The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E12

Episode Date: June 26, 2016

It's episode 12 of Season 7. On this week's show we have six tales about family frights, vexing visits, and bilious bottles."The Djinn Bottle"** written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by David Ault. (Story starts at 00:07:10)"My Sister Was Murdered"** written by E.Z. Morgan and performed by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts at 00:29:55)"The Moondance Drive-in Theater"** written by Jimmy Juliano and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 00:49:40)"The Thing in the Yard"** written by Lindsay Moore and performed by Corinne Sanders & Jessica McEvoy & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:07:35)"Separation Anxiety" written by Elliott E.D. and performed by Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:20:00)"When Hell Comes Knocking" written by Elias Witherow and performed by David Cummings & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:42:20)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about E.Z. Morgan Click here to learn more about Jimmy Juliano Click here to learn more about Lindsay Moore Click here to learn more about Elias Witherow Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"The Djinn Bottle" illustration courtesy of Alexis BristoweAudio 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

Come in and have a seat. Close the door. Jessica? David? Peter. Sir? I've called you into my office to discuss a serious matter. If it's about those bodies, I can explain.

No, no, no, nothing like that. You see, I'm considering ways in which our wonderful free listeners can, well, contribute to the growth of the podcast. You're not suggesting disrupting the show with... Are you going to put ads in the No Sleep Podcast? Look, here's the thing. I want to ensure our show runs without any ads disrupting the mood and spooky atmosphere once it starts. So the plan is to feature one and only one ad at the very start of the episode. It'll be short, less than 90 seconds in length, and it'll be done like a no-sleep micro story, featuring our voice actors like yourselves, with music and sound design to make them fun, informative, and creative.

and creepy. That seems reasonable. The quote short, sponsored story will only be heard on the free version of the show. Season past members won't ever hear ads. Although it's a shame, they'll miss out on the fun little stories, many of them written by some of our most popular authors. And the extra revenue goes to...

To pay our contributors, the writers, producers, composers, illustrators, and yes, even you lowly voice actors. You all deserve to earn more for your time and talent. And bringing on more team members means I might be able to have what most people call a life. Right now, time is far more valuable to me than money. So one short, entertaining, scary, and funny ad before the episode proper even starts. And once the episode starts, there's no more. ads, no disruptions, and it's the same show we've known and loved for five years now.

That's absolutely right. You two are far smarter than I've ever given you credit for. And we get more money, Peter. Think of the riches we can purple elephant. I know. White smothers summer plastic on pancake mistletoe. It's the next to the middle. It's like I'm not sure. What's your much nip. Oh, yeah, we're awake, Mr. Cummings. Did you have a nightmare? Where am I? Oh, come now, Mr. Cummings.

You're in the same place you've been for the past five years. Don't act like you don't know. Is this a hospital? No, Mr. Cummings. We go over this every time you wake up. Why are there tubes in me? Because we've been draining your life force to sustain us. What? Is this...

Does this have something to do with the podcast? You always yammer on about a podcast. There's no such thing, Mr. Cummings. You exist solely to feed us, and that's all you'll ever be good for. No, it can't be! You say the same thing every time you poor misguided tub of goo. But I provide a source of horror entertainment! You, sir, are nothing more but a source of nutrients.

No, no, it can't be. 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 family frights, vexing visits, and bilious bottles.

We hope you enjoyed our little skit and announcement at the top of the show. The placement of the ad and style will be very similar to the one you just heard, although they won't be that long. The change will be a very minor one overall, and one we hope will bring a bit of added entertainment to our free show. shows. We know a lot of people prefer not to hear ads, or in our case just one single ad, but the truth is they open up a lot of opportunities for us which would be unavailable otherwise. And by making our ad spots into little no-sleep style stories, we hope to show others how ads can be incorporated creatively and dynamically into shows. There really won't be any other differences in the podcast with the new inclusion of the single ad at the show. the very top of the show. We'll still have the season pass program to fund the majority of our

expenses, and as mentioned, the ad revenue will allow all our contributors to earn more for what they bring to our show. So now everyone who listens will be contributing to bringing our brand of horror entertainment to life. And I can assure you we are all very grateful for that. Another very exciting aspect of this new format is that the ads won't just be from the companies who typically support the podcast medium. Yes, we'll have ads from companies like Casper and Squarespace and Audible, but we'll also be partnering with companies like TV networks to, say, promote new TV shows and other forms of media,

which will allow our show to expand its visibility into new areas. Plus, I've hinted at it already, but some of these opportunities may include No Sleep Live performances, where you can meet many of your favorite no-sleep performers and watch us treading the boards of the theater. You know, with our recent fifth anniversary and a featured appearance on the front of the iTunes podcast page this week, the show has been thrust into the limelight

and a lot of new people are discovering what we do. We hope everyone, new and experienced listeners alike, will enjoy what we're doing and join us as we continue to work hard to make the No Sleep Podcast your source for top-quality audio horror. And so it's time to get started and kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we venture back to the days of World War I to meet a man growing up in very dark times. As we learn from author C.M. Scandrith,

the poverty and effects of the war leave him and his family barely scraping by. So when a traveling peddler offers him a mystical item which might solve his problems, the opportunity is one he can't afford to pass up. Performing this tale is David Alt. So as the saying goes, caveat emptor, my friends. For like this man, you must be wary when you're offered a chance to purchase the gin bottle. I was born two years before the first great war. My father was, of course, conscripted to fight across the sea against Germany, where he lost his life in some bloody conflict on foreign soil.

