The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S7E23

Episode Date: September 11, 2016

It's episode 23 of Season 7. On this week's show we have four tales about visceral visions and preternatural premonitions."The Screaming Man"* written by G.P. Hardison and performed by Matthew Bradford & Corinne Sanders & Kyle Akers & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:03:30)"63 Years Ago"** written by John S. Darwin and performed by David Cummings & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:41:45)"They Were Wearing Masks"** written by Henry Galley and performed by Kyle Akers & Peter Lewis & Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio. (Story starts around 01:08:45)"The Guessing Game"** written by Dante Appa and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jessica McEvoy & Erika Sanderson & Kyle Akers & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:23:15)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about fundraising for the Adrian Branch Library Click here to learn more about Henry Galley Click here to learn more about Dante Appa Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: David Cummings & Jeff Clement* & Phil Michalski**"63 Years Ago" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio program ©2016 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Be forewarned, this is a horror fiction podcast. By listening to our stories, you are choosing to be frightened and disturbed for your entertainment. You do so at your own risk. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. Season 7, episode 23, the screaming men. Years ago, they were wearing masks. The guessing game. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have four tales about visceral visions and preternatural premonitions.

This week's episode features a story that has to do with a special place found in a small town library. Yes, we sort of like libraries and their wonderful books. And to that end, I want to pass along our thanks and the thanks of Rona Vastavast. Sallar and her mother Meredith for the many donations that they've received for the Adrian Library. And there's still plenty of time to help with a donation. In fact, anyone who donates to the Library Project will get his or her name on a permanent display that will be added to the library after the renovations. So just like Joe and Pip, you can be permanently immortalized in the library. Just go to library.

the no sleeppodcast.com to learn more. And with this being our 23rd episode of season seven, that means we're close to the end of this season. We have a great episode planned for next week, and then on the 25th of September, we'll feature our thrilling season finale. I'll say more about it next week, but I'll tease you by saying the finale

will be a mountain of an episode, featuring a large cast, full-length. epic production running close to three hours long. And for our season past seven members, we have three bonus episodes for you, which will be coming your way in the next few weeks. Our next volume of our suddenly shocking series featuring almost 30 flash fiction tales, an extended length story which will chill your body and soul, and an exciting new, not-so-old-time radio production featuring a an original script from the excellent author Michael Whitehouse.

It's done like a radio drama script, but it's all new and very spooky. So if you're not yet a season past seven member, it's never too late to join us. Well over 60 hours of content for just 1999, and just in time for October. Well, that's an overwhelming amount of storytelling to ponder, so let's clear our minds and enjoy. some wonderful horror storytelling as we start this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a young man who's turning 21. It's a time to fully enter adulthood, perhaps enjoy a cocktail, or as author G.P. Hardison explains,

it's a time to experience something truly terrifying at your birthday party. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Corinne Sanders, Kyle Akers, and Jeff Clement. So make sure what you're seeing is real, especially if you see the screaming man. Have you ever undergone trauma so personally intense that you felt the need to dig it out? To exercise it from your head in the quickest, most convenient manner possible?

Maybe not, but if you're like me, then you don't particularly enjoy the process of letting horrible, truly maddening thoughts loop endlessly within your own mind. Don't expect any explanations. Don't expect evidence. Take from this what you will. I'll start from the beginning. Four days ago, I turned 21 years old.

Of course, anyone who's been in my position understands the excitement that this particular birthday inspires for the average American college student. In our country, after all, 21 is the age at which a person can legally buy out. Alcohol. Suffice it to say, this past year of my life has rivaled my first Christmas Eve in terms of giddy anticipation. Looking back on it, the deep-felt truth of that comparison makes me worry a bit over the nature of my alcohol habit, but never mind. I'm sidetracking. Now, I've been blessed over the past couple of years with a company of some truly great friends. A few of them, like my best friend Stephanie, accompanied me from high school to university.

others were crude along the way. But all of them have shown themselves to be truly optimistic and energetic individuals. People whom I feel bring out the best in me. Well, they may be hard partiers with perilous study habits. At the core, where it really matters, they're good, honest people. And personally, it's been my experience that great friends have a way of throwing great birthday parties. So, on that balmy July Saturday, I rolled into town early in the morning, fresh off a week-long stay at my parents' house. My friends had been pestering me for weeks at this point, ensuring almost obsessively that I'd be in town for my birthday.

They had a big surprise plan, they told me. I was excited to say the least. The first half of my day was spent unpacking and unwinding, recovering from the four-hour drive I'd begun at 5 a.m. that morning. Finally, at around 4 p.m., once I was well rested, Stephanie picked me up from my place. She greeted me in the driveway, hug me, and wished me a happy birthday. Before I continue, I guess I should explain what sort of person Stephanie is. Stephanie was the joyous, excitable anchor of optimism around which our social group orbited, the common denominator of mutual connections.

