for the no-sleep podcast. Welcome to the No Sleep Podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have four tales this week, featuring stories about utterly unwelcome beings from homes, prisons, forests, and schools. I have some exciting news to share, if you haven't heard already. The podcast was featured in an article found on the USA Today website last Thursday.

journalist Matthew Jacobson gave us an amazing write-up which explains what it is we do and why it's worth listening to. Please check it out and share it with those people in your life who have yet to discover us. I can't thank Matthew enough for sharing us to such a wide audience. And if you happen to be listening to us for the first time because of seeing that article, well, welcome to our little nightmarish corner of the world. We hope you become a fan of our show. Let's hope we have many more people becoming no sleepers, joining us each week. I also want to thank the many, many people who saw the mention of the article on social media, and who left such kind and encouraging messages for us. It really means a lot to me and all the folks who share their talent with the show.

It's sometimes easy to lose sight of the big picture when caught in the world. the day-to-day struggle to produce our episodes, so all your love is like a breath of fresh air. I also want to thank the many people who have emailed me over the past few weeks, and even months, with messages of support and encouragement. As anyone who has emailed me recently knows, I am hopelessly behind in responding to all but the most important correspondence. Please know that even if I don't get back to you right away, I am. eternally grateful for your kind words. They really do make a difference and I thank you immensely for sharing your input with me. So to our listeners both new and long time, I say enough of my blathering

and let's start the show. In our first tale, we meet a young couple who are trying to enjoy their new home. It's an old place, but it's not without its charm, or it's, well, shall we say, visitors. As we learn from author Paige Fane, the couple soon realize that they are dealing with mysterious forces which seek to make their residents untenable. It's up to the couple to decide whether to flee or fight. Joining us again are the narrating team of Erica Sanderson and David Alt, as they perform the tale about what happens in that house, which are a serious, of strange things. It was just about 3am when I walked into the hallway

searching for my boyfriend. I found him standing there motionless, facing away from me with his hand against the wall. It's moving. I rubbed my eyes, a little confused but more tired than anything. What? The wall is moving.

I took a step towards him, watching as he began to trail his hand further down along the paint. He looked over at me. His face completely calm as he pressed his body against it, his ear now perpendicular to the wall. I took another step towards him and our bedroom door slammed shut. Let me start from the beginning. Sam and I purchased our house about three months ago. It was old and ugly, but with that came a cheap price tag. We bought it without a second thought, and we were happy until these things started happening. The first one being about a week after we'd moved in,

when I came home to find Sam standing in the kitchen, alone in the dark. What are you doing? I flipped the switch, the light snapping on and my boyfriend seeming to break from his trance. Turn him back off. Why? Finally, he looked at me. Just do it. Confused but tired, I did as he said.

I turned them off. We stood there in the darkness. It was a bit awkward. No matter what I said, he wouldn't respond. He just kept shushing me. So in turn, I grew quiet. That's when I noticed it a minute or two later. There was someone standing in the kitchen directly beside him.

I immediately led out a scream, flipping the lights back on and yelling for them to get the hell out. But they weren't there anymore. Just in empty space and my boyfriend turned towards me. You saw him too? He had a sort of sad look. Turn the lights back off. After that night I kept the lights on. Believe me, I tested it multiple times thinking that maybe we'd both seen something that night.

I thought somehow it was a trick with the moonlight from the window. But no matter what room I was in, it was there. I remember standing in my doorway once, flicking the hallway light on and off as I watched it just stand there, watching me with empty eyes. I'll admit, I started drinking a bit more after that, but even that didn't prepare me for what was to come. The next thing that happened was the knocking.

This time I was alone in the house. I had been sleeping, but a loud bang from downstairs was enough to stir me awake. It sounded like it was coming from outside, against the front door, and I briefly wondered if Sam have forgotten his key, I checked the time and realised he wasn't supposed to be home for another three hours. Maybe he came home sick from work. I went downstairs and stopped by the window, the one by the entrance, and moved the curtain aside. You guessed it, no one was there.

I wondered if I'd dreamt the sound. But then another loud bang coming from the bathroom door by the kitchen nearly made me fall over. I got out of there and ran upstairs, heading for my boyfriend's gun. However, halfway up the stairs is when I heard it again. This time sounding like it was coming from the stairs. I could feel it in my feet, almost like someone had taken a hammer to it and the whole floor was vibrating. I yelled grabbing the railing as the sound hit again, this time making the entirety of the stairs shake and shift and creak. I held tight to the railing, pulling my way up in fear that something was going to try and push me down.

I made it into the bedroom, nearly crying as I passed through the doorway, and the door slammed shut, catching my hand and making me scream in pain. It was only for a second, but from the force of the door and my hand being wedged between, I wondered if every one of my fingers had been broken. A trip to the doctor three hours later told me I was right. And then came tonight. 3 a.m., and my boyfriend is standing in the hallway, his hand against the wall. I was scared, shitless, noting that the life was turned off.