This left my mother to raise myself and my two sisters on her own, something which was very difficult in those times. By the time I was 12, I had two part-time jobs and no time for school. I considered myself a young man, my father's replacement, if you like, and books left. letters and numbers only concerned me if they facilitated more money in my threadbare pockets. Our family struggled. My mother sought to remarry, but men were in short supply after the war, nor did any man care to burden himself with three children when he could find a woman with none. Yet somehow we survived. I learnt to exist on as little sleep as possible, often less than four hours a night, which meant I could work longer hours and more jobs.

By the time I saw my 16th year on this earth, I had secured a good job in the mines, where I could use my considerable strength to great advantage. But then the Great Depression hit us. Industry suffered immediately and many workers were laid off. I kept my job for a year before the mine closed, bankrupt, and so with my father's hat on my head, my smartest coat about my shoulders, I joined the growing cues outside the workhouses.

In some ways, I think our prior poverty helped us. None of my family were proud, and all of us were used to tightening our belts during lean times. We were well accustomed to working whilst the pangs of hunger racked our guts, and we had long ago set aside any petty pride that might see us a shoe scavenging amongst mine tailings for unburnt coal or waiting outside grimy soup kitchens. I did as much work as I could, but it was in short supply in those hard times. Some days there was so little work that the crowds of men would grow restless and violent, taking their frustrations out on one another because there was no other outlet available. No one drank liquor, no man could afford to, and only the earthier pleasures were

were left to us, brawling, gambling, and fornication. Disease was rife, especially syphilis, and the work and food became even more scarce. My sisters picked mushrooms and wild berries in the forest, but it was never enough, so our stomachs would continue to growl through the watery soups and fried potato peelings. When my mother became gravely ill during winter, we suffered even more. Her wages as a part-time made were all that had kept our heads above water. When she lost her job, I thought we had reached the end. There was no end to the travelling tinkers and traders in those times.

Mobile pawn shops thrived, ready to buy up family heirlooms for a pittance, and take them south where the richer folk could afford frivolous luxuries. We had sold all such fripperies long ago, and certainly had no money to buy anything. I still like to look at their wares and pretend, imagining what it would be like to have money in my pocket, which was how I met the trader who sold me the bottle. He was a small thing and was likely 90 if he was a day,

but he was as spry as a gentleman sparrow in his grey and brown hat and coat, his wrinkled face curiously young and animated. His cheerful voice raked across nerves raw with hunger and lack of sleep. Care to buy something for a lady friend? No, sir. I haven't any spare coin. I'd just like to look. Ah, well, no harm in that. But while you look, would you like to hear a story? I have no objections to that, sir. And so he began to tell me a fantastic story of how he had found a magic bottle that had changed his life. He claimed to have been at one point a Victorian nobleman,

and at another the mayor of a respectable town, all thanks to his magic bottle, which he was, of course, willing to sell to me. A pretty fable, but sir, don't take me for some witless syphilitic. I'll not buy your fool's gold. Well, alone then, I'll give you the bottle for three days, and if you do not wish to buy it after that, then you may return it at no cost. I should have known better than to accept his offer. I knew something was off about this elderly dandy in his bottle fiction. But hunger and privation abrayed the soul down to its most tender, vulnerable layers,

leaving us wide open to clever hucksters and charlatans such as these. So I accepted. The bottle appeared to be made of smooth, opaque white glass, though at some point it had been carved with whirls and patterns which had been nearly worn away by hundreds of hands. The peddler claimed that it was Arabian rock quartz carved all from one piece, and that once it had housed a mystic gin of great power. When pressed on the matter of the magical creature, he claimed that it had been liberated from the bottle by its master, but the tecourious power still lingered in the thing. I gathered there would

be no three wishes for me. Holding the bottle in my hands after I had finished work for the day, I recalled his instructions. Place your palms on either side of the vessel and imagine your weariness settling to the bottom of your skull like a great ball of flam. Then when you feel it beginning to slide into the back of your throat, spit all of your tiredness and fatigue into the bottle. I did as he instructed, and to my surprise, I felt the liquid mass of sleep dislodge from my brain and begin to slide down my throat. With a great gurgle and a mighty hock, I managed to half-vomit the stuff into the bottle. Immediately I felt as fresh and awake as if I'd had four hours hard sleep. The gin bottle was genuine.

