The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S6E10

Episode Date: November 29, 2015

It's episode 10 of Season 6. On this week's show we have six tales about the maniacal manipulation of victims by phantasmagorical fiends. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales. "Greetings, Janet" written by Keith McDuffee and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:04:00) "Collecting Clocks" written by Michael Blake and read by Mike DelGaudio & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts at 00:15:30) "The Medicine Was Black" written by Michael Marks and read by Peter Lewis & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:33:45) "They Told Me to Stay Out of the Basement" written by Michael Orzechowski and read by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:04:00) "I Give Children Nightmares" written by Jackson Laughlin and read by Jesse Cornett & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:15:45) "My Husband Saw Something Terrible" written by N. Luca and read by Nikolle Doolin & David Cummings. (Story starts at 01:40:15) Click here for the NoSleep Podcast Store  Click here to learn more about Keith McDuffee  Click here to learn more about Michael Blake  Click here to learn more about Michael Marks  Click here to learn more about Michael Orzechowski  Click here to learn more about Jackson Laughlin  Click here to learn more about N. Luca  Click here to learn more about Mike DelGaudio  Click here to learn more about Corinne Sanders  Click here to learn more about Peter Lewis  Click here to learn more about Jessica McEvoy  Click here to learn more about David Ault  Click here to learn more about Erika Sanderson  Click here to learn more about Jesse Cornett  Click here to learn more about Nikolle Doolin  Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: Brandon Boone & David Cummings. "I Give Children Nightmares" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath Audio program ©2015 - Creative Reason Media - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

This is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories, you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment. You do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about the maniacal miniaturals.

manipulation of victims by phantasmagorical fiends. You know, it always amazes me to realize that we have listeners from around the world. There are plenty from my home and native land of Canada. We have those of you from the United Kingdom, our friends from Down Under in Australia, and a large contingent from Svieden. And I'm always surprised to see the stats which indicate that the country with the sixth most listeners to our show are from the United Arab Emirates of all places. So I offer my warm greetings to our friends in the UAE. But of course, the country which makes up a whopping 75% of our audience is from a little place just to the south of me.

I believe it's known as, let me see here, oh yes, the United States. States of America. And since our American friends are wrapping up their Thanksgiving holiday weekend, let me offer my thanks to all of you for being such friendly and supportive listeners. I hope our American cousins are stuffed to the gills with your turkey and potatoes and all manner of sweet treats and delectable comestibles. And the other tradition y'all have at this time of the year are those sails in which you can consume copious amounts of products at ridiculously low prices.

I know, I know everyone is sick of hearing about Black Friday this and Cyber Monday that. We hear it so much that our senses become dulled to it. So I'm certainly not going to mention that the No Sleep Podcast Store has lots of cool stuff right now, which it does, including all of our clothing, wall art, including the great new movie style poster for the fantastic, Soft white damn story, done by friend of the show Josh Rolf. And I won't bore you with the fact that you can now buy No Sleep Podcast phone cases for all the latest, greatest phones out there. No, no, not going to dwell on that.

If you want to find out about that, you'll have to check the show notes for a link to our store. And before we begin, I want to take a moment to share a bit about me and my humble upbringing. I know many of you want to know more about me and what makes me to settle in while I tell you about... Oh, will this moron ever stop his infernal noise? I will not wait a moment longer since my message is rather time sensitive. I know you're listening, my dear, so please pay attention to what you're hearing while you attempt to multitask and check your email. Greetings, Janet.

I trust you are well. Oh, please, before you so quickly press the two-spam button, let me assure you that I'm addressing you directly, Janet Anderson of 12 Oak Ridge Lane, Shauna C, Massachusetts. You are 42. years old, have a cat named rascal, and have just spilled tea on yourself. Go ahead and clean up. I'll wait. In the meantime, if your name happens to be Janet Anderson, and you do not fit the rest of the description I just mentioned, please do accept my apologies if any of what follows is disturbing to you.

This does not concern or affect you or anyone else who may hear this. Choose to continue eavesdropping at your own discretion. Welcome back, Janet. You know, you really shouldn't be drinking green tea so late at night. That sort of thing is going to keep you awake to all hours. Well, perhaps not tonight. Welcome back again. You do need to focus, dear, or this really is going to take much longer to get through than either of us once.