I later found out that it was because Sam had woken up. up to whispering and wanted to find out where that thing was. It was the wall that had stopped him. What do you mean it's moving? I ignored the door behind me, walking over to stand next to him and pressing my hand against the wall. He was right. It was a weird sort of sensation, almost like someone was throwing a ball back and forth against the wall. You could hear it. A sort of thump as the ball hit the wall, another thump as it bounced off the floor. And then a pause, before the thumping came again, almost as if someone caught it and threw it back. Is there anyone else here?

I was shaking, watching my boyfriend as he continued to listen. You know there isn't. He shook his head slowly, keeping his ear against it. The light has been off for about 20 minutes and I haven't seen that thing anymore. there. I wanted to cry as the thumping stopped altogether and I looked across the hallway, seeing a light switch a good 20 steps away. And then, like thunder, a hurried stomping began in the other room. Marcy, get the light now. Sam was at the door in a second, holding it tight as the stomping continued in the room behind it. I did not hesitate to literally run, sprinting to the end of

the hallway as a loud bang slammed against the door, Sam holding his weight against it while the handle began to move. I'm going, I'm going! I shouted before flipping the switch, the hallway bursting into light and any sound stopping completely. Sam was panting. I was panting, and we both thought the same thing. What the fuck is going on?

It was two days after the ball-throwing event that Sam and I had begun installing locks on all the doors. I was weary about the whole idea, but Sam was adamant about it, being safer, especially after the last few nights when we faced a new common occurrence. The doors in the house being opened and slammed shut over and over again at random intervals throughout the night. It was fucking terrifying, not to mention the lack of sleep both of us were getting. Do you really think this will help?

It was decided that we would each carry around a set of keys. We picked out three and that you had to lock each door after opening it. The number three was decided based upon the number of floors in the house. Each floor would have its own key with its own set of locks. You can't open a locked door without a key. Sam stated simply, slapping his hands together as he finished the last lock. And I need some fucking sleep. It helped for a little while.

It was a total of nine days where no incidents had occurred. We were both beginning to find things easier. I even started turning off the lights during the day in the rooms with windows. Then, while I was sleeping one night, Sam shook me awake. I was startled, looking at him as he shushed me, silently pointing at the door as he mouthed the words, Listen. I listened, growing more horrified with each second.

It started out low, like a growl, and then a burst of giggling as if there were children playing outside our door. occasionally there was scratching. It sounded like it was against the lower part of the door. A slow sort of scratching like someone was lightly dragging their nails across the wood. I was shaking at this point. Tears in my eyes as my own nails dug into my boyfriend. I don't remember being so terrified in my life until I noticed Sam staring at something.

He was sitting up, giving him a clearer view of the door than me who was still laying down. He was squinting, his jaw tensed and his eyes not blinking. What? I choked out, a rushed half-whisper digging my nails into him even more as I waited for an answer. He didn't respond. Then the tapping started. Something whispered behind the door and the tapping continued like nails tapping against the wood. It repeated, and this time I shot up seeing what my boyfriend had been watching the whole time. Under the door, slipped beneath the crack along the floor was a hand. It was a set of grotesque fingers with wrinkled grey skin and long nails tapping against the door over and over again, almost like it was trying to beckon us.

A quick giggle shot out from behind the door again and I was frozen. It wasn't until it tapped again that I snapped out of it. I grabbed the first thing I saw on our nightstand. It was a hairbrush and threw it as hard as I could. Get the fuck away! A small dent appeared in the door as the brush fell to the floor and the hand quickly retreated. Then the door handle started moving. The thing was still whispering, whatever the hell it was,

and this time it was my boyfriend who retaliated. He rushed the door, slamming against it as hard as he could. My guess was that he was hoping to scare it away. Please. It whispered again, obviously trying its best to imitate the voice of a small girl before it burst into giggling once more. Suddenly its voice seemed to boom, a loud bang coming from the door. Another bang.

And then it stopped. The giggling, the banging, the tapping, everything just stopped all at once. My boyfriend turned to look at me, the both of us just staring at each other as we listened. There was nothing but silence until the light bulbs smashed on our bedside table. Now at this point, both Sam and I were really fucking scared. It was immediately that we rushed to the bedside table, grabbing for the flashlight that we'd stored away. We weren't stupid. We'd considered something like this happening at one point, especially after the thing smashed my hand up.

Even so, even after waiting in the darkness for three hours, watching the windows while we waited for the sun to come up and clutching at each other in the flashlight until our knuckles turned white, even after all this not a single thing happened for the rest of that night. It was frightening and comforting at the same time. We were waiting for something to happen, and yet nothing ever came. Sam and I woke up in a days. It's a weird feeling to know that your house is haunted. We began considering our options. We searched the address online and contacted the realtor with no leads.