For three days I worked around the clock, scraping in just enough extra coin to survive. All men had to sleep, so most had to choose either day or night work, but with the bottle in my possession I could do both. That little bit of extra money allowed me to buy medicine for my mother and bread for my sisters, both an absolute godsend in those desperate times. When the peddler arrived at my doorstep, inquiring about the bottle, I told him that I would buy it. You have heard my story of ownership, and now I must tell you that the bottle can only be sold to you for all the money you. That is the rule of transference.

I laughed then, for I imagined that for some that would be too steep a price. For myself it was a pittance. All I had left in my pockets was a halfpenny, which I gave to the man and took the bottle. With a nod and a tip of his neat hat, he reminded me that every few days I should drink the stored contents within to buy off my sleep debt. Else you will eventually go mad, for no. No man should ever go without sleep for two. Holding the bottle in my hands that night, I felt like I had swindled him, that I had won some great victory over the fates. For with the bottle, my family had a chance to get through these terrible times.

I worked any job they could give me night or day. Nothing was too lowly for me. Ratcatcher, night soil man, grave-digger, all the jobs that people preferred to stay unseen or that was simply best done under the cover of darkness. But I could also work day shifts as lively as if I'd slept all night. It became my routine to work six days straight, accumulating all my sleep debt into the bottle. Then on the first minute of Sunday morning, the Sabbath, I would put it to my lips and drink the thin, foul-tasting grey slime that rested inside. Then I would sleep for a full day. We certainly didn't thrive, but we survived. The eldest of my younger sisters married,

becoming her husband's responsibility. I was always able to find work and became known as the man who never sleeps. As the Great Depression began to ease and we began to grow hopeful about the future again, a new calamity befell us all. The Second World War. Like my father before me, I was conscripted to fight on foreign soil against enemies with whom I personally had no quarrel. But unlike my father, I did not die. While all the other soldiers suffered from broken sleep and freakish nightmares due to the endless shellings, the roar of machine guns and the drone of plane engines, I had the bottle. I tried to use it wisely to keep to the established routine, but no man can sleep for 24 hours

during a war, and so instead of using the bottle, I began abusing it. A few weeks passed, with no change. I felt nothing. After two months, it became more difficult to get the sleep out of my skull. The grey liquid was thicker now, like the solid snot one might get from a terrible head cold. As I coughed and reched it into the bottle, I dreaded having to drink it down once this madness was all over. If my mood changed and I became grimmer, laughing less and smiling never, my fellow conscript said nothing.

It was war and it was detrimentally affecting us all. Century duty became a permanent part of my life. The legend of the stone-faced soldier who never slept was a quiet one in the trenches, but it reached the officers nonetheless. I received a field promotion and was put in charge of a squad. Then that squad breached a vital point of the enemy lines,

and I was again promoted. There was blood sliding into the bottle now, mixing with the thick grey ooze that vanished into the opaque, apparently bottomless container. I no longer felt much of anything, not fatigue, not pain, not grief, and most certainly not joy. When I was eventually cut down in an ambush

and sent back to the field hospital, I knew it was time to drink from the bottle. Lifting it to my lips with my good arm, I saw two tiny chips on the crystalline surface, as though it had been hit by gunfire and the bullets had simply bounced off it. But as I drank and drank the oily, diseased smelling black, grey fluid from the bottle, I quickly forgot about it. Heavy weariness began to settle over me, and blessed sense. sleep finally returned to my life. I'm told that the coma lasted five months. When I finally awoke in a hospital bed back home, I was as weak as a kitten, and so groggy I could barely

string three words together. On the table beside the bed was a spray of wildflowers, placed carefully into the gin bottle. It was in that moment that all of the war came crashing back in on me. They said I screamed for three hours, even long after they gagged me, then sedated me. Only their strongest medications finally paralyzed me enough that I could no longer vocalize the horrors I had witnessed. There were things that I had done all that I now remembered. Things that under the influence of the bottle had appeared perfectly seemly and perfectly logical. But in the cold light of day, no longer beholden to the fugue that had afflicted me, my mind I no longer saw those actions as such. The shaking hand that I now held up in front of my

eyes had pressed a gun to the heads of German children and pulled the trigger sending their brains and hair spraying into the dust behind them. These same hands had calmly and decisively shot several of my own men for insubordination. Strangled men I disliked in their sleep and torn the clothes from any woman I decided I wanted. The monstrous things I had done echoed around and around inside my skull, giving me no leeway, no reprieve. The hospital, ill-equipped to treat my madness, sent me to a sanatorium to recover, where I immediately threw the bottle into the adjacent river,

cursing it for how it had deceived me. But the next morning, the damnable thing sat on my dresser beside my bed. No matter where I hurled it or how many times I paid it, people to take it away from me, it kept coming back. Escapable. And so too were the nightmares. In my dreams I relived the things I had done. My bloody hands ravaged and reved, killing and tormenting scores of innocence. It was I felt fitting penance for my actions. And so I bore the torment with as much good grace as possible. But the bottle was not done with me yet. Other wars began to creep into my dreams, wars in which I had never taken part.