Whereas most of us had her highs and lows, Stephanie has a lot. had become, in her short life, something of a psychological superhuman. If I'm being really cheesy, I could say that her eye for silver linings was 2020. That may sound pretty goddamn hokey, but it gets the point across. We got in Stephanie's car and started cruising. I asked her where we were going. She said it was a surprise. So we put on some music, the two of us catching up as she drove through campus and toured downtown. She asked about my family visit. I asked about her new job. We both seemed to be doing well. Overall, my birthday was shaping up to be a happy, light-hearted one, and a gorgeous one at that.

The sun was shining and the breeze was cool, the trees verdant and green, and the sun's spotless. I saw families and couples strolling leisurely through the parks and down the streets. I heard musicians busking on the sidewalks. Good vibes seemed to animate the entire city. At last, Stephanie pulled into my favorite restaurant. a family-run Italian bistro overlooking our city's dividing river. Cheap food, fresh and authentic,

one of those hole-in-the-wall establishments that you and your friends keep to yourself for fear of the place being overrun. A bit selfish, maybe, but that's just how much we'd come to love the place. As soon as we walked inside, I was greeted by the sight of my closest friends, all seated in a round-corner booth at the end of the room.

Though I'd seen this coming from the moment we parked beside the beach, bistro, my anticipation did little to quell the joy of seeing them all gathered in one place. So this was the big surprise. Good enough for me. We ordered our food, laughed and talked and ate. Typical stuff, you know, nothing too important. After dinner, though, things began to get mysterious.

The sun was already starting to set when we exited the bistro, so I imagine that it was high time to buy some overpriced vodka and shit. shitty punch, go out and find a party. But I was wrong. As me and a couple of my friends waited beside Stephanie's car, she hesitated before unlocking the driver's seat door. Fishing a bandana from her purse, she told me to close my eyes. Behind me, I could hear stifled, excited chuckles emanating from amongst my friends.

What did they have in store for me? Laughing, I went along with a gag. Unlike some people I know, I love surprises. well, good ones anyways. I made good nature jibes as my friends blindfolded me and marched me into the back of Stephanie's car. And, once firmly positioned in my seat, I made a point to simply take it all in.

I couldn't see anything more than some faint light spilling through the bandana's red cloth. Blinded, I listened as my friends entered the car, bantering amongst each other. Stephanie turned the ignition and we started to move. I was overwhelmingly easy. to find out what the hell they were planning. Although it was filled with nervous anticipation,

the car ride passed rather quickly, thanks to the company of good friends and good music. As we neared the destination, my friends grew gradually quieter and quieter, their own minds probably fixating upon predictions of how the whole gag might turn out. Amidst the silence, I still made out occasional peeps of laughter,

the odd, forced bit of small talk bubbling up here and there. Finally, the car rolled to a slow halt. Here we are, Stephanie said. If it were physically possible for a person to burst with joy, then Stephanie, by the sound of her voice, would have been a shining example in that moment. Cheesy, sure, but again, it gets the point across. I heard my friends shuffle about,

moving from their seats, car doors opening in conjunction. Cool air filled the Honda's interior. and I felt my hair stand up on end. It was almost narcotic, the way in which being temporarily blinded affected my other senses. Ironically, things felt very clear. I complied as someone's hand wrapped around my shoulders

and guided me from my seat. Stephanie tried and failed to sound serious when she warned me. Careful. My feet touched the ground, and I felt gravel pressed softly against the soles of my shoe. Then we were walking, tiny rocks clanking against each other as our feet plotted along the bed of gravel. I remember wondering where the hell we were. The presence of gravel and the dead silence of our surroundings were odd, given that all of us lived in the city.

It was as if we'd driven to the countryside. I heard only the voices of my friends, chirping of crickets, the calls of animals, and the swaying of trees in the wind. Every now and then, the sound of passing cars would disrupt the ambience, so I knew that we were at least close to a road. Before I knew it, we stopped walking. At this point, we seemed to be standing upon a paved sidewalk, beside some sort of building. Oddly enough, I could make out the soft punching of keys amid the chatter of my friends, as if someone were entering an access code. Where was I? Once inside, I felt that I knew the air.

answer to that question. Our feet trod upon soft carpet, and eventually we found ourselves marching up flight after flight of stairs. This was an apartment complex, or a hotel. I was almost certain of that. But whose apartment complex? Between all of us, we didn't have any friends who live this far out in the sticks. Patiently, I braced myself with bated breath for whatever surprise lay ahead of me. At last, we all stopped walking. I heard the turning of a key, followed by the slow, creaking swing of a heavy door. I took a deep breath as someone proceeded to gently shove me through the open door, shuttling me into some mysterious place.

Then, in a sudden rush of stimuli, the blindfold was torn from my face, revealing scores of people before me. Surprise! I was speechless. All those friends I'd been told I'd needed to go in overtime. for work that weekend or leave town or whatever. All of those friends were standing right in front of me, holding drinks, smiling, wishing me a happy birthday.

I grinned and looked around, greeting everyone briefly before recognizing a dawning realization. I still didn't know where the fuck we were. So, I asked Stephanie. It's my new apartment. This was the final sucker punch of their entire gig. Holy shit. At first, I thought my friends had all pitched in and rented a suite at some fancy-ass hotel, but no, entirely unbeknownst to me, Stephanie had recently found a beautiful new place and moved in.

