The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E15

Episode Date: July 17, 2016

It's episode 15 of Season 7. On this week's show we have six tales about creepy canines, disembodied distress, and shocking science."All Fours" written by Felix Blackwell and performed by Peter Lewis. (Story starts at 00:02:20)"The Rosie Hour"** written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Jesse Cornett & Erika Sanderson & Addison Peacock & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts at 00:08:15)"Bounce"** written by Taylor Allgood and performed by David Ault & Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts at 00:27:50)"Memories of My Childhood Pet"** written by CD Johnson and performed by Alexis Bristowe & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:01:30)"A Scarecrow for God"** written by Jesse Rose and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts at 01:21:00)"Eating the Machine"* written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Jeff Clement & Atticus Jackson & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts at 01:39:20)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about Felix Blackwell Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper Click here to learn more about CD Johnson Click here to learn more about Jesse Rose Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"A Scarecrow for God" illustration courtesy of Lukasz GodlewskiAudio 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. Season 7, episode 15. All fours, the Rosie Hour, Bounce, Memories of My Child's, My Child's. Good pet, a scarecrow for God, eating the machine. It's the No Sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about creepy canines,

disembodied distress, and shocking science. I want to let you know about a new feature on our website if you're interested in hearing the kinds of ads we're running now. If you're a season pass member, or perhaps you live in a region where certain ads aren't playing, you can visit sponsors.com to see all of our sponsors, listen to our fun little micro stories, and find out more about the offers.

We appreciate you listening to them and your support of those companies who support us. And I'd like to welcome a new voice actor to the show. Addison Peacock has joined our team. Addison is currently in her, junior year of college where she's earning a BFA in musical theater. She's passionate about all types of theater and performance and spends her free time performing and recording spoken word, written plays, and making YouTube videos. It's great to have you with us, Addison. Thanks for sharing

your talents with us. Now, since Addison and all our voice actors are ready to go, let's call them to the stage and start this week's show. In our first tale, we hear a frighteningly fast little story shared by author Felix Blackwell. In it, he recalls a strange night when he was being looked after by a babysitter. It seems his dog chose that night in particular to exhibit some rather strange and certainly creepy behavior. Performing this tale is Peter Lewis. So, So if you have a pet pooch, just be thankful if your dog remains on all fours. When I was eight years old, I lived with my dad, my stepmom, and two stepsisters ages seven and six in a very large house. My dad and stepmom went away for the weekend and left us with a

babysitter. She slept in our parents' bedroom, and us kids had a blanket fort camp out in the living room. In the middle of the night, I heard a weird sound. Something scraping around on the wood floors in the hall. Our house had no carpet except in the bedrooms. All of the halls and common areas had wood floors. We had two dogs at the time, a golden retriever and a chocolate Labrador. So when they ran around, they made a hell of a lot of noise.

But this was not one of their familiar sounds. It was too slow and purposeful. Something else was trudging around inside my house. I imagined some horrific creature with rotting skin and flimsy little legs lurching up and down the halls of our home, poking its head in and out of rooms, searching for a child to snatch and whisk away into the night. My stepsisters slept through the noise. I listened for a long time, then finally got the courage to go investigate. I climbed out of the blanket fortress and grabbed the flashlight off the bar counter. Then I walked around the ground floor of the house, looking for the source of the scraping sound.

The ground floor of our house was comprised of four long hallways that made a square. The kitchen and living room were at one end, and at the other there was that stupid room with all the nice furniture that nobody was ever allowed to actually sit in. As I reached the off-limits living room, I saw something move past the piano at the far side of the room. It moved into the adjacent hallway. The scraping sounds resumed. I hurried over flashlight in hand. trying not to trip over anything. As I rounded the corner into the hall,

I saw our golden retriever bear walking through the darkness on his hind legs. You know how sometimes when a dog jumps up on you and you grab him by the front paws and kind of help him stand? It looked like someone was doing that with our dog. But there was nobody there. I watched Bear stagger four or five steps, his back facing me.

When he noticed my light, he fell to all fours and wagged his tail, then resumed walking like a dog normally walks. He trotted away up the stairs to the second floor like nothing strange was going on. Best thing was, when I was laying in the blanket fortress earlier, I listened to that scraping sound. for a good five or ten minutes before deciding to investigate. The dog was walking around in the dark for that long, on his hind legs, in slow circles around the house.

To this day, I've never figured out why. He never did it before and never did it again after that night. But he apparently freaked out the babysitter, too. The next morning, she told me that he pushed the door open to my parents' bedroom, went over to the bed, and started making vocalizations that sounded like he was trying to mimic human speech. He did this for several minutes before she locked him out of the room, and she looked pretty rattled the next day when we...