At first they fought with cannon and rifle, then musket and sword. When I dreamed of impaling men upon a great iron pike and laughing until my jaws ached, I knew that I was reliving more than just my own lifetime's demons. Morphine took the edge off, but it couldn't quell the nightmares any more than hard liquor could. and so inevitably I succumbed to the bottle again. After two years I didn't even miss sleep. After five, I began to forget that it existed. By now the stuff that slithered out of my mind was black as tar and just as thick,

oozing obscenely into the neck of the bottle like some giant primeval slug. and the bottle began to grow heavy. When the coppers came to my home for bashing my mistress dead with a fireiron, I brained the first with the weighty gin bottle and shot the other through the heart with my pistol. Cold and rational, realizing that I would be sent to prison, I walked to the docks and booked immediate passage away from my homeland, leaving my two sisters and now elderly mother behind. Knowing distantly that the bottle was to blame,

I stopped vomiting the tar of sleep into it and instead began to swallow it, determined to find a way to break the curse of the bottle. Things became very strange from there. I recall a fever, sweating and tossing in my bunk as the ship rose and fell in the swells. Strange, half-mad, half-awake, nightmares assaulted me. Insane dreams in which the crew had become undead things that thirsted for my flesh and blood. I ran from them, fought them, gibbed at them, and screamed at them until they stopped coming for me. Eventually, I lay on the deck of the ship, raving at the incessant sunlight that scolded and

blistered my face and lips. I came to my senses when a heavy rain broke my fever, dribbling blessed fresh water down my parched throat. When I roused proper, I found that the ship was deserted, rolling rudderless and without sail in the shallows of an unknown cove. But the blood spattering the deck and the cabins told me everything I needed to know about the fate of the absent crew. The bottle had won again. In the new country, I came quickly to money and power. No longer beholden to the morality of other men and gifted with eternal wakefulness by the bottle I was a force to be reckoned with. All my wildest desires had come true. Eventually the bottle granted me wine, women and wealth. It could not, however, grant me wisdom,

nor could it bring me joy. At the age of 70, nary a line upon my face and as fit as a man of 30, I felt a single, genuine emotion for the first time in a very, very long while. Fear. It is difficult for me to describe to you in writing the depthless terror I experienced in that moment. The bottle was not just an accursed object tempting me with a power I shouldn't possess. It was an eternal trap. After all, it had been crafted to be nothing more than a magic. prison for an ageless and unfathomable entity.

I realized then that there was only one release from that trap to pass the bottle onto another. I also realized that to do so, I would first need to empty the bottle, to drink that black essence of decades of pent-up slumber, and to render myself helpless for only God knew how long. But there was no other way. I knew that the bottle could not be broken. broken or borrowed until it was empty. So I sold everything that I owned, put it in trust,

and purchased a bed in a private hospital, where I pressed the evil bottle to my shrinking lips and drank down all of my debt. I am told that this is the year 2016, that the millennium came and went without the return of the Lord and without any of the predicted cataclysms. The bottle is empty, and as light as the day I'm,

bought it, the faint ridges and whirls of the stone quartz more familiar to my hand than even my own face. I have not used it since I awoke, for I cannot. The instant that I do so, it will again ensnare my mind and I will be damned to this existence for all eternity. But unlike the peddler who foisted this cursed thing onto me, I do not need to roam from village to village, telling my story day after day and being turned away by suspicious and wary strangers until I find some soul desperate enough to buy it. For with this new age has come the phenomenon of this internet, a global telegram network that reaches into every home,

every workplace and every dark corner of the world. So now, my friend, you have heard my story. My part of the bargain is, is complete. All you need do is give me all the money you have and the gin bottle is yours. With your intelligence, your educated savvy and your worldly ways, I'm quite sure that you can conquer the curse of the bottle where I could not. I eagerly await your messages. Most siblings who are twins have a very close bond. But in the following tale from author E. Z. Morgan, we meet two sisters who share more than just a close connection. The girl's struggle to be a part, and when one of

the sisters decides to act on her own, she discovers that some bonds are extremely difficult to break. Performing this tale is Jessica McAvoy. So let's listen as one of the girls explains the tragic events regarding how my sister was murdered. Sister Cassie and I didn't know we were different. How could we? We spent all of our time in the house. Our parents never let us play outside. They said this was for our own protection. I clearly remember our father outlining all of the horrors of the world beyond our front door. Vicious animals, dangerous men, deathly illnesses. Every day, brought a new reason why we couldn't venture outside the walls of the house.

I realized the truth much later. They were embarrassed of us. Cassie and I were close, literally and metaphorically. We spent every moments together. I've read that twins are often this way, but we were more than that. We woke up at the same time. closed our eyes for bed at the same time. We would often dream the exact same dream.