We started asking friends about crashing at their place, place for a while. After all, walking away from a house you just bought isn't the easiest thing to do. We remained in the house for the rest of the day until the sound started again. There was more banging, this time coming from upstairs and we both listened from the kitchen as the noise continued. We sat together quietly, staring at each other and glancing towards the stairs. The banging was moving throughout the upstairs hallway, slamming against the floorboards and against the bedroom doors. We need to get the fuck out of here, Marcy.

Sam was staring at me intently, almost glaring, annoyed as the sound continued. You think I don't know that? I let out a sigh, stepping away from the kitchen table. I moved towards the stairs. I wanted to get this ordeal over with. The lights were on, the sun was still up, and the banging was going on and on. I wondered what would happen when I reached the hallway, but Sam did nothing as I put my foot down on the first step.

I was going to resolve this, I thought. I was going to figure out what that sound was and deal with it myself. The sound slowed as I began my ascent and stopped entirely once I was halfway up. It was through the railing that I saw it. Between the posts, where you could see the second floor as you made your way up the stairs, I could see feet.

Someone was standing there, watching me silently, motionless as I looked at them. I didn't move. They looked like children's feet, like a little girl was standing there. Whatever it was, it began to giggle. I began shaking. Nancy, what's wrong? Sam was standing at the bottom of the stairs watching me. What's up there?

I could see the fear in his eyes. eyes. He was more scared than I was. I don't know. Something is here. I looked back over at the thing only to see it crouching now. Its head cocked to the side as it smiled at me. I led out a scream as I step back, losing my balance and tripping down a few steps. As soon as I caught myself, I looked back up at the railing, seeing nothing there. I wondered if I was going insane. Please, Nancy. I was laying in bed as I stared at the ceiling, holding my breath. Please, let me in, please. I was listening to Sam's voice as the door handle continued to rattle,

the lock holding it shut while I clutched the key. Please, please. There was a quick bang against the door. Fuck. Sam muttered next to me. His eyes shut while he held the flashlight. The thing was mimicking his voice. There was a slight scratching now, like the way a cat claws at a door until it opens.

I was shaking again. I could feel it that our time here was coming to an end. Both Sam and I were going crazy, locking ourselves in the bedroom as it seemed to be the only place it couldn't get to. Even so, it would continue to harass us, focusing on the door while it begged to be let inside. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if we did end up opening the door. But that doesn't matter anymore. Things had only gotten worse the longer we stayed in that house. We would wake up to the sounds of whispering and banging. We would dread the sun coming down.

We would hide in our room. Neither Sam or I would linger in the hallway anymore. If we did have to use it, we would only do so during the day and never by ourselves. We were both deathly afraid of what would happen if we let it catch us alone. The last time either one of us was on our own happened about two days. days ago. I was in the living room. Sam was in the kitchen while he made dinner. We'd locked the doors between the two rooms as we'd agreed previously and I was laying on the couch while I was staring out the window. There was something outside the house, moving between the trees

while I continued to watch. It was too dark to tell what was there, but I screamed when the light and the room went off. I felt like I could feel it, hear it, and I saw the thing standing in the corner watching me. It was whispering something as I ran to the door, fumbling through my keys while I screamed for Sam. I could hear the stomping as he ran to me, his own stead of keys shaking as we both rushed to open the door. After springing it open and pulling me from the room, Sam let me know that the thing had been standing right behind me. I started crying after that, begging to leave right there and then. He held me close as I cried, tearing up himself as he began to shake and agree with me. We were both so incredibly frightened, so exhausted, and we both agreed

to leave the very next morning. We stayed there that night, the both of us hiding in the bed while it stood outside the door, crying for me and Sam's voice. As soon as the sun rose, we began packing our things. We did not take much, but the more we took, the angrier the house seemed to get. There was a rushed whispering coming from all directions, a drowning sound that was rising and falling as we moved from room to room. It was begging us to stay, to come, to play, to please, please don't leave. On one occasion I reached for a vase, only to have it shatter in my hands, glass piercing my already smashed fingers.

Just leave it alone, Marcy. Sam was scared as he bandaged my hand, eyeing the room around us. Let's get what you need so we can get the fuck out of here. The doors upstairs began opening and slamming shut. We'd left them unlocked as we moved to leave. Neither of us said goodbye as we turned out of the driveway, not bothering to look back with the two boxes we now took in the back seat. Our friend John and his wife Michelle had agreed to let us stay with them for a while.

