The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E11

Episode Date: June 19, 2016

It's episode 11 of Season 7. On this week's show we have five tales about the frightening fiends found in friends and families."I Got a Sister for my Seventh Birthday"** written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:02:35)"The Suicide Engine" written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:17:15)"My Uncle Ford"* written by Jackson Laughlin and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 00:32:30)"Placement" written by Keith McDuffee and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson & Nikolle Doolin & Peter Lewis & Rima Chaddha Mycynek. (Story starts at 01:00:25)"Johnny’s Notebook"** written by Benjamin Robb and performed by Matthew Bradford & Carrsan Morrisey & Elie Hirschman & Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:28:30)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to hear how you can get Season Pass 7 for only $15.55 Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about Jackson Laughlin Click here to learn more about Keith McDuffee Click here to learn more about Benjamin Robb Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"My Uncle Ford" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Be forewarned, 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. Episode 11, I got a sister for my seven birthday, the suicide engine. My Uncle Ford. Placement, Johnny's notebook. It's the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have five tales about the frightening fiends found in friends and families. Hey, did you hear we turn five years old last week? I think I mentioned it in passing. Just wanted to say thanks to the many of you

who sent and posted very kind words and best wishes, for the anniversary. You fans are truly terrific. I'm also thankful that David Alt whipped me into shape and allowed us to bring our anniversary sale for season past seven to everyone's attention. I gotta say I'm absolutely blown away by the response to that sale. In case you missed it, there are still a few scant hours left to take advantage of our promo code, five years, to pay only $15.55, for Season Pass 7. The sale ends on June 21st, but I might extend it a little longer. I'll include a link in the show notes to the little audio snippet where David explains how to use

the promo code. As we look ahead, there are some fun things planned for our sixth year. I'll be making an announcement next week about some of the things we have in store, so make sure you're with us for that. It's exciting times for us here at the No Sleep Podcast. We're glad you're along for the ride with us. And now it's time to get our new year started by kicking off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a little girl who, like a lot of young girls,

is very excited at the thought of becoming a big sister. As we learn from author S.H. Cooper, the arrival of her sister coincides with her birthday. but it doesn't take long before she learns that having a young sister can be very difficult. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy and Erica Sanderson. So be careful what you wish for, because you might regret it, like this little girl who tells us, I got a sister for my seventh birthday. I was an only child.

the apple of my parents' eyes, a princess who could do no wrong. So when my parents told me they had a surprise for my seventh birthday, I was ecstatic and lost sleep thinking about what it could be. A new Lego set? The doll I'd seen at the store? A pony? The possibilities were endless. When the morning of my birthday arrived,

I leapt from my bed and charged full tilt downstairs, where my mother was sitting at the kitchen table with her morning cup of coffee. A quick scan of the room didn't reveal anything out of the ordinary, and immediately my stomach sank with disappointment. I clambered into the chair beside her and leaned forward across the table so that my face was in hers. Mama? She set her coffee aside and screwed. scooped me up in a great big bear hug until I was shrieking with laughter. Once I had been suitably smothered with birthday kisses, she set me down and told me she was going to make me chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream for breakfast.

Although this made my stomach growl with anticipation, I wasn't going to be swayed from my original mission. Mama, you said I'd get a surprise today. Where is it? Daddy's gone to get it, Princess. You have to be patient. I was like a firecracker with a short fuse all through breakfast. I bounced in my seat, ran back and forth between the window, looking out at the driveway,

and peppered my mother with a million questions about what my surprise could be. But she just told me to eat my pancakes. I had barely managed to get one down when I heard the sound of my dad's car. door shutting outside. With a squeal of excitement, I ran out to meet him in the carport, only to come to an abrupt halt when I saw that he had not come home alone. He was carrying a girl who looked a little younger than I was. She was small for her age, delicate like porcelain, and topped with tight gold ringlets that framed her round face. God himself could not have created a more perfect cherub than this child.

She regarded me shyly with the purest blue eyes I'd ever seen and gave the tiniest of waves. I was immediately entranced. Well, good morning, kiddo. Happy birthday. My dad chuckled and knelt to kiss me atop my head. I guess you've seen your surprise. He gently placed the girl in front of me and beamed at the two of us. Her name is Susie. What do you think?

She's my present? Dad frowned. Don't you like her? I looked from my dad to the girl and back again. She seemed perfectly serious. I had been asking for a sister for ages. and now they'd gotten me one. I clapped my hands and threw my arms around Dad's waist.