We read books together. She'd read the left page. I'd read the right. Our parents said we were unnaturally close. This didn't make sense to us at the time. When we played together, we would stick two toys together at the head, Gummies see-through tape obscuring their faces.

We would walk the one-headed doll and staccato movements, Cassie moving the left leg, me moving the right. Soon all of our toys were paired up. The stuffed pig was taped to the alligator. The china doll was matched up with the plastic dinosaur. Cassie and I even went so far as to glue our pillows together. So they'd never be lonely, I told our outraged mother.

Despite our bond, Cassie and I were very different. I was perfectly fine obeying all of our parents' rules, although they were plentiful. Cassie, on the other hand, hated the rules. Even the small ones like brushing our teeth at night would say, sent her into a fit. I liked Mother's dresses she would make for me, but Cassie ripped at them with her teeth. Cassie was also non-verbal. It wasn't her fault. She just couldn't get her mouth to move the way the rest of ours did. This didn't mean we couldn't communicate. In fact, Cassie and I spoke constantly. Always,

our mind. In the morning, our mother served us breakfast. Yuck me. I turned and smiled at Mother. Thanks for breakfast. Cassie growled under her breath. You're such a suck-up. We're prisoners here, and you treat them like angels. There are parents. Mother could see we were arguing in our head. She never commented on it, though. I don't think she wanted to know what was going on between us. When we were younger, I noticed that Cassie and I didn't look like the kids in the picture books. These kids were alone, but Cassie and I were always together.

I asked father about it, and he told us we had a condition. You're sick, but the doctors can't separate you. It would kill her. Of course he wouldn't. He loves you. But he didn't. I knew this secretly. Our parents didn't do much to hide the fact that they favored me.

They viewed Cassie as dead. As we got older, I have to admit that I started to understand their opinion. She was difficult. She was always upset over something. Plus, she was the reason I wasn't allowed outside or able to have any friends. Around the age of 12, our parents started letting us use the computer. It was only supposed to be for our studies, but when we were alone, we tried to Google ourselves. Twins who share a brain.

The first article was about twins who eat each other in the womb. This clearly wasn't relevant. The second was about Siamese twins. We skipped this one because we were from America. Then we got to a third one, which had a picture, two grown women who shared a head. One woman was large, and the... The other was small.

It looked a little like Cassie and I. The article called them Conjoined Twins. It said that although the women wished they could be separated, the doctors ruled that it was too dangerous. That's us? Why would anyone want to be separated? Maybe so they could look like normal people? I would much rather be with you than be normal.

I paused before saying, Me too, Cassie. But that was all before Cassie was killed. She died of suffocation. We were 14. I knew the second she stopped breathing. I could feel a shiver in my entire body as if something was crawling down my nerves.

I started screaming. I didn't end up. tend to, but the reaction was involuntary. Maybe it was Cassie screaming through me. My mother appeared in our bedroom, as if she had already been inside. My father was close behind. They rushed us, me, to the hospital. It was the first time I felt night air on my face. Any fear of being outside evaporated. It was freedom. I saw men and women of all different races.

They crowded around me, staring at me like a wild animal, didn't care. It was bliss. I even forgot about the corpse of my sister hanging off me. No one tried to resuscitate Cassie. Even though I knew she was dead, there was not a single attempt to save her life. The only thing the doctors did was prep me for surgery. Mother and father stroked my hair. They told me they loved me that soon this would be all over,

that the doctors would remove the tumor. The tumor that was my dead sister. Look up sometime later with the oddest sensation of weightlessness. My eyes were barely open, but I could see my parents asleep on a nearby couch. I was hooked up to a number of machines. I looked over and realized I was alone. The normal feeling of Cassie's body next to mine was gone. I was in a twin-sized body.

bed. Logically, I knew what happened. Cassie died, and so they removed her from me. But the shock of the lack of her made my heart raise. This thing I had secretly wanted, quietly yearned for, was terrifying. I lay back and moved my head around. It was so strange to be able to move freely. there was no extra body to hinder me fleetingly i wondered where her corpse was was it lonely was i lonely i lifted my hand hesitantly and felt the flesh that had once connected me to cassie in its place was a large scar and raised stitches all that was left of my sister was empty the air. It didn't feel real. I had only been conscious a few minutes and already panic was setting in. This was a mistake. What happened to Cassie? Where was she? I needed her. Desperately, I whispered, Cassie, are you there? It ticked by. Silence. A massive wave of screams filled my brain.

It was Cassie's voice, igniting my mind with a thousand horrified shrieks. My eyes stuck wide open. Cassie's voice began to speak through the screaming. They killed me. They killed me. They killed me. Shut up! My parents rose from sleep.

I realized I had said this out loud. They came to me, trying to soothe my feet. fierce, but all the while Cassie was tormenting me. They murdered me. I tried not responding to the voice, but it Cassie didn't care if I spoke back. For days, she just kept lamenting her death. As the doctors tried to teach me how to stand and walk without Cassie, she made herself known in my head. I pretended to be fine, but the voice tore through my sanity.