It was so strange to be out of that house, to move around freely without fear or worry. Michelle had gone out of her way to provide a beautiful, guest room for us, moving in lamps and leaving us a flashlight by the bed if we had any worries. I remember holding it close to me as I crawled into bed, laying down next to Sam. I don't want to go back. It was like relief was washing over me, seeing nothing as Sam turned the light off. We don't have to. I smiled, staring round the room as my paranoia kicked in. My eyes adjusted to see nothing there

and I listened as Sam began to snore This was going to be the first time in months where I went to bed without fearing what would happen I closed my eyes The exhaustion overtaking me I woke up to the sound of whispering When dealing with the most hardened criminals One of the goals can be to try to understand

What makes them commit their horrible crimes But as we hear from author Marcus Demanda, when one prisoner is visited by someone who wants to delve deep inside him, the prisoner has to decide how much to expose to his interviewer. Narrators Mike Delgado, Jessica McAvoy, and Chilling Tales for Dark Knights Jesse Cornett, read this tale for us as we venture inside the most secure of prisons. It's where we find out all about one's super max dreams.

Let me begin with this. I don't know if she's real or not. If she is, then the first time I saw her was today, and the next time I will see her will be tomorrow. If she's not real, then I have at last gone mad. It's difficult to be sure of anything in this place. I was much younger when I got here. I don't count the days, but it has been a long, long time since the transfer, a dark and empty corridor of years that seemed at first to stretch quietly past forever, and then later into some kind of echoing post-eternal hell.

She gave me this journal. For three days, I'm to write the truth as I perceive it. That's it. No other guidelines. Nothing to focus my thoughts. Be honest, she said. I'm an educated man. It has been surmised perhaps that I do not need direction. It may be that my very choices in the interpretation of this assignment will be telling in and of themselves. Who knows? Perhaps this Alice, if she does in fact exist, is a researcher of some kind. Perhaps a behaviorist or a psychologist who studies the slow, soul-pummeling effects a Supermax prison has on its.

inmates, all out of clinical interest. Maybe if I can just shoot for the moon here, she's from the ACLU, making a case that this particular form of incarceration meets the standards of cruel and unusual punishment. She cannot make me do this. They cannot make me do this. But I have a blank book, now, and a pen, and nothing better to do. To whoever may be reading this, I want you. to understand that I do not need your pity. I don't want it. It has never occurred to me once in all

of my living memory to give much of a shit about the thoughts or feelings of others, except in terms of how those sentiments might work for me or against me. Of course, the world is full of blowhards and approval hounds who say they do not care what others think. People do love to toss that claim around, that false celebration of self-worth. Fuck the masses as if it applies to them. It really does apply to me, though, and the rest of the sociopaths and killers that supposedly occupy the supermax with me. I've been told that this particular prison houses the very worst of us, terrorists, both

international and domestic, spies within agencies whose clandestine adventures led to the execution of their own colleagues, serial bombers, shoe bombers, underwear, bombers, and murderers, like me, who had escaped other prisons where the security was rather less complete. I've been told that some of my neighbors have murdered former cellmates, even prison guards. Celebrities all. The most famous rogue's gallery of living human filth. Each apprehended and tried in states that do not impose the death penalty. But I have not met any of them. I've not seen any of them.

For all I know, they do not exist at all. This is what I know. I know I live in an 8 by 10 foot room made out of concrete. The thin mattress of my bunk, too, lies upon an altar of poured concrete raised to feet off the grainy concrete floor. There is a grainy concrete shelf upon when, which I would store my possessions, especially books, if I had any. I've been promised books, even a radio, if I am especially good for a period of time.

But I've never gotten any. There is even a television, which they occasionally turn on by surprise, closed circuit, of course, and no controls for me to operate. They switch it on from a distance, from whatever little control center they invisibly occupy, and show me reruns of Little House on the Prairie, Taxi, Family Ties. There's the Bean's slot, sometimes also called by the guards a chuck hole for food. I don't think anyone has ever spit or pissed in my food. I think I would know if they had.

There is no clock. There is a window, though, high up on the far wall, four inches wide and four feet long. That looks out onto the empty sky. guy, so I do know if it is day or night. I know when it rains and when it snows. I'm in this room 23 hours of every day. During that time when prison staff wants to tell me or ask me something, I hear their voices via intercom behind a metal grate that simply cannot be loosened. There is a blinking red camera light in a ceiling corner encased in a steel cage I cannot reach. The shelf and the

bed you see a really part of the floor, all the same concrete entity, not exactly movable. I have my own shower. There is a sink and toilet unit. I also have toilet paper. Someone replaces the paper as necessary in the hour that I get to leave my apartment every afternoon after lunch. It is almost always the same two guards who come for me. Wrists and leg irons are required for transitions. They monitor my free time. They change. my sheets every week and so once every seven days I do not have to sleep in the dried crust of semen that accumulates as I remember the crimes that brought me here. The guards are named Gavin and Brent. They do not trust me. They are friendly enough so long as I do what I'm told,

but that's all. They have been well trained. I will never fool them or escape them. By the light of my cell window and from the depths of the empty concrete swimming pool they call an exercise chamber, it's impossible to know where in the prison I actually am. That, I am told, is deliberate. I spent hours every day fantasizing escape. But how is that possible when you don't even know where you are? But today, today I had a visit from Alice. At least I think I did. It seems so impossible. How long has it been since a woman stood before me? She could have been a mirage brought on by longing. The guards may have played along.