I love her! He seemed relieved and tousled my hair. Take her in and show Mommy. I was only too happy to oblige. I took Susie's hand and led her into the kitchen, where Mom ooed and awed over how pretty she was. Susie giggled and hit her face again. my shoulder, which already made me feel like the best big sister ever. I took Susie through the

house, showing her all the rooms and introducing her to the cats, Dot and Smurf. When she reached out to Pet Smurf, she swatted at her and bolted from the room. Fat tears immediately welled up in her eyes, and I hugged her comfortingly, reassuring her that Smurf was just a fat old grump, and he was like that with most new people. The incident was soon forgotten once we reached my room and became engrossed in accessorizing my Barbies. Susie and I were soon inseparable. Mom and Dad thought it was the cutest thing ever

and took a million pictures of us doing the most mundane things. Sitting at the table eating, splashing through a sprinkler in the backyard, lounging in our PJs in front of the TV with a big bowl of popcorn between us. It seemed they were thrilled their little girls were getting along so well. One lazy summer evening, Susie and I were lying on the kitchen floor, coloring in a new book our grandmother had sent. Smurf had been stalking us from the countertops while we worked,

and I could tell it was making Susie uncomfortable. So I gathered the old guy up and carried him to the living room. He purred contentedly in my arms, so I snuggled him for a minute before plopping him on the couch next to my parents and returned to the kitchen. Susie was sitting amongst the remains of the coloring book, which lay shredded across the kitchen floor. A pair of scissors was beside her. I gaped at her. my mouth hanging open, and she giggled sweetly. My parents were drawn to the noise and stood in the doorway, their hands on their hips.

What's going on in here? Look what Susie did! I gestured angrily towards the mess and to the guilty party, who was now pouting down at the floor. Oh, princess, I don't think Susie did that. How could she? Come on, let's clean it up. We won't tell Nona about it, okay? I was flabbergasted.

Susie was sitting there, practically red-handed, and they both just brushed it off. I scowled at their backs while they knelt to clean it up. Mom even gave Susie a little pat on the head before telling me to take her off to bed. I was furious and grabbed Susie a bit more roughly than I meant to by her. arm and hauled her off to our shared room.

My anger lessened more with each little sniffle that sounded in the dark. Finally, when the guilt became too much, I whispered my apology to her, and we fell into an easy sleep. The coloring book, already a thing of the past. When it came time for school to resume, I asked Mom what grade Susie would be in. She smiled, clearly amused. She's not going to school, honey. It's for big girls. Of course, I nodded sagely.

Susie was still too little. When I left the next morning, I could see Susie watching the bus pull away from our bedroom window. Her angelic little face was twisted into a dark frown. She didn't even respond when she was. I waved. She was probably upset I was going without her, but what could I do? I'd make sure to play a lot with her when I got home. That night, I was met with two stern-faced parents who demanded to know why I had left my room in such a state when I'd been told very clearly to tidy it up before school. I was confused and protested my innocence. I'd just cleaned it yesterday.

But they wouldn't listen and said that I'd be in big trouble if I didn't get in there and straighten it up. Susie was waiting for me on my bed. Her arms crossed proudly over her chest. The room around her was absolutely wrecked. Clothes were strewn about. My stuffed animals had been spilled to the floor. All my Barbies were thrown from their usual bin. I screamed at my parents that Susie was the one they should be mad at, but I got no answer. My sister just watched me clean. Over the next few weeks, things started going missing around the house, only to turn up mixed in with my belongings. Mom's jewelry, dad's wallet, the car keys.

Mom's engagement ring was never found, no matter how hard we looked. Then Smurf got out. Someone left the sliding door to the backyard open, and he just wandered away. Although they said they didn't blame me, I still received a long lecture about responsibility after that. I sobbed that it wasn't me. It was Susie. Ah, look, kiddo, you know we love you, but this has to stop. We know Susie didn't do it.

You did, so it's time to stop. I was completely and utterly betrayed. Susie never spoke up or corrected them, and they never even asked her for her side. I started to resent them all and grew quieter and sullen. I withdrew from my parents and actively ignored Susie, which just made her act up more. The handmade lamp from my aunt Connors. Bonnie was smashed. The living room curtains were cut into ribbons.

Dad's work laptop was doused with a glass of water. Still, they blamed me. I heard my mom talking to Nona on the phone about a behavioral specialist, but I didn't know what that meant. I just knew I was powerless and frustrated and no one was listening. The last straw finally snapped. When I came home from school and stomped into my room, Susie was standing over a pile of my clothes

with a box of matches in her chubby little hands. She grinned at me, but it was a sinister expression, one that sent an icy chill down my back. I instinctively took a step back. That was all she needed. The match was struck and thrown flippantly into the pile. I screamed from my, my mom and rushed it Susie, who gleefully retreated to my bed and threw the matches at my feet.

After much yelling and confusion, my parents were able to put out the flames, which hadn't gotten far, but had eaten most of my clothes. After they made sure I was okay, I was made to sit at the kitchen table and interrogated. Susie did it! Stop it, Amy! I had never heard my father speak so sharp. Enough! Why did you do it? I told you!