I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, she'd start up again. Our filthy parents, they put a pillow over my mouth and chilled me. I didn't tell anyone about the voice. Who would understand? Soon I was cleared to go home by the doctors. My parents made arrangements for me to start attending school. They bought me a wig to cover up the disfiguring scar.

The doors were all unlocked now. There was no more hiding. It should have felt like heaven, but instead the voice of my sister haunted my mind, passed with the same agonizing existence. I lost weight. I barely slept. Nothing. Cassie was slowly driving me insane. I didn't know if this was my imagination, or if Cassie was really alive somewhere in my brain.

But one day I'd had enough. I couldn't do it any longer. They killed me. Our parents murdered me. I took a deep breath and said, Cassie, you have to stop. I put a hand over my mouth and surprise. I hadn't spoken in my brain.

Only out loud. I tried again. Stop it, Cassie. Desperately, I shoved my fist in my mouth to stop myself from talking. But nothing came out. The ability to speak through my mind. had died with my sister. I crawled into a corner of the bedroom, arms over my head.

I started to sob. Waves of horror and sorrow curined across my body. Cassie just kept screaming and screaming. Our parents are filthy monsters. They murdered me so they could have a normal daughter. They smothered me with a pillow. They didn't kill you. I did.

Cassie's voice suddenly stopped. My tears kept coming. In a whisper, I continued. I couldn't live like that anymore. I wanted to be normal. I could still feel the weight of the pillow as I shoved it onto Cassie's face. I remembered the moans for help.

I could still feel her clawing at my arms. Something changed. I felt woozy and looked down at my body. It seemed like I was floating away from it. My being shrank. I felt myself pull out of my arms and legs up into my torso, finally lodging into the back of my brain. I was a tiny ball of myself hidden somewhere deep.

My arm raised slowly. My arm? Her arm? My voice spoke out loud, but it wasn't me talking. Finally, you admit it. Terrified, I tried to call out. What's going on? But it was just...

in my head. Our head? Just because you killed the body doesn't mean we don't still share the brain. My voice came out crackled. I was waiting for you to do it. I knew you would. You are just like our parents. Filthy, disgusting monsters.

But I've always been stronger and smarter. than you. You killed the body, but I still control the brain. Cassie stood up in my body, shaking out my limbs. I desperately tried to control anything, but she was right. She was stronger than me. It's strange to be able to talk. I like it more than I thought I would. What are you going to do? I am going to become you, the prettier one, the one our parents wanted. Then I'll kill them. Maybe I'll staple their skulls together.

Remember how they hated when we did that to our toys? And the best part is, I'll still have you stuck there in the back of our brain. I always said we'd never be separate. It was seven years ago. We're long dead now. She never went through with her promise to staple their heads together. Instead, she used our glued together pillow to suffocate both at once. I had to watch, completely helpless.

It was my hands over their mouths, just. like I did to Cassie. It is supposed to be my confession. One of the ways she can torment me. She allows me to control the body for minutes at a time, giving me a taste of freedom before snatching it back. I should have known I couldn't ever get rid of her. She is a part of me.

And now I am stuck here, forever. I wish I had never murdered my sister, but she sure seems happy that I did. If you're old enough or lucky enough, you may have had the chance to experience a mostly lost form of movie entertainment, known as a drive-in theater. Many can fondly recall the time sitting in your car watching a movie on the big screen with other cars all around you. But as we hear from author Jimmy Giuliano, a young boy who used to sneak away to a spot near his local drive-in, soon realized there was something very disturbing going on there. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado and Nicole Doolin. So be thankful for your streaming services and downloadable movies.

They're usually much safer than night spent down at the Moon Dance Drive-in Theater. I try not to think about the past much, but when spring turns to summer, I can't help myself. Little things trigger it. The scent of suntan lotion, buzzing mosquitoes, a cool breeze on a blistering day. And then I'm right back. I'm 12 years old, lying in the grass overlooking the moon dance drive-in theater. It was 1993. I was an adopted kid with few friends in a quiet Midwestern time. town. My adoptive father got transferred a lot and we were on our fifth home in eight years. Eventually, I quit trying with other kids. It was just easier that way. Moving towns was hard enough, but when the other kids found out that I was adopted, they were merciless. I was adopted

when I was four years old and I didn't know much about my own history, only that I lived in an orphanage the first few years of my life. My real parents were a mystery to me. My adoptive parents were hesitant to speak of them. My classmates were always more than willing to fill in the blanks, told me I was abandoned because I was evil, that I was my adoptive father's love child, that I wasn't a real son. But in that particular summer, it was okay.

I had my headphones and my sketchbook, and I had the moon dance drive-in. It was all I needed. The theater was a short walk from my house. I only had to crisscross through some yards, hike up a small hill, and I was overlooking the outdoor theater through a cluster of trees.