They may have thought it a kindness or a justifiable torment. They might have been bored. They proceeded her, of course, and made sure I was good and presentable, and they stayed in the room as she entered. They were silent during the interview, but they remained for the first. duration. Hello, Andy. May I come in? Her voice was like music. I could have cried just hearing it. That voice, a simple ring of female inflection, awakened something I thought I had forgotten.

Or even then her appearance, it was her voice that reminded me I was not dead. It aroused me, too, instantly, and I was actually grateful that my hands were cuffed to the waist chain at my lap, and that a table sat between us. I could not speak. She must have been in her mid-20s. She wore blue jeans and a pressed white cotton blouse. There was an intelligence there, and a soft arrogance that came with knowing she controlled the situation. She held a thin journal with a hard-back blue cover in her left hand. She was pretty, perfect. Her breasts were what my high school and college acquaintances

would have called a hand in a half. Her shirt was buttoned to the neck. Andy, you do remember your name, don't you? In that moment, I did. Andy Rafferty. But really, I had been one-nine-one for so long that I had not thought of myself as Andy for some time. Yes, I managed at last, remembering the earlier question.

Please, come in. She smiled warmly at me and entered. Good. She said, sitting down, setting the journal between us. That makes things easier. My name is Alice. I've come here representing certain interests that concern your case. Is that all right? That could mean almost anything, I thought. What I said was,

I wasn't exactly busy. Yeah, it's fine. How are you getting on? She seemed genuinely interested. Are you well? My answer was calm but reflexive. I could not stop it. I'm in hell every day. How are you? She sighed. It's Monday. I'm good for a Monday. I remembered feeling like that from time to time. Once upon a time.

Is it really? Monday, I mean. Moments passed. Andy, we're going to establish some ground rules, and I'll need you to obey them. If you don't, I'll have to leave. If you understand me, say nothing. Just listen.

I listened. There was a time when I would have never allowed anyone to talk to me like that, least of all a woman. But that time was now long gone. I didn't want her to leave. I wanted her to stay forever, even if it only meant eating her shit. First, only I ask the questions. At the end, if you've been good, I'll let you ask one of your own. Second, you have to be honest.

And that's it. Two rules. Can you handle that? Answer aloud, please. If I've been good, I thought. I'm supposed to get a radio for being good. The thing is, I never got to talk to anyone. Family and friends all had happily disowned me.

I didn't miss them as such, but one does long for a break in the monotony over time. I can handle that. Don't leave. Do you remember who you are? I'm Andy, like you said. Do you remember what you did? To get here, I mean. I nodded. Answer aloud, please.

It wasn't just one thing, but I remember, do you need me to go through it with you right now? She held up a reproving finger, and the reminder was clear without being spoken. She asked the questions, not me. Are you sorry for what you did? Remember, be honest. There was nothing to be gained by lying. No falsehood, no matter how convincing, would ever be. free me from this place and her reaction to the truth might even be interesting now I don't

give a fuck wish I had been more careful though she set the journal on the table thank you that's what I thought after I leave you'll be supplied with a pen I want you to write you may write whatever you wish so long as it is honest at least in your own mind. No fiction, no gibberish. We'll do this for three days. Do you understand? I shrugged. Yeah, sure. The cameras will see to it that you are neither hindered nor influenced by the guards. There will be no acts of retribution by them. This is your chance to be heard. Do you understand? The cameras ran all the time anyway. If you say so.

I'll be back tomorrow. If you have done as you've been told, we'll speak more. Please know that this is very important. Do you understand? I was still luxuriating merely in the sound of her impossibly young, impossibly female voice. I get it. Yeah. All right then.

Your turn for a question, Andy. I had one at the ready. When I spoke it, however, it came out as two. How long have I been here? How old am I? She looked me up and down. She only answered the second question. Old. She stood. Then, from the door.

51, I think. and left. Day two. Today, Alice asked me if I want to live. My door is solid steel. My walls are soundproof. I think I spend more than half my time asleep. I can't always tell the difference between my waking memory and my supermax dreams.

I jerk off three times a day and sometimes cry for no reason. And yet, I do want to live. It may seem strange, but I do. I had this trick I used to play in my head when I was little, when I was angry or upset or things just weren't going my way. My mother taught it to me. No matter how bad things were, I'd search my mind and find the things I was looking forward to,

summer vacation, the Little League baseball game on Thursday night or Saturday afternoon. My birthday. going into the woods looking for small animals, sneaking out and catching stray cats at night. The trick still works. I look forward to meals, the chin-up bar in my subterranean exercise chamber. The rare occasions when the voice on the intercom

ask me which of the shows I want to watch, even talking to Gavin and Brent as they fix my irons each day. Nice guys just doing their jobs. When they're in good human, they'll sometimes let me know who's in the pennant race or what's happening in the news, or on the odd occasion when it's only one of them, even what they do with their lady under the sheets. Long associations and long hours will bring that out in people. They don't trust me enough to be lax insecurity, very wise of them, but they can trust me with

their most personal secrets. I mean, who would I tell? They wouldn't answer any questions about Alice today. They said that whole business was between her and me alone. Also, they didn't ask to see the journal, just as she had said they wouldn't. Gavin took the pen back yesterday when I was done, and that was that. I have it back now, you see. When Alice came today, she was wearing a very smart-looking skirt and a red shirt. She must have had on contacts yesterday.