Amy, we just want to understand what's going on. Then go yell at her! My dad's hand came slamming down on the tabletop so hard that even my mom jumped. Amy, Susie is a doll! I stared at him, not comprehending. No, she's horrible! She's a doll, Amy. me, a toy! I wish I never bought you the damn thing. Tom, please. His nostrils flared with

frustration, and he threw up his hands at us. She needs to stop lying. I'm not lying. I was shaking with anger and fear and the righteous indignation of the falsely accused. I ran from the kitchen, screaming over my shoulder that I'd make Susie tell them everything. But when I got to my room, there was no little sister, no cherubic little girl with two bright blue eyes. Only a delicate porcelain doll that I'd seen at the toy store and wanted for my birthday sitting on my bed, staring at the door with a frozen smile. There are those who consider our existence to be an endless cycle, a circle of death and rebirth. But in this tale from author C.M. Scandrith, we meet a woman who encounters something very different and unexpected regarding this concept.

Her choices put her in a position to delve deep into her darkest desires. Performing this tale is Erica Sanderson. So let's plunge into the swirling vortex as we circle around with the woman who has entered the suicide engine. We all make mistakes in our lives. An unkind word spoken in anger or a lack of judgment concerning financial matters. Seemingly, simple mistakes can have wide-reaching consequences that we never anticipated. A late rent payment means a landlord doesn't have the funds to fix the water cylinder at another property. and a family of six has to go without showers for a week.

The father loses his job, one of the children gets an infection, and the tired and distracted mother encounters some hapless pedestrian who tries to cross a busy road without waiting for the lights, hitting them with her car and killing them. One small mistake can lead to catastrophic consequences for a completely unrelated party. Observing the patterns of these events,

you begin to see connected threads and a bigger picture forms. Deliberate choices are the things with the most massive repercussions, each one containing the ability to make or break lives without most of us even knowing. I suppose you could call me a sort of master of predicting the outcomes of choices. Growing up, reading was one of the few luxuries that I was allowed, since it kept me quiet, still and docile. I would read anything from Robert Louis Stevenson to Anne McCaffrey so long as it was fictional. One day I stumbled across a Nicholas Fisk book, science fiction, and in it I found a concept that deeply disturbed me.

What if none of your memories are real? The book explored the lives of a family, cloned from the graves of long-dead people, who had implanted memories of their daily activities outside the house, even though they never actually left the house. Curiously, they began to feel their confinement, even though they remembered. running through open fields just hours before. It was as if some primitive part of their brains was still aware what had actually happened and what was fake. But the idea of not knowing which memories were real frightened me intensely.

What if my entire life up until this point was all fantasy? What if I had been freshly grown from a vat and this car trip was the first real memory of my life? It was then that I resolved to burn that memory into my mind. to recall holding that book on the grey plethe back seat, with houses and trees crawling past as the car drove home, and memorised the smell of the air, the curve of the metal window frame,

and the pinch of the seatbelt. Most of all, I sought to capture that moment of feeling everything was real, the feeling that I was aware and knew that this wasn't an implanted memory. As the days and weeks passed, my fears about the concept of false memories faded away, replaced by worries about aliens invading Earth and global nuclear war. But the memory itself did not fade with the fear, and I recalled it often. If I were to rate, on a scale of 1 to 10, how good my life was,

originally I think I would have said about a 3. My father was in prison for sexual assault of a minor by the time I was 14, and shortly after that my mother was put into psychiatric care. As for me, I was too old to adapt to the life of a first. foster child, and too damaged to be adopted. Where once I sought to cease from reality in books, I now found that they couldn't block out the moil of emotions bubbling near the surface at all times. So I turned first to alcohol, then to drugs. I coped for a little while like that, trying at least to be a little smart.

I got a job at a fast food place and tried to get a degree through correspondence courses. When I fell pregnant, then needed to drive halfway across the country three times to access the convoluted public abortion services. I took too much unauthorised time off work and lost my shitty job. Unable to pay my drug debts or afford the final trip to the clinic, I ended up having my first baby at 18. Life took a predictably miserable turn from there. Two more kids at 19 and 21, the second from a rape at the hands of my dealer. then depression, which led to obesity and undiagnosed diabetes. That culminated in the loss of my left foot.

When they took my kids away from me, I almost cried with relief. At the tender age of 23, pregnant with my fourth child and sleeping on a flea infested mattress in the back of a garage, I decided to end it all. This was a hole there was no climbing out of. Short of some stranger putting me through detox. a miracle curing my hepatitis, and the sudden appearance of a functional support network of friends and family, the best years of my life were already gone. I remember staring into the mirror of a public bathroom, aghast at my reflection.