When did this happen? I was told that they'd made the move while I was out of town. The whole thing happened to come together in perfect timing for your birthdays, so I figured why not surprise you? And from there, we started partying. Stephanie's new place, it seemed, was a great spot for getting together and relaxing with friends. Although, upon further examination, it was easy to see that the building was well-aged, which explained the affordability. The layout of the room, the immense spaciousness, and the aesthetics of Stephanie's thrift shop decor

all served to cultivate one hell of a pad. But above all, it was the view that took the apartment's appeal to the next level. Stephanie's complex stood perched atop the mountain that overlooked the entirety of our city. That's why it had seemed as if we were in the countryside earlier. From the wide window at the far end of Stephanie's living room, I could see the whole city lit up below me. It all went south at around midnight. Things had been going well up until that point. People were getting considerably drunk, the music keeping everyone fun and happy.

occasional nail-biting over noise complaints was alleviated by the overwhelming spirit of the party. And then, it happened. I remember the whole thing like my first bicycle crash. At scraping pain, the unbelievable toughness of the concrete, the sight of blood. Being free and full of joy at one moment, and then plummeting meeting the ground, life's weird and unsettling rough edges colliding head on with that liberating feeling of flight. That's what it felt like when I saw the screaming man. Only when I saw him, I didn't feel as if I'd scraped and bruised my arm.

Rather, I felt the shock internally, altogether electrifying my nervous system. I felt goosebumps break out upon my skin. I felt a lump the size of a fist. lodge itself somewhere deep within my throat. Cliced as it is, I felt my heart skipped a beat. This experience was one I'd never known before. The feeling of absolute mind-breaking shock. A feeling that can only follow the sight of something horrifying and inexplicable beyond reason.

I had walked into Stephanie's living room for some irrelevant reason, drink in hand. I remember turning my head deliberately. from the room behind me and gazing towards that big window overlooking the city. And that's when I saw it. That's when I saw him. Right before Stephanie's window on the opposite side of the glass, hovering some 40 feet above the ground, was a man. I had no initial verbal reaction, apart from a silent gasp. I simply stood there, examining this complete nonsense that seemed to be.

to be unfolding before my eyes. Was no one else seeing this? My eyes shifted quickly from the man and the party goers around me. They were chatting casually, milling about as this man levitated outside the window. I looked back at the floating man, dumbfounded, finding myself unable to do anything in my shock. I just kept staring. And as I examined the man, I found myself noticing more things about it. him that seemed you see he he was all bent up contorted into this unnatural position one arm was

splayed out to the side bent diagonally upwards reaching out behind his head the others seemed to be groping out directly in front of him his his hand outstretched wildly his legs meanwhile jutted out in opposite directions toes upturned just a bit and his entire body was bent slightly backwards as if he engaged in a trust fall. That's what it was. The man was falling. But he wasn't moving. Rather, he was frozen in time, just like a picture.

A snapshot. I could have sworn that he was right there just outside Stephanie's window, flesh and blood hovering inexplicably in the air. Only, he was frozen, like a glitched model in a computer game. A man uttered. still, stuck in mid-air. But if there is a single detail perfectly ingrained in my mind, stamped upon my recollection until the day that I die,

it's the expression that he bore, his face. That detail I can remember as well as the trickling of the blood, the tread of my bicycle's tire, the feeling of the pavement, cold and lifeless below my wounded body. I see the man's face in my mind's eye like I see my bike, collapsed in immobile and five feet away from the reach of my bleeding hand. This man, this frozen man, was terrified. I was witnessing with my own eyes the abject fear that overcome someone's face

as they plummet to their inevitable death. His eyes were widened so as to resemble a pair of white, glassy, insectile orbs. His mouth was outstretched in a giant sad howl of despair and agony and vague anger. His eyebrows were upturned, I think, so as to demonstrate his sudden uncertainty of the afterlife. It was an expression of fear like that of a wild animal, threatened and cornered and deprived of its freedom, the darkness closing in at all corners. In hindsight, I have an abstract feeling, a notion that I saw a notion that I saw in, This man's face, the primal recognition that everything he knew was about to come to a grinding halt,

giving way unto whatever, if anything, might follow. I'd never seen anything more terrifying. We see, this man's expression represented something so visceral, so true to my own existence and mortality, that my reaction quickly surpassed simple empathy. Call me egotistical, but in my gut, I felt that I was somehow witnessing my own death. So there he was, stuck in time, illuminated softly by the light pouring from our side of the window. The cityscape behind him dwarfing his terminal sentence. I let a few tears go, moaning, grabbing people's arms.