Today she had on a pair of very fashionable glasses. Hello, Andy. The guard stepped away from me to monitor the interview. May I come in? Absolutely. I remembered not to ask any questions. You look nice. Good of you to say so.

She answered coolly, sitting down. And how does Tuesday find you? Much the same as ever. I nodded to the journal between us. I did what you asked. Excellent. She didn't reach for the book. How did it feel?

Writing, I mean. I considered. Again, I saw no reason to lie. It felt great. I found myself fumbling words. It was the best thing about yesterday, except talking to you, I mean. I'm sure you understand.

There's just nothing to do, so the writing filled some time. It's a challenge, though, thinking of what to write. I haven't had many experiences of late. She spoke with a hint of warmness cutting through her clinical demeanor. Yes. I can only imagine, of course, but I see how that could be the case. But, Andy, think back to yesterday. You said you weren't sorry, that you weren't sorry for any of it.

I nodded, head down. That's the truth. Sometimes I even want to feel sorry. I just can't. I felt her eyes studying me and returned her gaze. I wasn't even properly ashamed. I'd been looking down only in an exercise of predicting what she might ask now. in calculating an appropriate reply.

But what would be appropriate? What did I want out of this? Only for it to go on, I realized, as long as possible. Perhaps I can offer a suggestion then for today's composition. Do I have to take it if I don't like it? I wondered, but did not say? No questions. Those are the rules. Go ahead.

If you can't find any remorse for your actions, why don't you try regret? Regret? You're a smart man. I believe you know the difference. Yes. I think you should try regret. I shrug. I can probably manage that, at least on paper. Be honest. Just a couple more questions. today and will be done. You'll get your own question at the end, too, just like yesterday.

Okay? Would you kill me right now, if you could? The question stunned me. I blinked at her. I shook my head, not in denial, but in sheer surprise. It isn't like you have anything to lose. Answer the question. And she waited.

Eventually, I said, I would, Alice. I like you, but I'd do it. You're so pretty, I thought. So far out of my league, I would so enjoy killing you. She smiled. That's what I thought.

You're very good at honesty, Andy. I looked at the guards, asked them with my eyes. Who the fuck is this chick anyway? They didn't favor me with an answer, neither then nor later. Do you want to live? Still, even now with your current situation? The question brought God to mind. I do not pray.

I don't know if there is a God to pray to or not, but the idea that there may not be a God is not the most frightening thing to me in the world. Quite the opposite. I am scared shitless that there may. may be one because I know what must be waiting for me after death if there is. Yes, I want to live very much. She stared at me still with that smile. Wonderful.

That's what I was hoping to hear. Your turn for a question, Andy. Originally, I had intended to ask why she was visiting me, what this whole thing was about. But it occurred to me just then that with the cooperation of the prison, with the full complicity of my transfer guards, that she must be a very small cog and a very large wheel. Someone big was behind this, some kind of national study, maybe behavioral science and the FBI. I settled on, who do you work for? She stood softly chuckling. Nobody here, Andy.

nobody in law enforcement or the DOJ. That's not an answer. I'm a teacher, just like you were. And she left. Regret. I do feel it all the time. When I was a boy, before I moved on from animals to people, I was a damn good baseball player.

Not good enough for the majors, but I could really put a serious hurt on that little white ball. I made Little League All-Stars every year, and I never even encountered any serious competition for shortstop until high school. I was a good student. Later, I was a good teacher. I was a fair to middling killer. I won't get into details, but there was a sadness to it,

even then, when my bat was no longer good enough, when I was no longer good enough, to take my game any further. But I never put that bat away, even when the paint started to peel off the aluminum and the stains became impossible to wash out. The bat was always the last thing after I was done with them. Some I simply disposed of right after zipping up and spinning on them. Need is neat.

Others, I kept alive for a time. One, I kept for five hours. I just couldn't get enough of her. I never harmed any of my students. I wasn't that dumb. I wasn't into kids either. I was convicted for three murders, suspected in 12. The actual number was seven. No one believes me, but it's true. My intended eighth got away. And really, I hadn't been very careful with my DNA, especially with that ritual spitting at the end. Stupid, stupid. I might as well not even have worn gloves.