My once olive skin was popped and cratered, my eyes pouchy, and my cheeks flabby with fatigue and stress. Every part of me wobbled as I limped away from the reflection with the lank, filthy brown hair. In a toilet cubicle With a plastic bottle filled with dirty tap water I choked down the pills I'd stolen from the supermarket And so ended my first life Trees and houses crawled by as I held a book in my lap The curve of the window was as familiar as breath

And the grey plethe plet under my thighs Felt faintly sticky as I shifted under the pinching seatbelt Of course I refused to believe that any of it was real at first thinking it was just a drug-addled memory caused by my public toilet suicide. But it was real. The car pulled into our driveway just as I remembered. My father shouted at me when I closed the door too hard. My one-eyed cat strolled over and rubbed around my ankles.

It appeared I had been given some kind of second chance. I still didn't know how to avoid my father's molestations. I still didn't have the skills, the resources or the education to know what to do. But this time, when he was found out and sent to prison, I stayed away from alcohol. Armed with the knowledge of my future fate, I immediately enrolled at a local university and signed up for a student loan to get me through. I worked nights at another fast food place and met a guy through a co-worker. Things were hard, but better than before. I could do this.

I could avoid the pitfalls of my first time through life. But you can never account for all the men. mistakes you might make. When I was late, I put it down to the hours I've been working and the stresses of study. But when I started to vomit frothy goo in the mornings, I sat beside the chili porcelain bowl and cried until I thought my heart was going to sunda. The abortion process again cost me my job, and I failed my courses for that semester. The termination happened this time, though, and blessedly free of the curse of parenthood, I went home to my boyfriend. The boyfriend, who promptly left me, suddenly deciding I'd murdered his baby, even after all those heartfelt

midnight conversations about how it would be best for both of us. The drugs came easily, I knew where to find them, and my new life fell back into the familiar patterns of the old one. This time it was HIV instead of hepatitis. By the time I made the decision to end my shitty, miserable life for the second time, I was a skeletal thing, covered in sores and needle holes. I'd been given another chance at life, and I'd blown it. Two children this time. A boy and a girl, the girl infected from birth. With a surge of dark humour, I reflected that this time, at least I wasn't an obese, uneducated cripple about to chow down on over-the-counter pain meds.

The overdose was blissful and warm. the river of opiates flushing away all the pain and the doubt. I felt my pulse slow, and within a minute, my heart had once again ceased to beat. The fake leather was tacky under my thighs, and the taped corners of a library book sat atop them. Out of the curve of the window, suburban houses and trees crawl by, familiar, yet faintly terrifying.

I laughed out loud, causing my father to yell at me to shut the fuck up. When we got home, I found the phone book and called Child Protection Services. My mother hated me, but with my father in prison, we got to stay together, and I avoided foster care. I finished school with excellent marks and gained a scholarship, going to university to study English literature. With fewer mental health issues and in a more liberal environment, I let my nascent bisexuality flourish, and I got my first girlfriend. a tall, beautiful art student with a wicked sense of humour. Her name was Bronwyn. I made it to 35 that time around.

Bronwyn was killed by a drunk driver and I spiraled into depression, then into prescription drug abuse. This time I chose suicide quickly, banking on my next return to life, the next revolution of the engine. Winning the lottery was a natural progression of the repetitive cycle of life and death. But I quickly discovered that not. neither my psyche nor my mother's was built for sudden wealth. I still saw out my lover, Bronwyn, but with each turn of the gears, I grew older and somehow harder, and in turn she became less

and less attracted to me each lifetime. But more than that, no matter how hard I struggled to keep her alive, she always died prematurely. Eventually I couldn't watch her die anymore. Killing my father felt good. Sliding the kitchen knife into his groin, cutting through his femoral artery in his angry erect genitals, felt better than any of the opiates I'd had in my other lives. I was forgiven for the crime. After all, I was only 10 years old,

and I was defending myself. Killing my former drug dealer was much harder, and I failed. But as I died of the gunshot wound to my chest, I cursed him with my bloody lips, vowing to get him in the next life. And I did. I cut his fucking heart out and held it in my hand. Finding all the people who had wronged me in all my lives became my reason for existing.

I could always reset to that point I'd created in my past if I fucked up. The book in my lap and the grey plethe became the most familiar thing in the world. Sometimes in my eagerness to start killing, I'd reach over. with a seat in front of me and strangled my father with his seatbelt until my mother screamed and the car swerved into a power pole killing them both. When I failed to kill someone the first time, I just made this successful attempt even more brutal than I had originally intended. I came to depend on the terror in their eyes to keep me going. Out of all the addictions possible, it became my drug of choice. Sometimes I had to be patient and wait for people to be born. Other times,

I had to race to find them before they died. I remember seeing the film Groundhog Day in the theatre and laughing and laughing until my throat hurt and the cinema staff kicked me out. There is no redemption from this. There is no happy ending of waking up in bed with your true love. Every revolution of the suicide engine

corrupts you further and further until there is no hope of salvation, no hope of release. But at least I can still glean some small, more satisfaction from this eternal torment I've trapped myself in. Every time I go round, there are new people who wrong me, new victims for the next revolution. Eventually, I think every one of you will cross my path.