My heavy inebriation hardly substantiated my breathless, incomprehensible pleas. I merely sobbed and pointed at the window, screaming. Look! Look! But no one saw it. No one else saw this contorted manifestation of primal fear that haunted me from outside the window. No one else saw this screaming man but me. Instead of joining in my shock and confusion, my friend Carl and some other party goer escorted me to a couch in another room

and fed me glass after class of water. Cheer up, buddy. it's your birthday. I guess he inaugurated his 21st year soonably. Stephanie and a few others kept me company a bit longer, sharing more in the way of concern. Despite my illegible and hurried explanations, he seemed entirely confounded as to what had startled me so badly,

what I was trying to get across. And even in my drunken stupor, I reached a point of recognition at which I realized that trying to explain was a... no use. A heavy, helpless realization bore down on me. What I'd seen, whether or not it was real, seemed absolutely insane on paper. It must have been a hallucination. That's what I told myself. It had to be. Although I'd never seen things while drinking, I'd heard of it happening. Yes, that was exactly it. I was just seeing things. Looking back on it,

I think I was only able to convince myself that this was correct due to my vitamin-starved brain cell depleted state of being. As the mantra of denial looped in my head, panic subsided slowly. At last, my friends left me alone to slip into unconsciousness. To my surprise, I awoke the next morning in my own bed. Groaning to no one but myself, I rolled over to check the phone on my bedside table. Noon. day-old birthday text from my family, a few messages from friends asking if I was all right,

and finally, a text from Carl. Dropped you off last night. Running the hungover gauntlet of confusion, dehydration, and memory loss, I semi-consciously navigated my morning routine. I remember very clearly that it wasn't until I went to brush my teeth, when I stared myself down in the mirror, that the memory surged and seared within my mind like a hot branding. The man's face. His fucking face. I cannot describe in words how it felt to remember. It broke me. You see, when I first actually saw the screaming man, I had been thoroughly drunk.

Each of my senses, each cognitive function had been dulled, numb to an abysmal point. And even then, my entire being anesthetized. This man's face, had instilled within me of fear unlike any I'd ever felt. But when I was sober, that morning, that was something entirely different. It was like taking out my earplugs at a death metal concert. That anguished face of fear and evil, that manifestation of the visceral self-hatred that potentiates a man's suicide was stamped in every corner of my mind. It was waiting for me in the darkness each time I shout.

my eyes. Yes, I saw the face behind my eyelids, and when I saw it I looked in the mirror. I even saw it superimposed upon my own face, because mine was no different from his. It was the face of mortality. I can't tell whether or not my compromised mental state is diminishing the objectivity of my account. Aren't my feelings real? Isn't fear real? I know that the screaming man was real. I wish I didn't. I wish that I could check myself into an asylum in just a steady diet of antipsychotics and let a psychiatrist level classifications at me. I wish I could fall into the arms of someone who tell me I was losing my mind.

But I can't. Because of what happened that morning, I will never find that sort of relief. Not ever. For a while, I only stared at the white ceiling above my bed. Eventually, though, I regained motor control. I could move at the least. That was something. Although I may have been nervous and paranoid and agitated,

my baseline needs made themselves known effectively. Food and water. I needed food and water. My mind wouldn't resist nourishment, and the screaming man couldn't stop hunger and dehydration. I wasn't that crazy. Not yet. The food and water helped.

They helped me enough to realize that I felt my best option was to pack some clothes, get in my car and drive to my parents' house, unannounced, in order to retreat for a week into infantile dependency. I know. I'm very brave. But tell me, where do you run if it's your own mind you're trying to escape? Look the screaming man in the eye, and then tell me what you'd do. As soon as I'd packed my things and made for the door, something dawned on me. An absence in my back pocket.

My wallet. I'd left my wallet at Stephanie's place. Upon realizing this, an unexpected surge of hope pierced through my unrest. Of course, Stephanie would be able to help. Stephanie, that beacon of optimism and empathy. She wouldn't call me crazy. She'd only see a friend in trouble. One way or another, she'd find a way to revive me with a single sentence.

She'd guide me in the right direction. I called her, but she didn't pick up. I called her again. Still nothing. I left her a text. Address? Ten minutes passed. 20.

Assuming she was busy, I texted a mutual friend to ask for Stephanie's new address. Once I'd entered the address into my phone, I got in my car and headed in the direction of Stephanie's apartment complex. In retrospect, I think that the manic glee I felt, the enormous emotional healing power I projected upon my friend, was just as psychotic as the paralyzing terror I'd felt only minutes earlier. It was a delusion, an all-too-easy fix to my dilemma. I don't know how else my mood could have shifted so quickly. Yes, it was only another side of the mentally disturbed coin. I weave through traffic as if playing a video game,

woozy from the hangover. Everything was a fog, apart from the light that I now imagined at the end of the tunnel. I realize now just how much I'd set myself up for collapse, devastating, heartbreaking collapse. But I couldn't have known. Sure, I could have caught myself. I could have explained to myself like an adult to a child

how Stephanie did not hold the skeleton key to my mental rehabilitation. On the other hand, I couldn't have possibly known what was going to happen. What had happened. When I arrived at Stephanie's apartment complex, I was greeted with an unexpected sight. Mercy lights, flashing red and blue, police cars, ambulances, a fire truck. Warded off by caution tape, a considerable giggle of onlookers crowded the scene. What the hell had happened? Startled, I parked in the street and ambled clumsily up the gravel driveway.