Let me start with why I am communicating with you. You recall, I'm sure, your old manager, Mr. George Dalrymple. I'm quite sure you do. He passed away quite suddenly last spring. The poor intolerable man suffered from a very unexpected case of heart failure, alone at his home on the Cape. And to think the young lad was only 34. It was quite a shock to the entire office, I'm sure. In the end, though, not such a shock to Mr. Dalrymple, nor to you.

You, Janet. Please do try to stop leaving your computer, Janet. I'd rather not have to force you to stay. As I was saying, your old boss has been gone now for almost a year. Likely no one no longer cares. I care, Janet. I care because lack of payment for my services rent. makes me, let's just say, emotional.

I'll cut right to the chase, Janet. Last spring, you sought out help from someone. You used an encrypted anonymous Tor network to access a website where you placed an advertisement for a service. That service was to rid the planet of Mr. George Dalrymple in a method that would appear to others as natural causes for the full sum of 10,000. I answered that ad. I performed those services. I was not paid. As I do not believe you possess the funds necessary to fill your end of our agreement. Consider this. notice your payment.

Oh, now, Janet, why did you have to go and do that? Did you think shutting the lid of your laptop was going to make this all go away? Now I have no choice but to make you stay. Go ahead and try to turn away. You see now that it's futile? You cannot stop. Stop experiencing my message. Not anymore. You have to stay and we'll see this through. Yes, I'll give you a chance to wipe your tears and clean your glasses.

Janet, I have what you might call a curse. Some might call it a gift, but it's really a curse. It's a curse that's contagious in a way. I don't mean that I pass my curse to others, though that would be terribly irresponsible. No, this is a different kind of curse I pass on. To be sure, it's no gift. It's sort of like that manga called Death Note, or maybe that book and movie, The Never-ending Story.

Only those are silly and completely fictional, and I have to work at this a bit more to get just right. You are reading and hearing now your fate. Bear with me now, as I have to provide as many details with as much flair as possible in order for this to work correctly. The slight shuffling you hear behind you now is a man entering your home. He is large, bearded, and smells of garbage. He does not know why he chose here or now to rob someone, but he has no choice.

He doesn't expect anyone to be in the apartment. You sit perfectly still at your desk in the dark, focused intently on your laptop screen. Tears continue to blur your vision as you try desperately to tear yourself away from reading the rest of this letter. Ah, but you still hear my voice, don't you, in that small earbud? You're wondering now why you wished your boss to die so badly that it would end like this? Was he really so wrong to think you shouldn't be? promoted? Sure, you were angry. Did he have to die for it? You weren't exactly an exemplary employee, spending so much time reading trashy websites and checking personal email instead of

working. Just like now. The smell of garbage is stronger now, joined by the definite odor of gin-soaked breath. Ah, aboard creaked just outside your bedroom door. As the man is startled to see he was wrong in thinking he was alone. He's reaching into his pocket now where he'd placed the flathead screw driver he used to pry your window open. He can't believe how still you are. Why isn't she reacting, he's thinking. But he has no choice. He must act now. Remain still. He's rushing up behind you, grasping the top of your head with one hand, while sinking the screwdriver into the base of your neck with the other. He tried to angle his stab upward into your brain so you die quickly and quietly, painlessly.

But he's drunk and he's clumsy. Feel the screwdriver turning just behind your tongue, the blood pouring through the hole and down your throat. Something's making a scraping sound, the metal of the screwdriver against bits of broken skull. Yet you keep reading, Because you have to. The man removed.

You've never experienced such pain before in your life. Don't worry, though. It's not over yet. You're trying to gasp for breath, but it won't come. Your limbs are beginning to twitch violently, convulse. You're fading now. your sight growing dim. You're straining to read what comes next,

but my voice is still clear, isn't it? The man is once more driving the screwdriver higher into your head. This time, it connects now. I'm a trip to the hospital, and that's why to this day, I can't eat, raisins. So enough about me. Let's give our thanks right now by starting the show. In our first tale,

um, wait, um, I thought we had a story from author Keith McDuffey. Oh, um, this is embarrassing. I know Keith wrote a great story for us, but I can't seem to find it. Okay, well, let's move on to our next story. Many of us enjoy the hobby of collecting things. Items like stamps and teddy bears are popular, but as we hear from author Michael Blake, one man has to deal with the remnants of his father's collecting hobby. But it's not the whole collection of timepieces which are vexing him, just one in particular which is driving him quite mad.

Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, and Corinne Sanders. So don't get all wound up about this one because what could go wrong when you're collecting clocks? My dad loved clocks. Not just clocks, anything that kept time was fair game,

but his house was filled with clocks. Big old grandfather clocks, tiny little cuckoo clocks, even some shiny metal art pieces with the clock faces jutting out at odd-e angles. The pride of his collection was an antique German wall clock made in the 1870s. It had been his grandfathers, bought off a pair of Russian soldiers during World War II. My dad used to tell me that it hung on the wall of Heinrich Himmler himself during the war. When dad died, my mom couldn't

deal with the hassle of cleaning out all his stuff and putting it into boxes, so it fell to me. Per my father's will, most of his collection was sold off at auction, and the money was put in a nest egg to keep my mom comfortable after he was gone. Hundreds of watches, clocks, and a few antique chronometers, everything was sold off piecemeal. Everything except for that old German clock. That, he left to me, and his will insisted that I keep it in my possession. I never much cared for clocks.

The ticking in dad's office used to drive me insane. By the time I was a teenager, I refused to so much as wear a watch. The only clocks in my house for my entire adult life have been on my phone and computer. I tried to talk mom into keeping the old thing. I told her I didn't feel right taking it when it was all she had left of dad's collection. It didn't work. She insisted that it had been passed down for my great-grandfather, and I should pass it on to my son.

I couldn't just tell her that I hated the thing, so I brought it home and set it up in an unused bedroom, and I kept telling myself I was going to convert into an office. The first night, I could hear it through the walls. Tick, two rooms down, and it was still burrowing its way into my skull and filling my dreams with a sense of urgency and panic. The ticking of a clock always made me feel like time was really, running out, as if I could sense the end of my life closing in on me.

It doesn't make for a restful night. In the morning, I moved it into the garage, alongside childhood trophies and the sweater my grandmother sent me for Christmas, and I headed for work. My head ached, my eyes burned for the entire day. I figured I was coming down with something. I ended up knocking off two hours early and just heading home. A little sleep would make. everything feel better. The sound of the old German clock greeted me as I walked through the

front door. While I was out, someone had set it up on the counter. At least I assumed someone must have, even though I live alone except for a great orange cat that I rescued from a shelter three years ago. Schrodinger stood on the counter staring at the clock like he was waiting for it to attack, but I was pretty sure he hadn't been the one to move the clock in from the garage. My alarm system keeps a log of every time the code is entered, and I checked to see if my mom had dropped by unannounced. No one had been in since I said it that morning. Could I have done it? I've never been a morning person.

One time I managed to put my sunglasses in the freezer instead of an ice tray, and I didn't notice it until I went to make dinner. That was when I did something stupid, something I've come to regret over the last few days. I shrugged it off. The clock went back to its spot in the spare room. The noise followed me throughout the house as I went about my nightly routine. I fell asleep to the sounds of that ticking clock and dreamt of screaming and the crunch of bones being ground between a giant clock's ancient brass gears. A nightmare I don't think I've had since I was a kid.

When I woke up, the clock seemed impossibly loud. and my mouth felt like I had spent the night sucking on cotton balls. I was in a foul mood as I got out of bed. I put down Schrodinger's breakfast, and I took that clock out to the trash on the curb. The ticking clock didn't miss a beat as I crammed it into the half-full black trash can, and there was no question in my mind

that it ticked louder than it had the day before. I glanced around my quiet street hoping the neighbors didn't hear it. I came home from work that night to find the clock waiting for me on my kitchen counter. Schrodinger's food sat on the floor next to the sink untouched. The alarm showed nothing. No one had been in or out the entire day. I wanted to scream.

I wanted to run. I didn't do either. Instead, I called for my cat, that giant ball of fluff who had kept me company from the moment I moved. into my own place. I screamed until my throat was hoarse, checked under the bed, and in Schrodinger's favorite hiding spot underneath the sink. Finally, after I checked everywhere I could think of, I gave up. The old clock ticked away the whole time, like the laughter of a mad clockwork man mocking my search. My hand shook as I snatched up that old clock and tucked it under one arm. Three summers ago, I built a fire pit behind my house, a place where I could roast hot dogs and drink a cold beer.