Do me some trivial but memorable wrong. You'll cut me off in traffic, eat with your fucking mouth open at a restaurant, let your brats scream too loud in a film or cut in line. And I'll burn your face into my memory, and I will find you. So you better die fast, die afraid and knowing,

and die well, because if you don't, then on the next revolution of the engine, I'll make things that much worse for you. When it comes to our families, sometimes we meet members we didn't know we had. Extended family members can become close friends, or they can bring trouble with them,

sometimes both. In this tale from author Jackson Loughlin, we meet a boy who discovers he has a step-uncle, a very unique man who only wants to lend a hand. Performing this tale are Mike Delgadoo, Peter Lewis, Nicole Doolin, and Erica Sanderson. So let's join the family and meet my Uncle Ford. The first time I ever saw Uncle Ford, I was only 10. I didn't even know I had an uncle until he showed up one day at the edge of our fence with a suitcase.

Most of his body was covered by a heavy brown coat, far too warm for the weather. He never approached the house. He simply spoke to my father at the edge of our property, and then he left. Who was that man? He didn't try to bullshit me. That's your uncle, my half-brother, Ford, Domini. My dad said the reason he didn't tell me

about Uncle Ford was that he didn't want me to think poorly of his father. My grandfather, David Dominie, was an Italian immigrant who had come to America in the 40s. Ford was born in 1956. Shortly after Ford's birth, Ford's mother died, and his medical practice fell apart. My grandfather, penniless and destitute, was forced to give Ford up for adoption. My father wasn't born until 10 years later, after grandfather had remarried. Dad said that his dad always wished he could have found Ford again after he was back on his feet. After Ford visited our farm the first time, I didn't see him again until that summer three months later. In June of 1993, Ford showed up again at the edge of our property, the same suitcase and coat. Father wasn't there when he arrived,

but I knew to greet the man. You're my dad's brother, aren't you? Half, brother, but yes, I am. How come you never? How come you never? You're never. You're a half brother? But yes, I am. How come you never showed up till now? I'd been traveling. I never even knew I had a nephew till now. You okay, mister? Yes, I am. I have a bit of a speech impediment.

I apologize. Ford, I wasn't expecting you. this early. My father was jogging up from the fields where he had been hard at work slashing the weeds. Ford was a very tall, broad-shouldered man. His face was tanned and wrinkled, showed many visible scars and scrapes. His face turned to bright scarlet when my father spoke. Yes, I apologize. The work dried up quicker than I had, and it dried up faster than I thought. What? No need to apologize. We can always use the extra help on the farm. My father turned to me. James, Uncle Ford is going to be staying with us for a while. He'll be sleeping in the barn.

I took Ford's suitcase and led him up the cracked clay path that led to our barn. Ford remained quiet for the duration of the walk. When we got there, I showed him where the hay would stay the driest if it rained and pulled out the cot stashed behind the stalls. All the while, Ford hunched awkwardly in the low entrance to the barn. We aren't tending to any cattle or goats this year, so you'll have the barn to yourself. He nodded. He was still wearing the heavy brown coat. Aren't you hot wearing that old thing? He nodded again, slowly. With a cautious, deliberate manner, he removed the coat from his shoulders.

I realized that the coat was not meant to keep him warm, but rather was to cover up his body. Sprouting from his sides were not two, but four arms. The second set started just below the armpits. They were smaller and thinner than his other arms, but they all moved in conjunction as he folded up his coat. I gasped. I'm sorry if my appearance is disturbing to you. I stood in shock for a moment.

Ford unfolded his coat. and began to put it back on. No, no, no, it's fine. I was just surprised. I apologize for my manners. Ford smiled a half-smile and set the coat down. As I left the barn, he unpacked his suitcase for a stay that I assumed would last a few months. It ended up lasting for several years.

Ford didn't talk much for his first few weeks on the farm. It was just as well. The three of us spent most of our days working in the fields, weeding and preparing the ground for planting. and most of our evenings were spent sleeping off the day's work. The first time I had a conversation with Ford was in late July. It was raining, which prevented us from working in the fields. Around midday, my mother had me bring Ford's supper out in the barn.