As I drew nearer to the crowd, I felt a deep, mounting dread. This ugly feeling seemed tangible, as if it drifted through the air, radiating from these bystanders and the collective memory of what they'd witnessed. But what had happened? What was wrong? As I grew closer, I heard some people sobbing, and then I thought about Stephanie. Where was she? Was she okay?

My steps grew faster, my heart beat quickening. The only benefit of this unanticipated situation was the fact that the screaming man's face had temporarily receded from my thoughts. If only I'd known what I was about to discover. I shove my way through the crowd, scanning my surroundings for Stephanie. It felt natural. I sensed danger, emergency, at the place where my best friend now lived. I wanted to know that she was okay. Even though I kept telling myself that this whole mess I'd stumbled upon probably didn't directly involve her.

I kept hoping I'd run into her, that I'd be able to ask her what happened, that she'd smile at the sight of me and explain the situation coherently. But no, I could not have been more wrong. Stephanie was sitting in the back of an ambulance, the vehicle's double doors ajar, her legs dangling above the ground. They'd wrapped the blanket around her, just like in the movies. Right now, as I type,

she's still wearing that same police-issue blanket, rocking back and forth on her couch. There's something deeply saddening about her in that generic paper-thin blanket, something reminiscent of a little girl dragging around a dirty old teddy bear. A detective and a police officer were speaking to her, although it looked as if she wasn't listening.

Rather, she stared wordlessly into thin air, that cold, unfixable countenance painted upon her face. Dashing suddenly for her, I saw the detective and the cop turned towards me. The officer stepped forward quickly, slapping one hand firmly on his holster and holding the other out in dismissal. Whoa, stop right there, sir. I need for you to back away and remain with the others. I told him that I knew, Stephanie, that I was her friend and that I needed very much to speak with her. Before the officer could say anything, I heard a murmur drift softly from the ambulance. It was Stephanie. She was staring at me, saying my name.

Looking at her and then to me, the officer let me pass, following closely. Matthew. Matthew. As soon as the detective realized that I had nothing to tell him about the scene, and that I was only here to console Stephanie, I was temporarily absolved of scrutiny. Ah, go ahead and talk to her, kid. She's unresponsive anyways. You say you're her friend.

She's going to need you to be there for these next few days. It seems she just can't handle what she saw this morning. What did she see? The detective exchanged a glance with the officer, and then motioned me aside, the cop remaining next to Stephanie. Sighing, the investigator drew near to me and whispered sternly. Seems her upstairs neighbor offed himself, jumped from the building's roof. And Stephanie, your friend Stephanie, she happened to see the guy fall right past her window.

Says she made eye contact with him. Matter of fact, that's all she's been able to tell us this entire morning, and we've been here since 8 a.m. She ran to the window and saw him splat on the ground. A big mess. What are the odds? Seems like something really snapped inside her head. Imagine a kid like her, looking right into this guy's eyes,

and then seeing him die like that. The detective must have noticed how shaken I was. He apologized, pointing out that he dealt with this sort of thing for a living, that he was numb to it, and that he'd never done so well with the conversation aspect. I think that was an understatement. His words had made me sick to my stomach. All I could think to do was not. I brushed past the detective and moved for Stephanie,

taking a seat beside her in the ambulance, embracing her. Tears streamed from my eyes, like a damn giving way to a flood. Stephanie, on the other hand, she didn't cry. She didn't do anything, but tell me what she'd been telling the authorities all morning. I looked into his eyes. I looked into his eyes. I looked into his eyes. That pretty much brings me to where I am now.

And in case you were wondering, the face of the screaming man checked out with the face I saw in the obituaries the next morning. Not that I'd ever needed any evidence to understand what I'd seen. Stephanie's been in and out of the tangled legal hoops for the past two days, and I've been her informal caretaker. When she's not speaking with detectives, that is, I would have thought in terms of the investigation that a suicide would be handled more quickly than this. But they say they can't rule out homicide until they have all their leads covered.

Makes enough sense. You know, people talk a lot about coming to terms with mortality. Soldiers, cops, EMTs, the people who spend their waking lives face to face with the inevitable. And I'm not so callous as to discredit them, not at all. They are desensitized or, in a way, hyper-sexual. sensitized to death. It seems many of them find a certain peace in that recognition of what's coming. A lot of us do, I think. But some of us are taken by surprise. We drift along in a haze, never losing a friend or a family member, maybe. And then one day, the big loud brunt of death smacks us on the

forehead, and we have to lay low. Our perspective on life might be fundamentally altered at that point, but we have the capacity to endure, to draw strength from the experience, and emerge a wiser person. That's why I think Stephanie is going to be okay. It's hard to watch her, but I think she'll be back to herself one day, perhaps even happier, even more optimistic than before. It's just a feeling that I have. I mean, we all have to confront our own mortality at some point. It may shatter our minds and break our hearts depending on who we are,

but it is an experience inherent to being human. And at Stephanie's innermost core, I know there's that beacon of optimism. I know that doesn't just flicker out overnight. Or I hope it doesn't. But yes, I think Stephanie will be all right when all this blows over. As for myself, button worse.