It hasn't seen half as much use as I'd like, but it was the perfect place to do away with the damnable clock. I poured half a can of gasoline on the damn thing before lighting it up. Oh, the flames leapt into the air, nearly reached the trees 30 feet above my head. The well-oiled wood crackled and sparked as the edges curled and split. I watched until long after the sunset, nothing was left but ash. Before I went to bed that night, I searched the house for Schrodinger again, even though part of me knew I wouldn't find him. He never left a speck of food in his bowl,

not even on the rare occasion where I accidentally fed him twice. If he was in the house, his bowl would be clean. I gave up close to midnight and crawled into bed exhausted. And a little heart sick. Tick. I woke up just before dawn with the sound of the clock banging in my ears. It was coming from the kitchen. I couldn't bear to face it.

I lay in bed listening to the loud tick of that old German clock for hours, praying it was all a terrible dream, unable to get back to sleep. When my alarm went off, I called in and told my boss that I was coming down with the flu. The way I'd been the past two days, he didn't seem surprised to hear it. It was the sound of the front door opening that finally forced me out of bed. Janine, the young woman who worked for the cleaning service I had come in once a week, was surprised to see me home. We'd only met twice before.

The first time when I hired the service, then once when the office had been shut down last winter, due to some burst pipes. After we had exchanged a few pleasantries, she said, That's new. What? My voice and mind was still groggy at the shower. Sorry, the clock. Right.

I forced my eyes towards the old, charming clock. The clock I only then realized I had hoped was just a symptom of a psychotic break. Janine had ripped that delusion away by acknowledging the damn thing. It sat on the counter where I knew it would be. If a clock were capable of it, I'll be in my room. Just lock up when you leave. I retreated to my room before Janine could respond and stayed there until well into the afternoon. Janine never stopped by to let me know she was going. That night, I moved the clock back to its new home in the spare room. It ticked madly. The metal pendulum safe behind the unbroken glass that I had watched crack and blacken in a fire.

Holding it in my hands, I swear. I felt a pulsing warmth beneath the wood, like a black heart pumping warm blood through the mechanical guts of the old timepiece. The weekend came, and I was grateful that no one would want to see me until Monday. My nights were filled with dreams of death, destruction, and of an ancient forest wreathed in fog, where thin, wasted branches grabbed at me and thorny vines seemed to leap forward of their own accord. I was starting to hear the wind blowing through the forest's ancient gnarled trees,

even when I was awake. The tick, tick, tick of the clock sounded more like a mad, rhythmic pulse with every passing hour. Sunday morning, the police knocked on my door, pulling me out of a hazy nightmare where a ticking forest tried to strangle me with smooth, polished vines. Two plainclothes detectives stood at the door, and I invited them in wordlessly. My eyes were watering, and I was dressed in pajamas that hadn't been changed since Thursday night. The clock ticked on from the kitchen, the spot it had chosen for itself. The first thing the detectives did was ask if I was okay. I'm fine, just a bit under the weather.

Can I help you with something? I was not feeling fine at all. Yeah, we're checking into a missing person. Janine Blakely? According to her employer, she never showed up after her rounds on Friday. Your house was on her schedule the day she went missing. I could practically feel that. the color draining from my face as the detective spoke.

I collapsed into a nearby chair, the legs scraping against the floor as I went. The detectives watched me with a wary eye, their hands fidgeting, dangerously close to the guns at their waist. Missing? Janine is missing? Sir, did you see Mrs. Blakely the day she went missing? Yes, yes, I was at home, not feeling well. She came by at her usual time. What time was that?

Around ten. The last time she reported in was just before she got here then. Did you see anything suspicious? Notice anyone following her? No. We barely spoke. I stayed in the bedroom while she cleaned up out here. I didn't see anything.

Sir, do you mind if we have a look around? The way he said it was more of a demand than a request. request. I had a feeling that refusing him wouldn't buy me much time anyway. Sure? Go right ahead. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing at my temples. Three days of constant ticking and erratic nightmare-filled sleep had brought on a migraine. The detectives searched the house while I sat by, answering the occasional question as it came. One of the detectives came back a small black object in his hands. His eyes focused on me.