So, yeah, I regret all that. It would have been better to live on the outside, all bottled up and smiling about it, than what eventually became of me. I should have controlled myself. Contrary to my testimony at court, I know I could have. My lawyer asked me if I had been abused as a child. He indicated to me it might be helpful if I had. Some juries and judges could be sympathetic, he said. And so I created this heartbreaking tale of how my father beat me, how he starved me so that I could make weight for the wrestling team.

How, when I was a teenager, he locked me in the closet for hours at a time when I wouldn't go to bed with him. I said my mother knew and did nothing about it. I told the world that I didn't know if she was fearful of being abused herself or if she just didn't care. I claimed she hardly knew anything most days, lost in a haze of alcoholic binging, bitter over having given up a career in nursing so that she could do as her husband wished and be a stay-at-home mother. None of it was true. They were good, loving parents.

As a child, I confused them, I think. But they did their best with me. So, yeah, anyway, it was all lies. There was counter testimony, especially for my little brothers and sister, but the seed had been planted. In this society, accusation, and assertion have power. Perception becomes reality in the world outside just as in this cell. Even though charges were never officially brought against them, and although I have no contact with the outside world anymore,

I'm sure their reputations were damaged. Fuck them. It didn't help in the end, but I don't regret that. It was worth a try. The other thing I regret, wholeheartedly and truly regret, was escaping my first prison home. When I think of what it had been like behind the pale bricks and wrought iron windows of the old Lorton Penitentiary,

I actually long for the place. The other inmates were animals, for the most part, tattooed and uneducated. But a strong young man, such as I once was, could make friends there. The guards at Lorton could be bought too, and I was better than average at acquiring resources. Not sure what I was thinking, leaving that behind. I suppose I thought I could remain on the proverbial lamb forever, but not very many ever pull that off, and I knew it. There's no special honor or pride in having escaped Lorton in the first place either. People did

that all the time before they finally took it down. If Gavin and Brent were to be able to be. and just pulling my leg about it being torn down. It's not like I have any way to know. But I regret leaving it. It was a dumb thing to do. I've been here ever since, and I think about how good I had it at Lorton every day. Day three, Alice did not ask if she could come in today.

She just did, and she did not sit down. Gavin and Brent stood me up. We faced each other across the table. I knew right away that today would be very, very different. They held me by the arms. It was raining outside, and Alice was still wearing her raincoat. She was back to contact lenses. Her hair was down.

So handy. Did you finish your homework last night? I did. I nodded at the table. You should read some of it. I did just as you said. said. I will. Not just now, though. Not until we're all done. You have one more day's writing to complete. I do appreciate how cooperative you've been to this point. It's been good. It's given

me perspective. Has it? I'm so glad to hear it. That's really what this has all been about, at least in part. No irony. no sarcasm, she seemed genuinely pleased, or less in the way a psychiatrist might. But she stepped to the side of the door. Listen, Andy, I'm going to go back to the car for a couple hours, drive around. Gavin and Brent have something you need to see. But when I come back, I was hoping to bring something with me.

I cocked an eyebrow at her, inviting her to continue. If you could have one thing to eat today, what would it be? This was interesting. Still, summoning cool, I said, Almost sounds like you're offering me a last meal. Our last meal. Answer the question. Was this a serious offer?

Would the prison really allow it? It seemed too much to hope for. Honestly, big. Mac and fries. Taste of my youth. She nodded, her satisfied smile blossoming into a full-on grin. That's easy. She spoke as the guards walked me past her. I shuffled in cuffs and leg irons out into the hall, through the electronic doors that opened with an exhalation and closed with an echoing click, leaving Alice behind. Where are you taking me? I asked Gavin and Brent. What am I supposed to see?

They laughed. The rest of your life, Andy, said Gavin. They took me to a place I had never seen before. Here I saw the owner of the voice over the intercom. I heard a mask into a microphone. If the prisoner in FL12 wanted to watch Cheers or Golden Girls, the electronic voice from the cell answered back. There were other cops around the cell monitoring.

station two coming and going none of them sparing me a glance in fact they were determinedly not looking at me nor at the video feed Gavin and Brent stood me in front of and told me to watch pay attention Brent said the video feed was in color full audio but not stereo the angle caught the whole room the digital ID line at the bottom of the screen identified a prisoner who had been here even longer than me. He was one of the reasons this place had been built. He murdered a prison guard, stabbed him to death sometime back in the 1980s. The prisoner in the video was chained, cuffs and leg irons identical to mine, but was otherwise

completely naked. I could hear him crying, sobbing, begging people for mercy that were not even there. There was a journal on a table in front of him. Hey, what exactly the fuck is this? Gavin and Brent's collective grip tightened. Just watch, asshole. This has been a long time coming. You have to see it.

We'll make you if we have to. Gavin nodded, just slightly. The rest of the control room ignored us completely. We may as well have never left myself from all you could. tell from them. I watched. On the monitor, I first saw a guard enter the room and retrieve the journal. Three people followed him inside, two men and a woman. The guard gave the woman the journal. They seemed to be middle-aged, somewhere in their 40s. The woman might have been a little younger. They were all dressed in simple undershirts and sweatpants.