I hadn't been back to the barn since Ford had moved in, but he had spent a lot of time there. He had redecorated. Many diagrams and papers hung from the walls of the barn. Many depicted human and animal anatomy. There were homemade wooden carving. decorating the boxes and shelves in the barn. Ford quickly stood when I entered,

slightly closing a book that he had been reading. Nah, don't worry. Mom just wanted me to bring you supper. Thank you, James. What's with all the pictures? They're from medical books. Human anatomy and the like. Huh.

What are these carvings? I held up one of the homemade carvings. carvings. It was of a normal adult man, except he had three arms, the third of which reached straight out from an extended stomach. Ford snatched it from my hand. Just a hobby, like the pictures. Human shape fascinates me. I always wanted to be a doctor. Like your dad? Huh? Like grandpa? Dad said he was a doctor. Ford laughed a gravely strained laugh that devolved quickly into coughing.

I nearly jumped. Ford's usually quiet and melancholy tone shifted. He was a plastic surgeon, hardly a doctor. Couldn't even keep his business afloat. I placed Ford's dinner in front of him. He ate all forearms working into the rotation of shoveling food into his face. I stood and watched him for a few moments. Do you remember him?

Ford stopped with a spoonful of grits halfway up to his mouth. Yes, of course. I lived with that asshole until I was ten years old. Oh, Dad made it sound like he gave you up for adoption when you were just a baby. Gave me up for adoption? Yeah, that's what Dad told me. Ford's face paled. His lips dropped into a frown.

No, he didn't put me up for adoption. He fucking sold me. I backed away towards the door, frightened. Ford's face relaxed, and he stepped towards me. The arms on his right side outstretched. No, no, wait, I'm sorry. But my brother was mistaken when he told you that. My father sold me to a freak show when I was ten.

I guess my father never told him that. We stood in silence for a moment. I stared at the ground not knowing what to say. Ford stared at his nearly empty plate. He dropped his fork onto the plate, the dull clang breaking the silence. James, Do you think your father would want to know who your grandfather really was? What do you mean?

Would my brother want to know the truth? I hesitated, wondering what exactly Ford meant. Yes, I think he would. Ford gave the same knowing nod he always gave. That evening Ford confronted. fronted my parents and me in our kitchen, and he told us the story of his life. He told us the truth about my grandfather. He told us about his birth. He told us about his life in the freak show. The story started the same way my father told it. David Domini, my grandfather, moved to America

from Italy in 1944. Bell, his wife, and Ford's mother came with him. He spent the first five years studying at Stanford Medical School, and when he got his doctorate, he went into the field of reconstructive plastic surgery. Contrary to what Fort had said, it sounds like my grandfather was quite the doctor. He specialized in constructing and attaching prosthetic limbs for those injured in near-fatal accidents. However, by the 1950s, his practice had expanded to include cosmetic plastic surgery, nose jobs, tummy tucks, you name it. They lived in Los Angeles, where, thanks to David's skilled hands, they were heralded as minor celebrities. In 195, Bell learned that she was pregnant with Ford. The way Ford told it, this was just another link in the chain of good fortune that

had fallen in the laps of the Dominies since they came to America. Ford was born on February 29, 1956. The delivery was particularly difficult. It lasted 12 hours, bringing Bell intense physical and mental stress. When the delivering surgeon placed the baby in her arm, she screamed at the forearmed child squirming in her arms. Ford told us that she died shortly after of blood loss resulting from the birth. He claimed that his first memory is of her screams. Ford told us that my grandfather blamed him for Bell's death. He became drunk and distraught and his practice fell apart over the next ten years.

Ford spent those ten years alone, having been deemed too freakish for normal society, Ford was kept chained up in the attic, with the only window boarded shut by my grandfather. He was homeschooled and brought all of his meals by a maid who had been paid off for her silence. As far as the L.A. elites knew, David Domini's child was born dead. Despite his contempt for Ford, Ford told us that grandfather was never violent, but always very clear about his disdain for Ford. He regularly told Ford he was a mutant, a monster that should have never been born. born. Ford told us that he grew used to the verbal abuse after a while, but that he was crushed

by the crippling loneliness. Apart from his father and the maid he saw for a few hours a day, Ford was separated from the living world for his first 10 years of his life. His one solace was a hole in the boards that covered his only window. Through it, he watched neighborhood children playing in the street. Ford told us that he remembered looking at the kids and feeling alone, not just because he couldn't play with him, but also because they look so different than him. They all had two arms. There wasn't a soul in the world who could understand for it. It was his idea to join the freak show because he needed to find a sense of belonging.