Sir, do you have a cat? Sitting up, I stared at the detectives find, a small black collar with a red clover-shaped tag on it. I knew the name that was engraved there. Remembered the day I'd bought on this color and how much he hated it. Till he finally accepted it with the same mild disinterest he showed everything I forced on him. I did. Where did you find that?

Oh, sorry. It was on the floor in the kitchen. You said Mrs. Blakely was here on the day she disappeared. She did her rounds and left? Was it typical for her to leave things like this lying on the floor? I can't say. Like I said, I was sick. I didn't leave my room the entire day.

I see. His partner returned from searching the garage. They conferred at a distance while I sat there, holding that small black collar, ran my fingers over the engraving, Schrodinger, and stared into space as they spoke in whispers. In the end, the detectives left with a promise that they'd be in touch. I could have told them that looking for Janine was pointless, that they'd never find a trace of her, but what would have been the point?

I'd be arrested as a suspect and eventually let go and they couldn't find a trace of evidence to convict. And clock would tick away. Unable to sleep and desperate for a little peace and quiet for the first time in days, I headed out. My little suburban neighborhood lets out into a rustic 50-style downtown area. Single main street lined with rows of locally owned shops. Half the shops are closed now, but not too many years ago, it was a place where weekenders would come down to Peru's antiques and enjoy homemade ice cream on hot summer days. It was the easy-going charm of that street that convinced me to buy my house.

Walking down those streets and seeing the normalcy of it, I could almost forget what waited for me at home. The collar hung from my fingertips, the light jingle of metal making sure I didn't forget. As I passed by Phil's Emporium, a small dusty store. where I'd bought a hand-carved humidor from my dad five years ago. I heard it. Not a loud jarring sound like the ticking of the old German clock, but the gentle, comforting tick of a well-made Swiss pocket watch sitting behind the glass case next to a modern digital clock.

It was a sing-song sound. It was a comforting sound. I found myself lost in it, entranced with and comforted by the sound of a clock for the first time. in my life. I bought it immediately and carried it home with me to sit next to the old German clock. As quiet as it was, that ticking watch seemed to quiet the old clock, adding a musical backdrop to the old monstrosity that made it less threatening. At night, I slept a little easier. The nightmares were still there, but distant. That was six months ago. They never found Janine. And the

detectives never got back in touch. I've never found Schrodinger, and I don't think I'll ever replace him. I've bought more clocks in the time, not just clocks, anything that keeps time is fair game, but I have an entire room filled with clocks, antique clocks, clocks built into coffee tables, big grandfather clocks and tiny 3D printed clocks from a specialty shop in Austin. But at the very center of it all, ticking away quietly amongst 100 other noisy clocks, is an old German wallclothed and joy of my collection. There are few real-life horror stories more terrifying than the one which starts with your doctor telling you, you have cancer.

In this tale from author Michael Marks, we meet a man dealing with just such a prognosis, and it's a terribly grim one, until an experimental new treatment gives him hope. But as with any new test drug, there can be unpredictable side effects. Performing this tale are Peter Lewis and Jessica McAvoy. So let's hope for the very best of health for you, because you certainly don't want to find out that the medicine was black. It started two years ago. with my cancer diagnosis.

Stomach cancer. They caught it late, and my willingness to ignore my stomach problems was to blame. The cancer had already started to spread, and the prognosis was not good. My doctors gave me a year at best with chemotherapy. It was looking very much like I was a lost cause, that is, until I was accepted into the clinical trial for a new cancer drug.

I hadn't applied and was instead contacted to see if I would like to participate. It was strange, as usually you had to apply for these types of things and deal with a list of qualifications as long as your arm, as well as a very large number of people who were also attempting to get in. When facing death, everyone is looking for a way out. I said yes, without question. The hospital it was being done at was actually local. They claimed that they had facilities for the trial set up all around the United States. They also told me that they had hand-picked participants themselves.