Lately, I've been seeing more glitches, more frozen people. Many of them aren't as frightening as the screaming man, but there they are, stuck in time. A woman walking down the street, a kid riding a bicycle, an old man sitting on his porch. My intuition leads me to believe that they are much like the frozen man, that within a matter of hours, they will die. I guess their living counterparts must exist somewhere. I've yet to see one, but I'm thankful for that. I don't want to meet the eye of someone I know to be doomed.

That was the case with a screaming man. And, well, that was the case with myself. Yes, that's the most maddening thing about this story, the cruel, hopeless conclusion. It's the reason why I hope to God I'm losing my mind. I've been seeing frozen copies of myself. It started pretty recently. The other day, you see, I caught myself entirely motionless just a few blocks from my apartment,

engaged in the act of stepping carelessly down a crosswalk. I suppose that the grand scheme had intended I'd be hit by a car. Overcome by a state of astonishment and anxiety, I avoided that crosswalk like the plague, but that didn't help. No, not in the long run. Not soon after that ordeal, you see, I saw myself once. more stuck in place, this time leaning out from my bedroom window. And once I began steering clear of that particular window, it happened again a few hours later. I glanced myself, now frozen in a

position that suggested my alternate self was in the process of descending the steps that led down from my apartment's front porch. So today, I took the building's back door on my way to work. That bought me some more time. I'm currently waiting for the next sign, the next frozen copy of myself. To be honest, I'm not sure if there will ever be an end to this. No, I'm, I'm almost certain I've been cursed with a certain ability of metaphysical precognition. In my understanding, it seems that the big self-correcting machine that is the physical existence needs my bugged perception out of the picture. And yet, as long as I can glimpse the future, it seems that I can keep buying myself time, as if spending on credit. Ultimately,

I feel that I'm nothing more than a cleverly designed computer virus. I know that one day I'll just have to give in, and I suppose that only time will tell when that might be. What began as a deep mourning for my old state of blissful ignorance has metamorphosed into a rather resigned anodomia. If anything, it's sort of nice to see my friends, so carefree, representative of the humanity I once knew. the humanity I unwillingly lost in exchange for esoteric knowledge.

Yes, I can say with certainty that even poor Stephanie has it better than me. Right now, perhaps somewhere down the road, I'll miraculously shed this ability, this curse. On the other hand, maybe I'll get soft, slacking on the universe's game of cat and mouse, failing to notice the next message from the future. That will be the day that I die. I think it's more than likely I might accidentally give in to my sentence, as it seems that I am fated to do. This is exhausting.

My incessant, maddeningly justified paranoia devours and discards for my life any semblance of meaning or purpose, like a savage hunter tosses out the bones of a roasted animal. As time presses on, you see, it seems my only purpose here is to die. I don't know. Take this as a warning, I suppose. A warning against the novelty of experimenting with your perception of reality.

Of trying to produce glitches within this third-dimensional plane. It may not be in your best interest to sabotage something as valuable as your precious, delicate veil of sanity. For in the end, the cold and objective laws of this example, existence will always prevail over your human efforts to break them. Just tread carefully. We've recently learned how some libraries have special residents and places to explore. But in this tale from author John S. Darwin, we meet an elderly man who is recounting a story from his youth about his beloved small-town library and the one fateful night which drove him. away from it. Performing this tale with me is Erica Sanderson. So let's listen to what happened to that

man 63 years ago. It's official. I'm an old man. For the last couple years, I've comforted myself by saying I'm in my early 70s, but math is simple and unforgiving. Today, is my 75th birthday, the years do fly. I'm not here for your well-wishes. This is hardly a milestone I'm excited about. I'm glad to still be here, of course, but I find I have less and less to live for with every passing year. My bones ache, my kids live far away, and the other side of my bed is been empty for just over eight months now. In fact, once I cast my vote against that goddamn Trump this November, I may have nothing to live for at all. So spare me your happy birthdays and your congratulations, if you please. I'm here because I have a story for you, and it's one I've never

told before. I used to think I kept it inside because it was silly, or maybe because nobody would believe it. I've found, though, that the older you grow, the more exhausting it becomes to lie to yourself. If I'm being perfectly honest, I've never told anybody this story, because it scares me almost to death. But death seems friendlier than it used to. So listen close. Here was 1950, the setting, a small town in Maine. I was a boy of nine, rather small for my age, with only one friend in the world to speak of, and his family, seemingly on a whim, decided to move two thousand. miles away. It was shaping up to be the worst summer of my life. My pop wasn't around, and my mom was a chore whore. Boy, was I proud of myself when I came up with that one. So I wasn't apt to hang

around the house. With some hesitation, I decided the public library was the place to be that summer. Library's collection of books, particularly children's books, was meager, to say the least. But within the walls of that miserly structure, I would find no undone chores, no nagging mother, God rest her soul, and perhaps most importantly, no other children with whom I would be expected to associate. I was the only kid with a low enough social status to spend his precious days of freedom sulking amid the bookshelves, and that was just fine with me. The first half of my summer was even more dreadful than I had imagined it would be. I would sleep in until ten, do my chores, and then ride my bike to the library.