When his father mentioned the existence of such a group during one of Ford's lessons, he was adamant he wanted to join one. Eager to rid himself of his son's burden, my grandfather contacted a man who ran one of the most unscrupulous traveling freak shows in the country. The man, Alabaster Constant, purchased Ford from my grandfather just a few days later. My grandfather moved to a small town in Gilman County, Colorado, where he remarried and had my father. He reopened a small medical practice in town and lived in the very house I grew up in until his death in the late 80s. My father and grandmother never heard anything about his past life, other than the occasional mention of Ford's existence.

Things were not so easy for Ford. Constance's marvelous and terrifying creatures was a traveling freak show, and it was brutal and disgusting. Ford was one of many under Alabaster Constance's thumb. There was a bearded Polish woman, two dwarves from Germany, a psychologically and physically scarred man known only as the lizard man, as well as a few who came and went. Alabaster was a cruel man, quick to beat and maim the freaks.

Ford told me that Constan didn't think of him or the others as humans. He thought of them like cattle. Although they were like him in many ways, Ford still felt quite lonely around the other freaks. Of all the freaks, Ford was treated the best. He was the main attraction. His act was complex and dangerous. After the German dwarves left the stage, he entered by climbing upside down on a series of trapeze and ropes. When he touched the ground, alabast.

through him a series of increasingly dangerous objects to juggle, flaming rings, knives, etc. But his greatest trick, the climax of his performance, was the water tank. The other freaks would emerge from backstage and tie him up with thick, rough rope, and then they would throw him into the deep tank of water that the cheering crowd could see into. The knots binding him were numerous and tough. It took all of Ford's arms working at once to free him before the air drained from his lungs. He worked with the wet rope, underwater and unable to see, as the crowd cheered his every mistake. His biological advantages were not always enough to save him.

He occasionally failed, leaving the other freaks to pull him out of the water before he drowned. The crowd met his failure with booze and thrown drinks and popcorn containers. Alabaster met this failure with a swift and painful beating. For fear that he would receive a beating, Ford usually did his act perfectly. As a result, alabaster usually left him alone. Most of the freaks had to do the maintenance jobs that came along with the show, cleaning, setting up tents, and tending to the animals. But alabaster didn't make Ford do any of that, because he was the main act.

This star treatment led the other freaks to resent and distance themselves from Ford. Ford told my parents and I that he felt hated by the people who watched the show because he was different, but he felt hated by the other freaks because he was. wasn't different enough. He stayed with the freak show until he was 25. He spent the subsequent 13 years traveling the country. The whole time, he was looking for another person that he could connect with. Another person like him.

Well? My father was dozing in his chair. My mother had long since gone to bed. At the end of Ford's story, it was almost two in the morning. Well, what, James? Did you ever find him? anybody, like you. Ford crossed all four of his arms, forming a bundled mess in front of him. His head drooped, and he slowly moved it side to side. Not yet. Not yet. Uncle Ford stayed with my

family through the winter. By springtime, Ford had started the surgeries. He would find injured animals, wild ones, or various animals from our neighbors or the local townies, and perform life-saving surgeries on them. With medical supplies, he had my father order. He stitched together open cuts, mended broken bones, etc. He didn't charge any of the townspeople for what he did, saying it was his pleasure to help the animals. The people from the town were charmed by Ford, despite his deformity. Ford was always gentle and kind to them, most of them appreciated the free veterinary services. There was even a girl from town who took a liking to Ford, a brunette woman who worked for the post office.

They went out a few times, but I don't think. that Ford was much of a lady's man. Although they found his hobbies unusual, Ford grew closer with my parents all the time. He and my father spent hours in the fields, planting and fumigating the corn. They took up playing cards in the afternoon. In the evenings, Ford and my mother would dance to old records. They've moved slowly together, Ford's right hands on her left hip, a left hand on her right, and a hand holding hers out in the air. Dad never looked jealous when they danced, only happy that the family was all together. It seemed like Ford had finally found a place where he could be at home, with my family and me. But then, it was like a switch flipped. As the

summer and fall of 1994 went on, Ford grew distant. All at once, he stopped offering surgeries to the townsfolk. He still helped us out in the fields, but he never came into the main house in the evenings anymore. When my father offered to clear out our basement so he could live with us, Ford turned him down. He started locking the barn door. Ford stopped talking to any of us. The most he would say was, Hello. Or, excuse me. My family and I tried our best to get him to open up, but he resisted all attempts. He spent all his time up in the barn by himself. He still treated the wild animals that got hurt on our property, but he had gotten worse at it. More often than not, I would see animals crawling around with messy stitches. Many still bleeding are more mangled than when they came into the barn.

One day I heard a rabbit crying in the fields. I found it dragging a mutilated body through the dirt. It had undergone some form of operation from Ford. I could see the characteristic blue thread he used underneath all the dry blood. An extra non-functional hind leg had been stitched to its back. It whimpered when it moved. I brought the distorted rabbit to my father, who'd promised he'd bring it up to Ford. My dad put the rabbit out of its misery. I remember that it was struggling when he first picked it up. But then, all at once, it stopped. It didn't even whimper when he raised the gun to it. I think it wanted to die. My parents grew worried about Ford. By the winter of 1994, he never left the barn.