I remember the first time I questioned how they had access to. my private medical records, the nurse just smiled and said she wasn't at liberty to say. I should have known right then that something was wrong. Desperate times lead you to dismiss things you normally wouldn't, and this was the most desperate time of my life. I was given very little information about the drug I would be taking. I was told it was a pill, and I would need to come to their offices twice a week for doses. It seemed a bit low to me, but again, this wasn't a situation where I was willing to question much. They told me side effects could include memory loss, fatigue, and shortness of breath,

as well as mood swings, and nightmares. This sounded like a reasonable trade for a chance to survive, and I started treatment. The pills themselves looked rather strange. They were liquid capsules that appeared to be filled with a black medicine of some kind. I took my first dose and prayed. Memory loss started the first week. I would black out for long periods of time. It seemed as if whole days would vanish without me recollecting what had happened to them.

Times I was lucid, I felt heavy and lethargic. I could barely get out of bed. I remember my friend, Teresa, stopping by to take me to get my dose for the day, and she begged me to stop the trial. She claimed that in the entire time I'd been sick, she'd never seen me look so awful. And she had taken me to nearly every chemo session. I told her that it was the last chance I had, and that was the end of the conversation. No matter the cost, I wanted to get better, even if it felt as if the process was tearing my body apart. A month in, I was a living wreck. I barely slept, at least I didn't feel as if I did.

I may have slapped whole days at a time as far as I know. The blackouts were more and more frequent. I started driving people away as they claimed I would fly into rages over nothing and crying fits at the drop of a hat. Teresa stuck by me for the longest time, even after some of the horrible things I said to her. She would try to calm me when I would freak out. out, tell me she loved me and wanted me to be okay, tell me that she just wanted what was best for me, urging me to quit the trial, saying it wasn't worth it. I said things to her that I regret,

that I will always regret. I called her names I never should have, attacked her for trying to help me. It was around the time I threw a lamp at her. that she stopped coming around, stopped trying to help. I can still remember the last thing she said to me. I love you. I always have. I hope you get better. I really do. I just can't be around you anymore. I'm sorry.

Then she left. I was... I had to start taking the bus to my appointments for the trial, as no one would spend... time around me. It wouldn't matter. If I lived through it, I could apologize later. My mindset was anything but stable at that point. Two months into the trial, I was told my cancer was in complete remission. I remember the doctor showing me the x-rays from each week I had been there. You could watch the masses shrink so drastically over the eight weeks. It was amazing.

I cried. I hugged the doctor. I called it a miracle. I will never forget that doctor's words to me. The doctor that never gave me his name, never smiled, and looked so painfully average I don't think I could describe him, even if I tried. It's no miracle, Mr. Sanderson. It's only science. He told me I would have to continue treatment a bit longer to ensure the cancer didn't return. I didn't care at all. I couldn't have been happier. In the span of two months, I had gone from death's door to a new lease on life. At least, that's what I thought. As I was exiting the building, I was grabbed by two men in dark suits with close-cropped hair. They told me I had to come with them and this was part of the trial. They said it was an important next step. I didn't understand.

And for the first time since the trial began, I asked questions that I wanted real answers to. Where are you taking me? Why didn't the doctor mention this? Who are you? At first, my questions were answered with silence. The men dragged me from the front of the building into the alley. We were headed towards their car. My questions continued as if on repeat, but now they were answered with the feeling of painful tension as I was tasered and thrown into the back seat.

Every time I would attempt to sit up or move at all, I felt another quick jolt of electricity. After the fifth time, I blacked out, woke up, strapped to a hospital bed, An IV tube ran down into my arm. In the bag I could see some kind of black liquid that had a similar consistency to blood. It was lit by nothing more than the light that hung over my head, so it was difficult to make anything out.

I tried to let my eyes adjust in hopes that I could see someone, a nurse, a doctor, or possibly other patients. I would have even settled for one of the dark-suited men at that point, though I likely would have refrained from asking them anything. The feeling of isolation was miserable. I did the only thing I could think to do in that moment. I struggled against my bonds and screamed. Took nearly 15 minutes of my wailing and shouting before a door that I had previous. been unable to see, opened, and a doctor stepped through. At least, it seemed like a doctor at first. The person was little more than a silhouette, but I could clearly make out that they were wearing a long

coat of some kind and appeared to be carrying a clipboard. I ceased my screams and once again began asking my questions. Where am I? What is going on here? You know this is kidnapping, right? What's your name? Would you just fucking tell me where I am? And what's going on? He just stood in the shadows writing on his fucking clipboard. I could hear the scratch of his pen on the paper. As he stepped forward into the dim light of the bulb above my head,

my guts went cold and my screaming resumed. The man... Had no face burnt off or that I couldn't see his face. I mean, he had no fucking face. Just smooth flesh stretched over the place where his features should have been. The faceless doctor produced a needle and approached me. I struggled against him, but one of his pale hands pushed my head down, and I felt the prick of a needle entering my neck.