It's probably not a coincidence that as an... adult. I'm a cat person. Working at a call center taking orders for retailers might not be the most fulfilling form of employment, but as author S.H. Cooper explains, it can be a job where you speak with quite a few interesting characters. But when one caller in particular seems a little too familiar, it may be time to look for another job. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornette, Erica Sanderson, Addison Peacock, and Nicole Goodnight. So check the clock. It might be time for the Rosie Hour. I was a directionalist kid when I got out of high school.

Solidly average grades. Never heavily involved with any particular extracurriculars. No lifelong dream driving me to a particular field. I was just drifting along, letting life's current take me wherever. I knew I needed a job after graduation, but my options were as limited as my experience. I took the first gig offered to me at a call center, taking inbound orders for a company, specializing in knick-knacks, trinkets, and all other manner of dust collectors. I had always heard how soul-crushing call center work was, but I happily threw myself into the compactor to make a couple bucks over minimum wage.

The job itself was simple. Answer phone with canned greeting. Punch their request into the order screen. Attempt to cross-sell them on a related product. Translation. Try to sucker them into buying some other overpriced item. Verified delivery address and billing information. Recite close of call language.

Let customer disconnect. Move on to next call. Letting the customer disconnect was one of the most important parts of the process. It was drilled into us from date. one that we weren't allowed to hang up for any reason. Apparently, it brought down customer loyalty, something. I didn't have a problem with it. I actually kind of liked some of the people who called in. Many were older and just enjoyed having someone to talk to, and in return, I got to hear some pretty cool stories. My supervisor wasn't thrilled with the average length of my calls,

but I was one of the top salespeople for the entire company, so I didn't get into too much trouble. It turns out people are more inclined to buy if they feel like you actually care about them. I'd been on the job for about a year when I was asked to move to an evening shift. Sales needed to pick up, and they were moving some of their stronger people around to try and improve numbers. I agreed, but only after I was told I'd be getting a raise if I did it. It took a couple days to adjust to the new hours, but soon I was back to being a top seller with two long, phone calls. Thank you for calling.

This is John speaking. What can I assist you with today? John. It was a woman's voice, older, and soft-spoken. Yes, ma'am. How can I help you? Oh, John, it's so nice to hear from you again. It's been so long.

I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm with Heartland's finery. Were you calling to place an order? It's Rosie, John. She continued as if I hadn't spoken. I can't believe it's been so long. Are you doing well? I've not been so good, John, but I'm certainly better now.

Ma'am, I'm very sorry, but I think you have the wrong number. This is... I know it's you, John. Don't be silly. Do you know I was just talking to Alice about you? She's my neighbor, sweet lady, but I think... She's starting to get a bit touched with age. Not quite so sharp as she used to be.

She's not the only one, I thought. I had a few customers with dementia call in before. They usually thought they were calling someone else and would get upset if you kept telling them otherwise. Sometimes I'd feel really bad for them. So I'd play along until they decided to hang up or someone on their end found them and took the phone away. It seemed harmless enough.

And they always sounded happier after. Are you listening, John? Yes, ma'am. I'm at work right now, ma'am. You don't have to be so formal with your rosy, John. I apologize, but I'm an employee with Heartland's finery. You called our company's number just now. Well, I don't know what's gotten into you tonight, John, but it's not funny.

I'll call back tomorrow. The line was disconnected. I briefly told my co-worker in the next cubicle about Rosie, laughed it off, and took the next call. The following evening, as promised, Rosie called back. John, how are you? I'm doing well, thank you. How are you? Just fine. I've missed you so much, John. I chuckled. We just talked last night. But you were being so strange, John, acting like you don't even know your own Rosie. I tried telling her again that I wasn't who she thought I was,

but she started ignoring me outright or talking over me. At one point, I muted myself and flagged down my supervisor, Taylor. This lady is called back twice now and thinks I'm her dead husband or something. I've already been on with her for almost ten minutes. Can I hang up? Sorry, Jay, just got to hope she gets tired of you soon. It took Rosie, another 20 minutes to hang up. The next night, an hour.

The night after that, another hour. She had stopped giving me much of a chance to say anything at all, much less deny being her John, so I would sit quietly and listen to her tell me about her neighbor, Alice, or what kind of flowers she was planning for the garden. I didn't know how she kept getting routed to me, or how she managed to be perfectly on time every night. But it became a routine. 8.30 p.m. to 9.30 p.m. became known as the Rosie hour and the rosening.