My parents considered calling the police and having him removed, but my mother worried what might happen to him if he was taken to jail. Ford had already had a hard life. He clearly needed help. On Christmas that year, Ford finally left the barn. We were eating breakfast in the house, and we all saw him exit at once. He was wearing his big heavy coat and carrying his suitcase, which was overflowing with papers. Snow whistled down around him, and he shook despite the heavy coat.

We watched as he walked down the clay path to our back door, where he knocked. My mother let him in. We stared in silence, then Ford spoke. I'm sorry, everyone. Tears formed at my mother's eyes. What's happened to you? My father grabbed him by the shoulder. You have all been.

been very good to me, but I think I have to go. Why? Tears were streaming down my mother's face. You all aren't like me. What are you talking about? Ford was crying now too. You aren't like me. You're normal.

And I'm not. Nobody. Nobody could change that. Ford, that's not fair. You can't just leave us because we look different than you. The room was tense. Everyone was deeply sobbing. All the Dominies stood there and cried for a while.

Finally, it was Ford who broke the silence. I've done something bad. My father asked him what he meant. I've done something bad. I'm so sorry, everyone. What did you do, Ford? I didn't want to be the only one. What did you do?

It's the barn. Ford was red in the face. All of his arms hung at his side and tears poured down his cheeks. He looked at me. I didn't want to be alone anymore. My father opened the back door and walked towards the barn. We stood in silence and watched through the barn. window. We watched him climb the clay path through the howling snow. We watched as my father opened the

door and stepped inside the barn. Moments later, he came tumbling out onto his knees and vomited. He sprinted towards the house. I'll never forget my father's face. It was white as the snow around him. He burst through the back door. I'm sorry, brother. I'm so sorry. I'm so Sorry. My father turned to my mother. Call the police. Don't let him leave. But Jack.

Call them. Ford didn't even try to leave. He just stood in our kitchen and sobbed. My dad went into our den and grabbed his rifle. The same rifle he had used to shoot the rabbit I found. He loaded it and stepped back into the blitz. My mother called the police from the other room. I stood alone with Ford in our kitchen.

We watched through the window in silence as my father stepped back into the barn. We heard a single shot from the gun. And then only the sound of the snow and wind outside. When the police arrived, they searched the barn. The walls were covered in the carcasses of animals that Ford had captured. Rabbits, birds, frogs, a few stray dogs and cats. They were all wrong. They had parts sewn onto them, arms, legs, ears, tails that didn't belong.

Most had an extra set of limbs sewn on either side of them in a sick imitation of Ford's extra limbs. Animals were dead from either blood loss or infection. The floor was covered in dried blood and filth. The police found in one corner of the barn a pair of dirty boots and a soil-covered shovel. They later matched this soil to a... a local cemetery in town where several graves have been found manually exhumed in the middle of the night. Ford had been digging. But I saw with my own eyes the horror that caused my father to wretch outside the barn. While the police were on their way, Ford led me up to the mouth of the

barn and opened its jaws to show me what he had done. I didn't want to be alone anymore. You understand right? There was a young woman, early 20s, Brunette. It was the woman from the post office, the one who had always liked Ford so much. She was naked, save for metal restraints on her ankles and neck that led to chains on the wall. Dried blood caked most of her body. On her sides were two rotting pieces of flesh, arms that Ford had undoubtedly ripped from other corpses in hopes of creating a second copy of himself.

They had been sewn on with blue thread. They were black and green with decay, which was quickly spreading to the rest of her body. She was dead. There was a bucket near her that had clearly been used as a bathroom and refuse from food that suggested she had been imprisoned there for several weeks. The police arrested for it. He pled guilty to grave robbing, animal abuse, kidnapping. and murder. He received life in prison. My father never talked about what he saw, except once in 1999,

after we had received word from the prison that Ford had killed himself. Dad told me that when he entered the barn the first time, the woman was still alive. My father rushed to her side, moving to unlock her metal restraints. She asked him to stop. He told her that he was there to help. She said that it was too late. She said that she didn't want to suffer anymore. That's why my father got the gun from the house. I don't think that Ford actually wanted to hurt anyone. He was deeply sick and disturbed.

But mostly, he was just alone. There was no one in the world like Ford, Dominie, and hopefully there never will be again. ...loods our nocturnal presentation. Now it's time to drift off into your own nightmares. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past 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. Join us again next week. We'll have more stories for you and whatever that is standing right behind you. This audio production is Copyright 2016 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of production of children. This audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.