Oh, and by bike, I'd. I mean a rusty log of shit attached to a pair of wheels. Once there, I would split my time between unintentionally annoying the elderly patrons and deliberately doing so. One pleasant lady actually interrupted my incessant tongue-clicking to hiss a shut the fuck up at me. The first time I ever heard a grown-up use the F-word. Big fucking deal, I know, but in those days it was unheard of.

The dreary days turned to woeful weeks. I had actually begun praying for school to start again until I discovered the basement. Now I could have sworn I'd roamed every inch of that library, but one day in the far corner behind the foreign language collection, I stumbled across a small wooden door I had never seen before. That was where it all began. The door was windowless and made from oak

that looked far older than the wall in which it rested. It had a knob of black metal that quite literally looked ancient. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn it was crafted in the 17th century. Engraved on the knob was what appeared to be a single footprint. I had the sense that whatever lay beyond this door was forbidden to me, and therefore probably the most interesting thing I would encounter all summer. I quickly glanced around to make sure nobody was watching me, then turned the heavy knob, slipped behind the door, and shut it.

There was nothing, only darkness. I took a couple of steps and then stopped, unnerved by the totality of the shadow which surrounded me. I waved my hands in front of me in an attempt to find a wall or a shelf or anything to hold on to. What I actually found was far subtler, a small string dangling from above but far more useful. I grabbed it firmly and pulled it down. Back in the day, lots of light bulbs were operated with strings, and this was one of them. My surroundings were instantly illuminated. I was standing on a small dusty platform that looked as though it hadn't seen life in quite some time.

To my left was a crickety-ass spiral staircase made of wood and a puresterect. ready to collapse at any second. The bulb was the only source of light in the room, and it was feeble, so when I peered over the railing to see what lay below, the bottom of the staircase dissolved into darkness. I was beginning to feel scared. This place, wherever I was, seemed to have no business in a town library. It was as though I were in a completely dead. It was as though I were in a completely different building. But no nine-year-old likes to let a mystery go unsolved. Looking back, I wish I could tell my prepubescent self to turn around, go back, do anything besides descending that staircase. You'll be spared a lot of sleepless nights, I'd say. But of course,

I didn't know that then. And I may not have listened. even if I had. So instead of turning back, I took a deep breath, gripped the railing, and glared resolutely forward as I began my descent. The wood on the railing was dry and covered with splinters. I immediately let go, holding my hands out for balance as I carefully traversed the staircase. It was, or at least seemed,

very long, and with only the dim glow from the string bulb far above me, my heart pounded mercilessly in the darkness. Even kids can sense when something isn't right, I think. They just don't always give a shit. By the time my feet reached the cement floor at the bottom, the light from the bulb above was very nearly a memory. But there was a new light source, and God, I'll never forget it. Directly in front of me was a door, massive, and a deep shade of red. The light was coming from behind the door, and it shone out in thin lines from all four sides, a sinister, dimly glowing rectangle. For the second time, I took a deep breath and went through a door I shouldn't have. In contrast to the dank room I entered from, the room behind the door was blinding.

When my eyes adjusted, what I saw nearly took my breath away. It was a library, the most perfect library imaginable. I gaped in wonder as I stepped almost reverentially further into the room. Oh, it was beautiful. It was smaller than the library above, much smaller, but it seemed to be almost tailor-made for me. The shelves were packed with brightly colored titles. Both armchairs in the middle of the room were exquisitely comfortable. and the smell was simply unbelievable.

Sort of a mixture of citrus and pine. I simply can't do it justice with words, so suffice it to say that I've never smelled anything better, not in my 75 years. What was this room? Why had I never heard of it before? Why was nobody else here? Those were the questions I should have been asking.

Oh, but I was intoxicated. As I gazed around at all the books and basked in the smell of paradise, I could only form one thought. I will never be bored again. In truth, boredom only hid from me for three years. It was on my 12th birthday, 63 years ago to this day that everything changed. Before that day, I visited my basement sanctuary as often as I could, usually several times a week. I never saw another soul down there, yet strangely remained free of suspicion.

I never removed a book from that room, but instead would pick up a particular volume wherever I had stopped reading during my previous visit. I sat, always in the same deep purple armchair, and always leaving its twin barren and directly across from myself. That armchair was mine. The other was, I suppose I could. I didn't have articulated it then, much better than I can now. But it wasn't mine, that's for damn sure. On my 12th birthday, I arrived later than usual. My mom had invited a couple classmates and some cousins over to our house to celebrate,

a gesture which I found more tedious than touching. Really, I just wanted to spend my birthday sitting. reading and smelling paradise. Eventually our guests went home, and I made it to the library about 15 minutes before closing time. That didn't matter. The workers never checked down there before they locked up. I was free to stay as late as I wished.

This particular night, I was devouring the final chapters of an epic adventure, knights, swords, dragons, and the like. I didn't smell it until I read the final words and closed the book. The once exquisite aroma of that room had turned sour. I sat for a moment unsettled. Objectively, I could recognize that the smell was actually the same as it had been before, that mixture of citrus and pine. I just perceived it differently, and I didn't like it anymore.