My co-workers all wanted to get a call from Rosie. They thought she sounded like a sweet, lonely old lady, but she only ever came through my line. Taylor quickly became frustrated with Rosie. One of her top salesmen was spending an hour of every shift talking to someone who clearly wasn't buying anything, and it was having a negative impact. She went to a manager and asked to allow me to break the no-hang-up rule with this one customer, but was told no. I'd just have to try and make up my sales around Rosie.

Of course, management didn't offer any solution. as to how to do that, just said to make it happen. I got used to my strange caller. She became an unexpected part of my day, and I looked at her hour as a break from actual work. Until one night, she called in sounding more subdued than usual. What's wrong, Miss Rosie? You don't sound like you usually do.

Really? It was never your color. Sorry? I've always told you the boy. Blue wasn't your color and you... It took a minute for her words to sink in. And I slowly looked down at my shirt, a blue polo. How do you know what I'm wearing?

She started to weep, as if there had never been such a betrayal as my blue shirt. How do you know what I'm wearing? Me, John. I disconnected the line and threw my headset onto my keyboard, my mind racing. Was Rosie a prank played by someone I knew? If so, they were taking it too far. It might have been stupid to get so worked up over something that was probably just a joke,

but I was extremely unsettled and I stalked across the center floor to Taylor's desk. I need a new extension. She barely glanced up from her paperwork. Rosie knew what I was wearing. It was creepy. And I don't want her calling me again. I want a new extension. To my surprise, Taylor took my concern and my request seriously.

I didn't even get in trouble for hanging up on a caller. The next night, I logged in to a new extension and started taking calls, relieved to be done with Rosie. When a new call came in at 8.30, I didn't even look at the caller ID. Thank you for calling. This is John speaking. What can I assist you with today? Why did you hang up on me, John? My blood went icy.

Rosie? Did you really have to try and change your number, John? To your Rosie? How did you get my extension? I raised my hand and started waving it around to get Taylor's attention. All the while, Rosie's voice was getting shriller and shriller while she went on about how hurt she was. I muted myself when Taylor. came over.

It's her again. Taylor shrugged helplessly, so I did the only thing I could. I hung up. I knew she wanted to say something about it, but my agitation was stamped openly on my face, and she could easily see how bothered I was. Am I being messed with? It has to be someone here who knows I changed my extension. The only people would be the IT guys, Jay.

I don't think they're doing it. This is getting ridiculous. She agreed and said she'd try to get Rosie's number blocked, if that was even possible. I got permission to take my break early and paste in circles in the dark parking lot. Even if it wasn't a joke, she's just an old lady, I thought. I'm not scared of an old lady. But I was. I didn't know how she kept getting through my line every night.

How she knew what shirt I was wearing. how she knew my extension. If someone stepped forward and admitted they were playing an extended joke on me, I wouldn't have even been mad at that point. I would have been relieved. I decided to burn some paid time off and clocked out early to calm my nerves. Wanting to get Rosie off my mind, I made plans with my girlfriend, Isabel, to go out to a late movie and then spent the night and most of the next day at her place.

She knew something was off, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her that phone calls from a geriatric creep were getting under my skin. So I just said I'd had a really bad customer experience. It wasn't a lie. When it came time to go to work the next evening, Isabel walked me to my car and gave me a big hug and kiss. I hope tonight goes better for you, babe. Thanks. She pursed her lips in an exaggerated power. which made me smile.

I hate when you're grumpy. I know. Sorry. I'll feel better tonight. I hope. I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and climbed into my car. Isabelle stayed on the curb, waving me down the road with a goofy dance to send me off with a laugh. Taylor pulled me aside first thing after I arrived and assured me they'd taken further steps to keep Rosie from calling back.

They'd blacklisted the number they had for her and changed my extension again. My lunch had been switched to 8.30 so that I wouldn't even be on the phones for the rosy hour. I thanked her with a hug, said I was sorry for bailing the night before and logged in to start my shift. I was optimistic about all the changes and appreciated the way the company had handled my situation. I channeled my gratitude into my work and was extra diligent with my calls, earning me more sales than you. usual. By 825, with only minutes to go until my break, I was feeling pretty good. Thank you for calling. This is John. What the f***! How did you get my number again? Who is this? She was following me. My stomach dropped in dismay. She'd seen me with Isabel. Don't you dare go near my girlfriend.

I'm calling the cops. Whoever this is, you need to knock. Get off. It's sick. It's not funny. She was screaming through angry tears. I'm not your John! I was on my feet shouting into the headset. The cubicles around me went quiet and I could feel my coworkers listening. Stay the fuck away from me. Stay away from my girlfriend. Rosie snarled with such force that every hair on my body stood on end.