Moments later, I was back asleep. I woke up, I struggled to open my eyelids. They were heavy from the drugs I'd been given. The room slowly attempted to come into focus, but was hindered by nearly blinding light. I instinctively raised my hand to shield my eyes and realized I was no longer restrained. I could feel my own nudity under the harsh light.

I had never felt more exposed or terrified in my life. Mr. Sanderson. A voice came over a PA system, its words loudly echoing around the room. Me, Mr. Sanderson. Who is that? What the fuck is going on? I tried to look around the room again. but it was far too bright. You seem to be able to hear me just fine.

No need to worry yourself, Mr. Sanderson. You are just in the final stage of our drug trial. I recognized the voice as the doctor who had been giving me the doses of my medication since the start of the trial. Would you please get to your feet, Mr. Sanderson? Once you have, we can continue. My body felt weak and heavy.

I remained on my knees. To your feet! It was so loud I could hear feedback in the PA system. It had also shifted tonally. It sounded almost as if two voices were speaking at the same time. The doctor's voice, as well as another more high-pitched one. My legs started pushing my body up as if in response. No matter how badly I ached from moving, my body continued to rise till I was standing.

It was as if I was being puppeted from within my own body. It was a horrible and excruciating feeling. Excellent. The doctor returned to speaking in his overly flat and clinical tone. He turned away from the microphone he was using, but I could still hear him. Simple commands, achieve response. What's going on here? Just as the words left my lips, the harsh lights of the room went out,

and I found myself once again surrounded by cold darkness. After a few seconds of feeling sightless and alone, a spotlight came on about 15 feet in front of me. There was the doctor's voice coming through in that strange tone again. I felt my legs begin to move me towards the light. I could see a pedestal there with something placed on it, and as I stepped into the light, I realized what it was. A gun. Mr. Sanderson, please pick the weapon off the pedestal.

My arms reached out despite my mind's protest. I felt the weight of the revolver in my hand as I lifted it. Its grip rough against my palm. Suddenly another light came on only a few more feet from me. In the light, I could see a man. tied to a chair. His eyes were wide with fear. His mouth gagged, his hands bound behind his back. Would you please kill the subject in front of you now? Hesitation. I raised my arm and squeezed the trigger. The gunfire around the room was deafening.

I remember screaming the word no, or at least feel as it. if I did. I didn't even have time to stop myself. I reacted instantly to the doctor's command. I watched as the man's chest exploded in a crimson spray. His chair falling backwards from the force, leaving his legs sticking up in the air. He vanished from my sight as the light went out. Excellent work, Mr. Sanderson. The split had left the doctor's voice again. They were controlling my mind. It had something to do with the drug they'd given me,

and that strange tone in the doctor's voice. I felt tears running down my cheek as I stood there, naked and helpless. Subject shows clear cognitive protest commands. Yeah, reacted quickly. Let's try something a little more difficult, shall we? Couldn't tell if he was speaking to me or someone in the room with him. Another light came on, and I froze in horror as I turned to look.

Sitting there tied to another chair was my friend, Teresa, the one who had taken me to all my chemo appointments. She had told me not to take this trial. She had been a friend to me long after a lot of the others had gone. Through all of my mood swings and misery, the one whom I had already heard, already given so much heartbreak. Mr. Sanderson, please kill the subject that has appeared in front of you. Tone came over the PA again, and I tried to. to hold my body back from doing what it wanted to do as Teresa struggled against her bonds. Her eyes pleaded with me for help. She was confused and scared.

My muscles were at war with my brain and the pain was overwhelming. No! This time the words out loud. I fought the raising of my arm. I fought against the pulling of the trigger. The gun thundered, as half of my friend's face disappeared. They're spinning a bit towards where the bullet struck her. Before the light went out, I dropped back to my knees, crying.