I couldn't see the films themselves. I was facing the back of the screen. But I was just in range of the theater's FM station. I tuned my walkman to the correct frequency and the soundtrack piped in. Only having the sound of the movie made the experience more memorable. I'd lay back, listen to the story unfold, and sketch what I imagined on the screen in my notebook.

Every now and then I'd sit up, gaze into the small valley below, and take it all in. Hundreds of cars lined up in rows, mattresses and pickup truck beds, kids playing frisbee in a grassy patch off to the side. The aroma of buttery popcorn sometimes wafted up my way and my stomach always rumbled. But I never went down there. I never actually saw the movies. I wasn't supposed to be there, and there was the chance I'd be caught. My adoptive mother was very strict.

If she knew I snuck out after dark, there's no telling what she'd do. For as long as I knew her, my mother was cold and distant. There was always something bubbling right below the surface, and I spent years just waiting for her to snap. I never exactly knew why, but I was always on eggshells around her. The Moon Dance Drive-in was my escape. Jurassic Park was released in June, and it was so popular it played every weekend for months on end. It was always the first film in a double bill, and I was there every Friday.

Sprawled out on the sometimes damp grass, staring up at the stars, cheap foam covering my ears. It was my own private theater. of sound. I got my routine down pat, retired to my bedroom at dusk, stuffed pillows under my blanket, and slip out through my window around 9 p.m. I always made it to the top of the hill right around the part of the movie when the grandkids arrived at the visitor center. I'd stay through the end credits and then I'd head down the hill, sneak through the same yards, and climb back through the window. The perfect crime. There was something magical about Jurassic park that always seemed to lift my spirits. The breakneck plot, the soaring score, the roars of the

dinosaurs, and this was without ever seeing it and having no idea what happened the first 30 minutes of the film. But it didn't matter. The experience was always thrilling. I'd clutch my cheap headphones to my ears and smile in awe and terror as the devastating footsteps of the Tyrannosaurus wrecks rumbled throughout the park. I sketched a picture of that immense creature crushing a car with little stick figure children screaming, their arms poking out of the windows in horror. And even when I knew it was coming, the reverberating roar of the T-Rex always made me jump. My drawings improved and my sketchbook was bursting with pictures of dinosaurs, some ferocious carnivores and others lumbering peaceful beasts.

A flyer arrived in the mail sometime around mid-July. The Moondance Drive-in was having a promotion called Film Rulet. On Thursday nights, they'd play a mystery film, and you'd have to show up to see what it was. I was falling in love with the Moon Dance, and it felt like that flyer was just for me. I was intrigued. The first Thursday of the promotion I climbed the hill at 9 p.m., leaned back against a tree

and fired up my walkman. The film was different. I'd never heard anything like it. At first I thought I had the wrong frequency. All I heard was soft, carnivalesque music in the background and the sounds of a giggling child. I double-checked my walkman. I had the right station.

I peered down at the theater and I only saw a dozen or so cars. I spotted the tiny light from the projector in the small booth below, and I concluded it was just an odd film, something foreign or an art house film, maybe. After about 20 minutes of listening, the laughing of the child subsided, and the carnival music slowed to a stop. It just kind of petered out, like it was running on dying batteries. A hushed whisper filled my ears, shushing and cooing over and over. I shivered and I noticed the goosebumps on my arm. It didn't feel right. I yanked the headphones from my ears and the chirping of the crickets and wind in the trees above was a welcome respite. I quickly made my way home,

not able to shake the feeling that I was being watched the whole time. I returned the following Thursday. I wanted to know more. What was a fearful experience the week before had evolved into a morbid curiosity. I had cleaned my drive-in theater palette with another dose of Jurassic Park the previous Friday, and I was feeling courageous, inspired even. I was a kid with nothing to lose, and the sense of purpose was intoxicating. I'd never felt it before. I was ready for the second round of mystery theater. Again, about a dozen cars littered the theater lot. I slipped my headphones on, adjusted the frequency and listened in. The signal seemed to have weakened.

The film was interrupted by mild bouts of static, and a steady hiss was present underneath the soundtrack. I had to really focus hard to hear anything, and when I finally heard it, my stomach dropped a bit. It sounded like a child sleeping. I heard slightly labored but gentle snoring, and behind it that carnival theme. The music was light and at a snail's pace as if it was playing in slow motion.

The voice kicked in after a few minutes. Daniel. Over and over. Daniel. It was soft but gleeful. I couldn't take much. My newfound courage evaporated quickly. This time, I ran home, not looking back.

Well, I took it. took a few weeks off from the Moondance drive-in, no Jurassic Park, and certainly no mystery theater. But soon I found that without the drive-in, I didn't have much. I had no friends. My father worked a lot, and the times I spent with my mother felt tortured. I had little to look forward to, and without the drive-in theater, I truly had little joy. And again, that sense of nagging returned. purpose filled me again. Just what was that mystery film?