Crazy! The line went dead. The world around me seemed to slow. Taylor was next to me saying something, but I pushed past her and was running out to my car. My ride to Isabelle's was a blur of honking horns and squealing tires. I didn't even park properly, leaving my car still running and half in the lane of oncoming traffic.

She was on the fourth floor, but I took the stairs anyway, bounding upwards two at a time. Isabel's door was closed, but unlocked, which set off every alarm in my body. She was a cautious person and always had at least her chain in place. I shoved the door open and called into the dark apartment. Isabel? No answer. My shaking hands felt along the wall for the switch, and I flicked it on.

The apartment looked exactly as I had left it earlier. Jay? I screamed when Isabel's voice sounded right behind me. She gasped as I turned and crushed her against me in a tight hug. What's wrong? I was just next door helping Mr. Sopaldo water his plants. We sat on the couch all night after I told her everything that had been happening with Rosie. She was skeptical at first, but then scared, understandably so,

and couldn't calm down enough for sleep. She wanted to go to the cops then and there, but I wanted to wait. I'd call Taylor in the morning and have her come too to back up my story. It was too crazy to try to tell it alone. Isabel finally managed to fall asleep around six, and after setting an alarm for noon, I wasn't far behind her. I was awoken by the sound of my cell phone ringing. Still half asleep, I pawed through my pockets for it and mumbled a hello.

Hello? I sat up, stiff from an uncomfortable few hours wedged between the arm of my couch and Isabel, and yawned. Who is this? Yeah, of course, Ed. What's up? Taylor? She was walking home last night. The phone slid away from my ear with Ed still talking.

Taylor? Taylor, who I had thanked last night with a hug. Rosie hadn't been talking about Isabelle at all. I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. Ed must have realized I wasn't listening anymore and hung up because the phone rang again. Someone else calling to tell me about Taylor, no doubt. Exhausted, sick with grief. I picked it up.

Hello. The more the human race learns about our world and the metaphysical aspects of it, the stranger our existence seems. Just ask author Taylor Allgood. He describes a conscious entity who is without a body, but who can transport from person to person for short periods of time, often with very disturbing effects. Performing this tale are David Alt, Nicole Doolin,

and Mike Delgadoo. So let's learn what happens when this entity decides to bounce. Many of you are no doubt familiar with the concept of lost time. If you're a serious drinker, you've likely woken up with a throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a dick drawn on your forehead with a magic marker. What did you remember about the night before? My money's on not a whole hell of a lot. That not so mysterious phenomenon is a blackout.

Lost time is roughly the same, but without the assistance of any kind of substance. One minute you're doing your laundry when, pop, you're in a hotel two states over. It's as if you teleport it, but a quick glance at your phone suggests the impossible, that it's been three days since your last memory. Such occurrences are surprisingly cool. common. There are a number of scientific theories on why the brain switches off its facility for making memories in this seemingly arbitrary way. It's been linked to brain tumors, neurological diseases, and plain old psychosis. There are much more colourful explanations as well. Lost time is a common

element in fantastical stories of alien abduction, witchcraft and possession. I can't speak to the veracity of those first two, but I can tell you that lost time is indeed a side effect of possession. Now, let me be clear. I am not a demon, at least I don't think I am. Demons are supposed to be malevolent servants of the devil who possess humans to wreak havoc, right? Well, I've never met the devil and he's never gotten in touch to give me a job. No, demons, if they even exist, are creatures of purpose, of intent. Now, yes, I do possess the minds and bodies of human beings, but it's not to herald the coming of Beelzebub or to tell people that their mothers suck cock in hell. Holy Water will not rid you of me, but should I ever possess you, understand that I do so without

ill intent. Granted, I'm no saint. I generally enter a body or vessel, as I like to think of it, for selfish reasons. I do it to explain. experience life. I do it to taste food the way only your tongue tastes it. I do it to feel the notes of a beautiful song reverberate in your eardrums. I do it to know the ecstasy of making love, to float through the netherworld on good heroin, to burn with adrenaline as I tray blows in a boxing ring. I do it to know the joy of holding a child in my arms and the warmth that washes over me when they call me daddy or mummy. Now you may be thinking, why don't I just live my own life and have those experiences for myself?

Well, that gets a little tricky. I don't have a body. Oh, I may have had one at some point. Maybe I had a mother and a father. Maybe I lived as a regular person. Then one day a witch put a hex on me or a voodoo priest released my soul from my corporeal form, or there was a break in the space-time continuum resulting in the anomaly that is me. Or maybe none of those things happened. Perhaps I've always been like this. Perhaps I'm a form of life that has yet to be defined or even discovered by science.