It was the nasal version of an optical illusion, you know, the one that looks like a young woman glancing backward, but all of a sudden you see that it's really an old woman facing you. You can't unsee that, and I couldn't unsmell this. the spell was broken. The odor also seemed for the first time to be coming from somewhere specific. With a fair amount of trepidation, I stalked around the room, sniffing the air like a crazed canine, until I came to a shelf near the back.

The shelf was perfectly normal, with the exception of one title. A large leather-bound cover of solid, faded maroon, with one striking black footprint at the top of the spine. This was the source of the smell. I opened the front cover and saw one sentence scrawled neatly in blood-red ink atop the first page. Rest your sorrows, down, friend, and leave them where they lie. I stared at this sentence, mesmerized, as I began to

retreat to my chair. I turned a page, blank. The smell became stronger. Another page, blank, and the smell grew stronger still. I stopped for a moment. suppressed a gag and continued walking. Then, as I neared the armchairs, I turned one final page, and there, in the same sinister print, was the last thing I expected to see. My own name. I dropped the book. I began to sprint toward the door.

But as I shifted my gaze forward, my heart leapt to my throat, and I stopped in my tracks. The empty chair wasn't empty anymore. An aged man in a suit sat before me, one leg crossed over the other, contemplating me with piercing gray eyes and a light smirk. This was all too much. I fell to my knees and expelled the contents of my stomach onto the carpet. I wiped my mouth, staring at my vomit, when I heard the man let out a chuckle. I stared at him disbelievingly.

Who are you? The man leapt to his feet, grabbed me gently by the shoulders, and helped me to my chair. He sat once again in his own. I fear we got off to a bad start. The smell. It does take some getting used to. Who are you?

Tonight, you will know hardship like you've never before known. I come as a friend, offering you refuge from it and from all other storms which lie ahead. I wanted nothing more than to leave at that moment, but I remained seated. I asked him what he was talking about. Your mother is dead, my boy, by her own hand in her kitchen. Oh, the scene is gross. I must admit, surely you wish to avoid this path.

I can show you a safer one. My blood ran cold at the horrors this man spoke of, but I didn't believe him. What do you want with me? I was trying to sound braver than I felt. He laughed, an old raspy yelp that seemed to show, shake him to his bones. Nothing but your friendship, dear boy.

Then, sensing I found his answer inadequate, he expounded. I want you to come on a journey with me. My work is noble, and you will make a fine apprentice. And maybe, when I'm done... He sighed. tiredly, running his bony fingers through his thin white hair. Oh, maybe then my work can be yours. I stood up, shuffling towards the door, but never breaking his gaze.

You're crazy. My mom isn't dead. She's not. See for yourself if you must. He gestured toward the door. I threw him a contemptuous glare and bolted for the exit. As my hand closed around the knob, he spoke softly. Boy, in spite of myself, I turned around. Your road won't be easy, friend. If it ever becomes too much for you,

and I mean ever. He paused to sweep his hand over the room. You know where to find me. I slammed the door behind me and took the decrepit stairs two at a time. I exited the library, clambered onto my bike, and high-tailed it home. The front door was wide open. I dismounted, leaving my bike in a heap on the ground and approached the house cautiously. The old man was lying. He must have been.

Still, tears began to sting my eyes. Heart pounding, I stepped inside and called for my mother. I heard no answer. So I turned into the kitchen. To this day, I don't know why she did it. I've lived in that small town in Maine my entire life, although I've kept mostly clear of the public library. Once in my late 20s I summoned the courage to step inside.

Life was good at that time, and my feet, had begun to morph into idle curiosity. Where the door to my basement sanctuary once stood was only a blank wall. I asked the librarian what had become of that basement, though in my heart I knew the answer. There was no basement, she said. There had never been a basement. In fact, if she had her facts correctly,

city zoning ordinances prohibited a basement in the area. Haunted by that sickly sweet smell, that poisonous blend of citrus and pine ever since that long ago birthday. When I saw my mother in the kitchen that day, collapsed in a pool of her own blood, I smelled it. When a man claiming to be my mother, my father knocked on my college apartment door, begged me for money, and beat me to within an inch of my life when I refused, I smelled it. When my wife miscarried our second child, I smelled it, and again when she miscarried our fourth. When our oldest son got behind the wheel of the family

Buick completely shit-faced and got his girlfriend killed. I began to smell it periodically as my wife became sick. She died late last year, and now I'm alone for the first time in more than half a century. Now I smell it every day, and it feels like an invitation. A few. A few. A few. A few months ago, I went back to the library and the small oak door with the ancient handle was there, right where it used to be. My evening walk had brought me past that library every day since, but I haven't gone inside. Maybe tonight I will. I'm frightened to die, yes, but lately I'm even more frightened. to keep living.

The old man was right. My road hasn't been easy, and I doubt it will get any easier. Rest your sorrows down, friend, and leave them where they lie. Promised relief, a refuge, he said. Was he right about that too? there's only one way to find out

after all I still know where to find him now it's time to drift off into your own nightmare 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 of over two hours long and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week. We'll have more stories for you and whatever that is standing right behind you. This audio production is Copyright 2016 by Creative Reason Media Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

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