Great, Mr. Sanderson, almost done. The voice had returned to the doctor's flat tone. I heard a shuffling to my right and looked instinctively as the last light came on. Standing there, like some kind of horrid nightmare, was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than eight years old. Her hair in pink tails, spilling down the shoulders of her pink dress. It was the picture of innocence. She wasn't even tied and gagged as the others had been,

just standing there, crying. No, no. My whole body ate, and my arms felt like they weighed a ton when I was. I tried to move the, it seemed, the tears in my eyes, and the pleas for this to end on my lips. We're the only things I had left that I could control. Mr. Sanderson, if you would, please. That strange split voice scraped along my brain like nails on a chalkboard. I did my best to put the gun to my...

own head, but I couldn't fight against the pull of my arm, pointing it in the direction of the light. Kill older girl. I wasn't even able to close my eyes. I just watched in disgust at the movement of my own hands. I squeezed the trigger and screamed. Just to look at her body. lying there until the light went off again. It was no more than a few seconds.

The image of her crumpled body lying on the cold floor. One of her shoes had somehow come off from the force of the gunshot. I'll never forget it. The scene is etched into my brain. When the room went dark, again. It felt as if control of my body had been returned to me. I immediately raised the gun to my own head and pulled the trigger, cried harder, and screamed louder when I realized they had only given me three bullets. Mr. Sanderson, you have done an excellent job today. I have to say your trial

has been a massive success. The doctor's voice had returned to normal, and it strangely had more life in it than I had ever heard before. A lot of the others went insane, or their physiology just couldn't handle the medicine. You, though, you did extremely well, our perfect candidate. Your monsters, what did you do to me? Why would you make me do this? Tears and rage mixed on my face as I alternated between screaming and sobbing. Why?

You before, Mr. Sanderson. It's just science. Those were the last words I heard before I felt another pinch in my neck. I turned to look and briefly saw. saw another of the faceless doctors with a needle in its hand. Before my eyes got heavy and I collapsed, expected to wake up chained to another bed or in some sort of hellish nightmare. Instead, I found myself in my own house, in my own bed. I can easily say, however, I wish I I hadn't woken up at all.

The next few months were constant paranoia, guilt, fear, and depression. I was free of the cancer, but I still felt like I was dying. I kept expecting to see faceless men in black suits appear to tase me and drag me off again. But they never showed up. I tried to kill myself about four months later. Right around the time, Teresa's brother told me that the police were giving up the search, that they'd found no evidence of what happened to her,

and there was little chance that she would ever be found. I sat with him as he cried, filled with guilt and hatred for myself. I wanted to tell him, give him closure, make him hate me. Instead, I let him cry on my shoulder and let him tell me that his sister always cared so much about me that she would be so happy that I had beat my cancer. That night,

I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills and a bottle of vodka up in the emergency room, as told I was brought in by a man who refused to leave his name or number, and that's when I realized they were still watching me. I was kept under suicide watch for a while, but released when they deemed me as mentally sound once again. That was nothing more than that. than a joke, though. I was as far

from mentally sound as I could get. I knew they were out there watching me and that it wasn't over yet. Then came yesterday.

The day I had gone back to the doctors to check on some stomach issues and my suspicions about my condition had been confirmed. My cancer had come back aggressively. I wouldn't have long to live,

and I would go slow and painful. The worst part was I knew if I tried to kill myself, they would just intervene again. I know they are always watching. Then, in a turn far worse than that, I came home to something that nearly tore me apart inside. A note was on my coffee table. Mr. Sanderson, sorry to hear of your backslide in health.

We have started a new trial for you, as we wish nothing but the best of health for our most successful test subject. We look forward to seeing you again and helping you towards the speediest possible recovery. We have improved our formula since the last trial, and this one should be much more effective. See you soon. Sitting next to the note, we're two small black pills of water. First dose, now being delivered to me. Those pills have been sitting next to me, sitting right there, staring at me, and mocking both my will to live and my desire to die. If you had asked me yesterday what I would have done in this situation, I would have told you without hesitation.

Today, though, today I'm not... Not so sure. We thank you for being with us for our devilishly dark tales. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the nosleeppodcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening.

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