I've been this way for as long as I can remember. My earliest memories are from the turn of the 20th century, but I have a sense that my existence in this form or lack of form goes back farther. All I can be sure of is that I think, therefore I am. I have consciousness, so it follows that I exist. I have some sense of personal identity, but I can't be sure if it's truly my own or just an amalgam of the thousands of psyches I've squeezed myself into.

I suspect that I am male on some level, as I tend to favor male vessels. That being said, no pleasure in this world can beat experiencing an orgasm as a woman. Sorry, boys. I digress. We need to get back to the concept of lost time. As I mentioned, it's a side effect of my particular brand of possession, which I call bouncing. I use the term because it sounds less menacing and Catholic than possession.

It also gives something of a visual reference for what I do. I bounce from person to person. When I've decided I'm ready for a new vessel, I'll head to a public place, sit on a bench or at a table outside a cafe, and wait. Before long, someone who intrigues me will walk by and I'll bounce from my current vessel and into them. It's a snapping, elastic sensation, not unlike flicking a rubber band. The new vessel will then stop momentarily as I work my way into every crevary.

of their being. I'm like blood rushing through their veins, or better yet, the plasma within their blood. I rise up their brainstem and mould myself into every nook and cranny of their mind. This is one of the best parts. Inhabiting a brand new mind is like being reborn into another world. Sounds, smells, taste, everything is new. No two people are alike and enter. a new one is exhilarating. Then comes the tidal wave of the vessel's human experience. But if I could only convey to you the sensation of absorbing someone's entire memory, all the joy, all the pain, every moment they've ever lived, within a nanosecond.

I know everything they know and feel everything they feel. Inevitably this transition leaves my previous vessel in utter bewilderment. When I bounce into someone, their mind belongs completely to me. As long as I'm inhabiting them, they are effectively unconscious. But not fully as they still dream when we go to sleep, but I'll get to that. The poor soul I've just abandoned is now experiencing lost time. They don't know where they are, how they got there, or what the hell just happened to them. It's kind of funny watching them look around like lost puppies, checking their watches in utter confusion and disbelief.

I'm not a complete monster, though. I'll walk over in my new vessel and say something like, You don't look well, do you need some help? Occasionally, they'll nod and I'll help them get their bearings, then suggest they go see a doctor. Most of the time, they just shake their heads, bemused but declining any assistance. I generally don't stay in a vessel for more than a few days, and most of the time I'm in and out in a matter of hours. The longer I stay in them, the more lost time they'll experience,

and at a certain point it becomes just cruel. Like I said, I'm not a complete monster. I've taken my vessels to all kinds of experts to try to understand what I am and how it all works. I've picked the brains of doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, fortune tellers, spiritualists, scientists and holy men

of just about every faith. Most either don't believe me or give me some mystical bullshit answer. I did once speak with a theoretical physicist about my nature and abilities. While he clearly didn't believe a word of it, he was intrigued

by the idea. He brought up the notion of the multiverse and the possibility of different universes bleeding into each other due to some as of yet undiscovered phenomenon. He suggested that a theoretical entity with my claimed attributes could be something that has the actual form in its own universe, but whose consciousness somehow bled over into this one. Who knows?

As I mentioned before, my quest for understanding also compelled me to consult with those on the spiritual end of the spectrum. One such individual, a Unitarian Minister, heard me out and seemed to make a genuine effort not to judge. I met with him sometime in the 70s, if I remember correctly. It's hard for me to keep track. In all likelihood, this is a delusion of some kind. A psychologist would probably be better equipped to help you. I leaned back in the soft leather chair the minister had invited me to sit in. I slouched and frowned at him across the massive oak, day. mask that lay between us.

Believe me, I have tried with them. This isn't a delusion. I'm not crazy. And I'm not the person you see sitting in front of you. My vessel at this juncture was a pretty sorority girl with a disarming smile. The person you're looking at is Trish Volker. She's a 20-year-old student at Stanford. I'm a bodiless being without a name.

If I wanted, I could bounce from her. into you in an instant. The minister removed his glasses and chewed on an end while he considered me. He was an older man with a kind face and warm eyes. All right. Show me.

I sighed. I won't remember it. None of them do. The kindly man furrowed his brow as he pondered this dilemma. He tapped his fingers lightly on his desk, trying to divine a solution. Or perhaps he was trying to decide

if I was really a problem. full-on nut job. You say you're in complete control when you... How did you put it? Bounce into someone? I nodded. Bounce into me, then change something. Make me walk to the other side of the room, then leave me.