And who was Daniel? I tried to piece it together. Being alone most of the time led me to think I was the only kid in the world, that everything was about me. I drew a carnival scene in my sketchbook, and below it I sketched a tunnel that seemed to stretch forever. A child lay in the tunnel, and a voice bubble trickled in from the darkness behind him.

Daniel, it read. And I believed I was meant to see the mystery film, that it was about me in some form. Maybe I was found cowering in a sewer. Maybe that's where I came from. My adoptive parents never told me. Maybe I was Daniel. I returned to the Moondance Drive-in one more time on a Thursday night.

I traveled light, no sketchbook in case I needed to escape, a hurry. Armed only with my Walkman radio, I climbed the hill in the cover of darkness. I overlooked the theater yet again and I spotted the small light of the projector and the scattered cars in the gravelly lot. I leaned against a tree, slipped my headphones on my head and spun the Walkman dial. It was exactly what I'd heard the last time. The hiss, the static, the slowed-down carnival theme, a child sleeping, and a voice whispering Daniel over and over. I stayed strong. As much as I wanted to rip my headphones off, I didn't do it. I shut my eyes instead and listened intently. The whispering voice seemed to get closer and closer. I covered the foam pads with my hands and the whispering

got louder and louder. Everything intensified, the static, the hissing, the the music, the whispering, the soft snoring. They all merged together as if forming one giant sound that would smack me in the head and knock me off my feet. The noises crescendoed and then zap. It went dead. Silence. And then a terrible, awful voice filled the headphones.

Run to your mother! At that same moment a hand clutched me on the shoulder and I screamed absolute bloody murder. I whirled around and was face to face with my father. I whipped the headphones off my ears and I completely broke down. Crying and shaking, I fell into his arms. He practically carried me home and I was in near hysterics the whole way. When I got it together back at the house, we had a family meeting.

As I wiped away tears with tissues, my father explained the horror they felt when they realized I was gone. He found my sketchbook in my bedroom and flipped through some of the my drawings of dinosaurs. My father had a hunch of where I was. Somehow he knew it in his gut, he said. Couldn't believe he found me. I started at the beginning, explained how for weeks I'd been sneaking off to experience Jurassic Park and how it led to the Thursday night mystery theater showings. My father listened and nodded and I felt empathy and understanding. My mother silently they seethed. I explained the strange films of recent weeks. I began with the carnival music and the

child giggling. My father's lips pursed. My mother's eyes widened a bit, then she looked away. I said the name, Daniel. My father's eyes shifted in surprise. They darted to my mother. She began to shake. And the last thing I heard was run to your mother. My father raised his head in shock. My mother turned her head towards me, her eyes fueled with rage. I knew it! She lunged toward me, reaching and stretching and clawing. My father left up and bare hugged her as she violently thrashed about.

You know something. Where is my boy? Where is my little boy? Be what you know. Why haven't you told me? The police were called. The rest of the night was a giant blur of confusion. I did learn a few things.

I learned that when I was adopted, my adoptive parents had a six-month-old boy of their own, named Daniel. We slept in the same room. Daniel had a mobile over his crib. He loved to reach up and grab for the colorful animals that hung above his head. The mobile had a wind-up music box. When wound, it played a carnival theme. One night, Daniel disappeared from his crib, just vanished without a trace.

I have no memory of this incident. Zero. My mother claimed she awoke in the middle of the night and heard a terrible, wretched voice down the hall, growl, run to your mother. And then I entered my parents' room half asleep. When they took me back to my bedroom, Daniel was gone. No trace of him was ever found, and the pain was just too much for my mother. She never spoke of him, didn't hang any pictures on the wall, threw out everything of Daniels, including the mobile. We never stayed in one place for too long.

When we settled, my mother started to feel the itch for Daniel, so we kept moving on. I never knew I had a brother, and as far as my memory, went, that awful night never existed. I never heard the voice the night Daniel vanished, never heard, run to your mother until that Thursday night at the Moon Dance Drive-in theater when I was 12 years old. I did my best to explain it to people. My parents, the police detectives from our old state, a psychiatrist. My mother doesn't believe me. I'm sure of it. I'm older now into my mid-30s. I keep in touch with my father. My mother, not so much.

They eventually split. Everything was too much. Like I said, I try not to think about the past. I do own a copy of Jurassic Park against all odds, and it still brings me joy. And I always start the film 30 minutes in. For some reason, not exactly knowing how the movie begins brings me a small amount of comfort. Like we can all have fresh beginnings. that the beginning can be as beautiful as we can imagine it to be.

But when spring turns to summer, that's when I can't help but relive everything. And I feel terribly alone because I know no one believes my story. Not my adoptive father, not anyone. When I initially told a policeman about the Thursday night mystery film showings all those years ago, he looked at me quizzically. He made a few calls. he told me. Son, the moon dance drive in theater is closed on Thursday nights.

I tried to find the flyer. Tore my room apart looking for it, but it was gone. It includes 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. 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 this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.