The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S5E19a - Gone

Episode Date: July 4, 2015

We're off this week but don't want to leave you empty-handed...or with empty ears. To show you our undying love we present the tale, "The Spider of My Love" by John Contad. We'll be back with S5E20 next week. "The Spider of My Love" written by John Contad and read by David Cummings. Click here to learn more about John Contad Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2015. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi folks. We don't have a new episode this week, I'm afraid. Episode 20 of Season 5 will be released next weekend. But rather than leave your ears in peace, I have cobbled together the gears and levers and pulleys to craft an audio adaptation of a story from author John Contad. It's a fitting piece of melancholia which should pull and... prod in all the right places. So until next week, I leave you with the spider of my love. It is for you, my girl. For in my attic lies a machine so complicated and absurd, with its whirring wheels and grating gears, Pulling needles and threads cruel, like the spider of my love. The first week after you were gone, I visited a tailor.

A young man called Devesh, who worked alongside a barber along cork and Clifford Street. He had charcoal hair and a starched white shirt that shone like the sunlight. I walked towards him in my funeral grays and told him, I need a dress for her. The tailor stared at me with his mouth agape, And then he shook his head. He laid his razors by the counter, where cut hair lay in a sad pile by the corner. And then he reached towards me and placed his palms on my shoulders.

I'm so sorry, Carl. I'm so sorry for what happened with her. my head in a furious anger, trying not to remember everything that had happened. I was there to get a dress for you. I need a dress. You know her size. You know what she would like. He shook his head and moved closer, aiming to give me a hug. the same way everyone else has.

I stepped back and pulled wards of money out of my pockets, emptied them on his gnarled palms. One, two, three, four hundred pounds in fresh crisp. I need a dress. He stood stunned, his eyes fixed like a hungry wolf in front of all that money. What would you like it to look like? I paused and thought, but I knew the answer all along. Be one with flowers like the ones she always wore.

Make it one with posies and gold. The second week after you were gone, I visited a wig maker. She was an older woman called Elizabeth, who worked in a small shop by New Burlington and Saville Row. She had golden hair, streaked with a small shop. with a small sliver of red and a kind smile of someone who had seen too much for the same clothes I always had. I didn't care what people thought of me. No longer. I need hair for her. For my love, She looked at me in stunned silence as she stared me up and down. I couldn't figure out why.

It must be how I looked. She gingerly shuffled to the side behind her counter as if she wanted to protect herself. We provide a comprehensive selection of wigs for our class. She whispered meekly, Can I help you, sir? I stared at her and said, I need hair, just like this. I handed her your photograph,

gnawed and gnarled on the sides where my fingers squeezed too much, where my thumbs have all but blurred it out. She snatched it from my hand with a cautious jerk, and I struggled to let go. But I did, and she looked at it with the careful precision of a professional, and then she smiled and said, She has lovely black hair. Oh, I love this streak of blonde by the side. I do too. I said, and I coughed to get the painful lump out of my throat.

You make hair just like this, exactly like this? She nodded and smiled. Her face suddenly kind It would be good if she came in So we can fit her When is your Partner When is your partner

Available to visit She said with a light chuckle She can't She's dead On the third week after you were gone, I visited a man on the streets. He was a young man called Blake, who hung around the back alleys of Covent Garden and didn't have a home. He wore a blue hat with his blue shirt, wore a gray set of fingerless gloves over his yellow. yellow stained knuckles. I was still wearing the same clothes I always had. I walked towards

him and he stared at me warily. I'm Carl, I'm told you could help me. I said as I said as I held out my hand to be shaken. He stared at my hand. He stared at my palms wearily and then he backed off like a terrified little rabbit in the face of a horror you you're not well old man you look all sorts of fucked up I was told you could help me give me the fucking cash first and so I did in the same wards that Devesh and Elizabeth had. His eyes glistened at the sight like a spark had been lit beneath his skull. He snatched the money from my hand greedily, hungrily, and then he looked at me and hissed. The fuck you want from the mortuary anyway. I was

I was told you could help me. He shook his head and pulled a cigarette out of his trouser pockets. His face suddenly bathed by the jaundiced flame of lighters in the... Listen, I'll unlock the doors and you do whatever the fuck you want. I don't want to fucking know, okay? You look like a sick... Fucked in front of him and grabbed him by his collar and smashed his frail little back against the wall I was told

That you could help me Are you going to help me Way suddenly with a glare that wanted to kill He nodded angry I'll fucking help you. The truck's out the back. We'll do your job. I'll drop you off.

And we're done. And then we got you. A fourth week after you were gone. I spent my week in the attic. With my hammer and tongs, with my mill and my ore. I burned hours, burning my bow. body in front of the makeshift blacksmith furnace in our home. It's done.

I can't believe it so, but a part of me knew all along. Because this machinery, as complex and absurd as it is, is machinery that does not come out of nowhere. It takes blood, sweat, and fire. It takes pain. The middle of the machine is your gray now and bloodless, but it's still you. With the flowery dress that I had the tailor make for you. The jet black wig.

with the bright blonde streaks like I ask the woman to. You're not smiling like you used to, and your eyes are now milky and dead. But it's still you, the lovely, lovely you. And so I put on the song you always liked. I pull on the lever, the machine words, and the contraption comes to life, and the attic is filled with the clinking and clacking of gears and belts and pistons. A bundle of ropes runs taut and they start yanking on the ten. parts of your body, your wrists, your neck, your spine, and your legs.

And just like that, I feel the tears well in my eyes, as your lifeless figure stands up. I pull on another lever. The head of your corpse Tilts to the side My puppet My girl It's like you're alive again My lips spread in a wide

Toothy grin As I feel the salt of my tears Leap through the sides of my mouth I'm sobbing I'm crying Because you're alive again You're alive again My love

My fingers dance and blitz Through my levers Each one creaking and crying out But those are details Because suddenly Your body is moving like it used to You're dancing. You're dancing again.

Your dead body glides in pirouettes, a slow arabesque, as I press the sequence that makes you twirl and spin like a flowery top. Your gray arms and empty veins. stretch out as if in an embrace. Your milky, dead eyes, and your puffy blue lips ask me to hold you, to dance with you, much like we used to. I step forward, taking my hands off the levers. I leave your bow.

leave your body in position with your arms stretched forward towards me like you're asking me for a hug stepping sobbing from joy as I put my hands

around your cold back and I embrace you like I'll never never let go. And I whisper at your rotting ears that I never, ever will. This is for you, my girl, the spider of my love.