If I understand correctly, it will seem instantaneous to me, right? I gave him another nod. The minister smiled. I could tell what he was thinking. I clench my fists or wiggle my nose. Nothing would happen and he could say, See, it's all in your head. You ready?

The minister nodded without a trace of fear. I bounced. My perspective made a 180-degree turn as I found myself staring at the dazed Trish Volker. I absorbed the minister's mind and memories. I was glad to see that he was a truly decent, well-meaning man. I made my new body stand. I made him speak telling Trish everything was okay and not to move.

I then made my way across the room. On the wall was a photograph of the minister with his bowling team. His memories told me that they had won a tournament that night. I gently removed the smiling faces from the wall and set the framed photo on the floor. A harmless change, but a noticeable one. I turned to Trish. She stared at me with incomprehension.

I turned back to the blank space on the wall where the photo had hung. It had left a rectangle that was slightly paler than the surrounding wallpaper. I shut my eyes and pictured Trish. Then I was back in the leather seat, staring at an old man's back as he studied the wall. The minister looked from side to side, then up and down. He saw the picture laying on the floor. He turned around to look at Trish, or should I say me. His eyes were wide.

With trembling hands, he gently placed the photograph back on the wall. He stumbled back to his chair, clearly shaken. How did you do that? I gave him Trish's pretty smile. You did that. Well, I did that as you. The minister was shaking his head in disbelief. He didn't seem angry or even particularly afraid.

He simply seemed astonished. Hypnosis? I shook my head. Your given name was Augustus. Your mother called you Augie. You changed it when you were 18. You changed it to Paul because he was your favorite figure in the New Testament. You believe redemption is the most important aspect of your faith.

and Paul's redemption moved you every time you read the scriptures. He gaped back at me. How did you know all that? Because I was you, just for a minute, but I saw everything in your mind. The minister's eyes clouded with tears. I couldn't tell which emotion they betrayed. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed them away. I just don't know what to make of you.

I don't know if you're God's instrument or the adversaries. I don't think I'm either. I think I just am. The minister nodded. That may be so. But if that's the case, this power you have, it's not right. I cocked my head. Why?

The minister's face turned grave. I may not remember any of it, but you took control of my body. You took stewardship. of my mind. This woman you're inhabiting? How long have you been in control of her? About 48 hours. The minister shook his head and regarded me with a mournful look.

Don't you see? We are not your vessels. We're humans. When you take one of us for your own use, you're not just wearing a costume. You're taking our free will. You're taking our minds, our bodies, even our souls,

to use at your leisure. Don't you realize what that is? I shrugged. It's rape. Rape of the mind. Rape of the spirit. You take a person's agency without their consent.

Just because they don't remember doesn't mean it didn't happen. At this very moment, you are raping the poor girl who's sitting in front of me. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the arms of the chair. So you're calling me a rape?

The minister leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. He avoided eye contact, shaking his head. I glared, leaning forward. Do you think this is what I want? To move from person to person with no idea of what I am? Where I came from? Or what I'm supposed to do? It's not what I want.

I have fun with my vessel, sure. But if I could have a body of my own, a regular life with a name, a family, a personality that belongs only to me, you don't think I want that? I don't know what you truly want. All I know is what my gut tells me, and my gut tells me this. This state of being you're in is wrong. I slumped back in the chair. This time the tears belonged to me. I've tried I've tried and I've tried to become my own person

I've tried to get out not to bounce into someone new but to bounce into a life that just belongs to me but it never works I can't even become a dog or a cat or even a fucking tree I have to live inside another person there's no other way

The minister nodded solemnly. Then you'll have to make the best of it, I suppose. I don't understand God's purpose in making you what you are, but he did. Try to do right by the people you take. I won't claim that I have lived up to the minister's request of me, but I have made some small efforts. When I bounce into a junkie, I enjoy the euphoria of shooting up and losing myself in the high. But when I come down, I will the junkie into re-examined. rehab. When I bounce into a married man, I only fuck his wife. When I bounce into a single woman,

I only fuck people that her brain and chemistry tell me she'd want to fuck. So I may be some kind of metaphysical parasite, but I'm a metaphysical parasite with standards. That encounter with the minister stuck, though. When you've been bouncing as long as I have, you're bound to find ugliness in the dark corners of the soul. Everyone has pain, everyone has secrets, shameful fantasies, and desires. Everyone has a guilty conscience to some degree. I've seen twisted things in the memories of my vessels. Sometimes the vessel is the victim of some heinous act and sometimes the perpetrator. But true evil, the kind of unspeakable depravity that stays with me constantly is a rarely seen substance. I've seen it, though. I've merged with the minds of psychotics and sociopaths.