Who were they? And could not help but wonder. and why is there a woman in a cell staring at a naked male prisoner? A second guard entered a room, even as the first forced the crying inmate off his bed and onto his knees, and belly flat on the concrete floor near the plastic table, which the cop now kicked away. Gavin spoke, his voice even and grim, dispassionate, as though this drill were somehow old hat to him. Family of the victim. The second guard handed knives to the visitors, one each. Even through the video feed, the knives shimmered greedily.

The man on the floor started screaming. I wanted to scream too, but I couldn't. I could only watch. Brent was talking again. I listened even as the knives descended upon the prisoner in FL12. There comes a time long after the visit. The hesitations have ended, and the world loses interest. The family came one at a time.

First came the man who seemed the eldest of the three. Three times he struck with his knife, shoulders, ribs, buttocks. And when the world stops asking after people like you, it's enough to know that you're here, that you won't hurt anyone ever again. But knives do not rend flesh like butter, as the second the woman. discovered when she took her turn. They slide and they slip. Off the back of the prisoner's neck,

this particular knife slashed, leaving a blood-filling gash, but not actually severing anything that would finish him. And when that happens, when we're sure it's happened, but we can bring closure to cases like his, like yours. There again, too,

a striking knife may encounter bone and jerk in unexpected ways. The final family member discovered this, trying to make a clean puncture through the spine, which is just notoriously stubborn. You killed Alice's mother. After raping and torturing her for hours in the woods, you left her body out in the open for animals to eat.

It is not easy, stabbing to death, another human being. It takes effort and time, physical investment. And of course, either the most utmost clinical detachment or a white-hot hatred so fierce most would never even be able to comprehend it. She was eight years old when you did it. You goddamn monster. Fucking self-centered thunder, cunt bastard.

In the end, the elder brother held the dying man by the hair. me in his back, while two younger siblings slashed his throat at once. Media interviews usually turn up someone willing to bring closure. Brent added conversationally, even as I stood there processing what I had just seen and as I came to understand what awaited me in my own cell. You can tell them by what they say to the press. Most are perfectly happy to know you're in here wasting away. But then there's always that one.

Thank God. Even now, as the video feed showed the victim's family departing and the guards returning to clean up, the entire monitoring station continued on with its daily routine, oblivious to the murder within their very walls, and to my presence, which I now made known, as Gavin and Brent dragged me out of there, back to my cell for preparation.

Let me go, please! But it was right. It was perfect. I should have said I was sorry. The guards told me right while I waited. And so I have. She was gone for hours, just as she'd said. I started writing this entry this day three in hopes that by being a good little boy, a repentant little boy, Alice might show me some mercy. I was hoping that by finding regret, by trying for some remorse, course, well, hell, maybe that was all she needed. She's a better person than me. She might not need to kill me to feel that justice had been done. She might not want killing on her conscience. I know better now. She was as good as her word. She didn't say anything at first and actually thought I wouldn't get my last meal when she laid in front of me the empty Big Mac wrapper and the empty red fries box with the yellow M on the front, but no fries inside. I thought she had eaten

my last meal, and that I had to admit would have been very clever of her. She was still wearing the raincoat. She never took it off. When she pulled the old blood-stained aluminum baseball bat out from under it and showed it to me, I did myself what I had promised I wouldn't do. I cried, just as the prisoner I'd seen on the video had cried. She set the bat against the wall. I'm going to give you an hour for your last meal, Andy. She said, reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a Ziploc bag.

A bag filled with... With... Oh my God, she really did it. Gavin laughed. Oh! Good for you, Alice. Big Mac and fries. She said, putting the bag of shit in front of me and opening it.

Slightly used. Had to wait a bit to get it back. Naked, I looked at the bag. I felt the need to throw up. I might yet. Eat it, motherfucker. And I'll see you in an hour. It's occurred to me.

Alice, knowing now that you are my only audience, that no one else will ever see this journal you have commissioned for me. The irony of your insult. Motherfucker. Was it intentional? Because I suppose, in the end, that's all I am to you. The one who fucked and killed your mother when you were eight. I've thought, too, about the possibility that you might actually let me live if I did, in fact. eat my last meal, but I seriously doubt it.

I'm not touching that. I have an eternity ahead of me for such torments, I imagine. I do hope that you are more skilled with that baseball bat than those other three were with their knives. And so at last I finished this for you, Alice, only you, knowing this will be your keepsake. I expect you will read it over and over again. and revel in the memory of what you have done once you've done it. I ask you, are you happy now, reading this? Is this really what you needed?

The door is opening. It's... Our episode has come to an end. Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep Podcast. 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 1999. This is David Cummings. Thank you for listening, and join us again next week for the next week for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.