The bounce feels cold and strange with such individuals. Rather than the rush of sensory delights I normally enjoy, I find myself in a fractured, scattered place. Everything has sharp edges. No one is a friend. Joy is as foreign to these souls. as an alien language. Until recently, when I found myself inhabiting these sick, broken minds, I would immediately bounce to someone else. I couldn't get out fast enough. That feeling, that lack of compassion, that view of the world as one great sky full of swine, always haunted me. Not to mention the horrible atrocities some of them had committed. I saw all of it. I saw things, things no one should ever see. Eventually, though, I forced myself to face this evil down.

Rather than run, I decided to try and set something right. It wasn't planned, but when I encountered this particular person, I resolved to stop him. His name was Jasper Marin. The 20-something son of a billionaire, Jasper lived a jet-set lifestyle fueled by designer drugs and promiscuous sex, all subsidized by Daddy's Deep Pockets. He was one of the few vessels whom I targeted specifically. I bounced my way through his father's employees until I could get close to him. A member of his security detail was the final link in the chain. I hadn't targeted this spoiled little rich boy for some moral imperative.

As you probably realize by now, I'm something of a hedonist. Spending a few days basking in the decadence of Jasper's life would no doubt be an orgy for the senses. I expected a few literal orgies as well. This young man was overprivileged, handsome, and had the reputation of being a complete party monster. I didn't expect him to be a pure and innocent vessel. That would have defeated the purpose of bouncing into him. But I wasn't prepared for the nauseating darkness that the world knew, as Jasper Marin.

I bounced into the young playboy and spread my invisible tentacles through his gym-sculpted drug-addled body. I seeped into the crevices of his brain and accessed his psyche. This mind was like no other I'd encountered. Imagine living your whole life in a dank, reeking basement. Imagine looking around you to see that everyone you know, everyone you walk past is just a sack of meat. Imagine looking into the face of innocence like it's a tantalizing entree.

That is what it was like in Jasper's mind. I found no love, only desire. There was no happiness, only gratification. He had no conscience, just a set of rules he worked within for the sake of self-preservation. My first instinct was to bounce back into the security man and get as far away from this monster as possible. Then I saw the faces. Children's faces, tiny, innocent, vulnerable children, crying out in pain. If I had a stomach, it would have churned with revulsion. Jasper had just returned from a tour in Thailand.

I'll let you puzzle out what kind of tour this was. I saw the things he did, felt the fevered lusts that drove him, the cruelty and violence washed over me until it seemed I was drowning in it. I wanted to cry out to escape the hellscape that was this man's inner world, but something held me. I found myself remembering the minister's exhortation to me. Do right by the people you take. Jasper Marin was not a person though. He was malice given human form. Fighting my own disgust, I stayed in Jasper's mind for two miserable days.

I would do right, I would do right by the children he'd hurt. I would do right by any future victims he might put his hands on. I resolved to put an end to this crude mockery of a man. My first thought was to make Jasper turn himself in. I would puppeteer him into a police station and manipulate his hands into writing and signing a full confession. That was no good, though. His father's lawyers would find a way to get him out of it. The system was rigged in Jasper's favour.

The only way to ensure a conviction would be for me to stay in him for the duration of his trial and sentencing. I was not going to stay in the feted pit of this. man's soul for a process that could take years. I considered bouncing into one of his security detail and putting a bullet between Jasper's eyes. I couldn't do that. I'd be forcing an innocent man to commit murder and Jasper's dirty secrets would die with him. The only path was clear. I had to kill Jasper. That is to say, I would have to facilitate his apparent suicide. I spent several hours pacing around his penthouse, trying to enjoy some of his absurdly expensive scotch as I considered how to do what needed to be done. You see, I don't know what happens to me if my vessel dies

while I'm still in it. I've come dangerously close a number of times, but I've always managed to bounce into another vessel before the previous one gave up the ghost. For all I know, I would involuntarily bounce into the nearest person, or I could just as easily blip out of existence. As much as I wanted to end this scumbag's presence on the earth, I wasn't ready to give up my own. After some debate with myself, I formulated a plan, one that I believed would allow me to continue on and give Jasper exactly what he deserved. But before all that, there was one thing I wanted to do while inhabiting the perverted daddy's boy. I wanted to sleep. Sleep is the only state in which my vessel has some level of awareness.

In my vessel's dreams we are two separate entities who can interact with each other. I remain lucid, but the vessel's subconscious that dictates what happens in the dream. My presence can sometimes cause distress, as my appearance in their mind's eye is outside of my control. To the vessel, I'm a faceless, genderless being who approximates a human but is not one. Typically, I reassure the vessel, telling them there's nothing to fit. and that I'm a friend. If I do my job right, I can persuade them out of making the world around us into a nightmare. Through decades of practice, I've gotten quite good at putting my vessels at ease. The dreams will become soft and pretty. We'll be in a beautiful meadow enjoying a picnic or

something like that. We'll converse politely and sometimes I'll even explain what I am and what is happening to them. Most are oddly accepting of it. I had very different plans for Jasper. Sleep can be a tricky proposition. For all the power I have over my vessel, I cannot make their body sleep. They must pass into Neverland of their brain's chemistry's own fickle accord. Sleeping pills are no good because they just knock the vessel into a dark haze, one in which I'm a blur, if anything at all.

My solution was to run Jasper ragged. 90 minutes on the treadmill, half a bottle of wine and no food did the trick. We collapsed onto his California king, sweating into his silk sheets as his body succumbed to slumber. The dream that sprung around me was beautiful and nauseating. It was full of swirling color and pulsating pleasure. But there was a haze that permeated the whole affair. In my periphery, I could glimpse oily, dark decay. Even Jasper's dreams had a false veneer of attractiveness.

It took some time to actually locate the dreams creator. He was that one might call the center of it, though the geography of dreams is quite fluid. Jasper stood atop a huge looming tower. It was made of a black, greasy substance that seemed to melt down like a candle but never dissipate. I willed myself atop the imaginary structure and called out the fire. He turned around, and I was surprised to find his eyes full of tears. His usually flawless hair was tousled and his jaw was speckled with unshaven hair. As I approached, he stiffened in fear. Dreams often include mirrors. I'm sure there's some psychoanalysis to be applied to that,

but for my purposes it's more practical. It's the only way I can get a glimpse of myself, or at least the way I appear to those whose dreams I'm intruding upon. As I closed the distance between us, Jasper trembled before me. I knew what he saw. He saw an unfinished human. I had no eyes, no mouth, no ears. The space between my legs was smooth like I was some kind of autonomous mannequin. Hello, Jasper.

The chicken shit began to shake violently. Please. Don't push me. Can't fall again? I hate falling. I cocked my blank-faced head at him. You're afraid to fall? Jasper nodded.

I stepped closer backing my prey onto the ledge of the dark immaterial tower. I know, but did you ever think about them? How afraid they were when you smirked at them, when you unzipped your pants and bragged about what you would do to them. Jasper just gaited back in confusion. If I'd had a mouth, I would have grinned. The army growing at my back was not one I'd created. They were the voiceless victims, those whose innocence this monster had stolen. Whatever small joke of a conscience Jasper owned had kept the shameful memories of them alive. Behind me stood dozens of children, their stares blank and cold. The man who tormented them

recoiled. He opened his mouth to speak, but I shushed him. I'm not here to make you fall, but they are. The human spots of guilt rushed at Jasper. He screamed as they flunk him from the tower. I reveled in the sensation of him falling off his death. Like most falling nightmares, he awoke just before impact. That is to say, I awoke. I did so with a smile. Having fighting, I finally realised the best way to dispatch this shit from the world. That brings us to now. I write this as an account of a monster's crimes lest he be memorialised he be memorialised as some sort of martyr on the poster of a suicide hotline.

I may be a monster too, but I flatter myself that I'm a lesser species of evil. It's morning, and the view from Jasper Marin's penthouse is lovely. His oversized glass windows were sealed shut, but a heavy mahogany bench took one out with just a few swings. People are already gathering on the sidewalk, wondering what insanity is taking place five stories above. The ghosts of Jasper's dreams had the pleasure of killing him in their world. I claim the pleasure of doing it in this one.

I will climb onto the narrow ledge outside the window and wait for the mob together. all will see this man's despicable life end in a smatter of blood on the pavement. Like I told you before, I don't know what happens to me if my vessel dies while I'm inside. I don't intend to find out. There are bound to be dozens of onlookers waiting to see if the rich boy will make good on his threats to jump. I'll choose one, and just before Jasper hits the pavement, he will be another victim of lost time. He won't know how he got here or why it's happening. All Jasper will see is the hard grey sidewalk crushing up to meet him, and his dreams will come true.

If I'm lucky, I'll bounce into someone quick enough to see the life go out of his eyes. If I'm not lucky, well, who knows? I'd better go now. The security detail is banging on Jasper's door. A big fuss about a broken window, if you ask me, but they'll get in. sooner or later. The window and the street below are waiting for him and a new body is waiting for me. Who knows who I'll bounce into next? Maybe it'll be you. It includes our nocturnal presentation. Now it's time to drift off into your own nightmares.

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