The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E13

Episode Date: January 22, 2017

It's episode 13 of Season 8. On this week's show we have five tales about cowering, scouring, and devouring."Heroes and Monsters" written by M.J. Pack and performed by Erika Sanderson & Eden. (Story starts around 00:03:15)"Red Ink"† written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 00:14:30)"The New Beginnings Center"‡ written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Addison Peacock & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:39:10)"The Cats of Sycamore Grove"† written by Henry Galley and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:07:00)"Haggard's Peak"† written by Michael Whitehouse and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 01:38:00)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about the Sleepless Live 2017 Tour Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg Click here to learn more about Henry Galley Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & David Cummings"The Cats of Sycamore Grove" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio program ©2017 - 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

This is a horror fiction podcast. We're here to frighten you and mess with your head because that's what you want. So give into your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. It's the no sleep podcast. It's the no sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have five tales about cowering, scouring, and devouring. I'm happy to announce that there is a new album that I'm sure many of you will want to get your hands and ears on.

Our very own poser, Brandon... Oh, sorry, that should be... Our very own composer, the great Brandon Boone, has released his third sleepless album. This one entitled Wires. The songs feature some of the electronic synth-based music from the podcast. Our amazing senior producer, Phil My Calls, worked his magic on the project with a bit of rearrangement and stunning mastering to make it sound as old and analog as possible. It even features the beautiful artwork from our regular illustrating partner, Luke Godlowski,

making this truly a project born and bred in our no-sleep family. If you're a fan of the old electronic horror scores like those of John Carpenter, or the kind of score heard more recently on Stranger Things, then this is an album you'll want for your very own. You're hearing samples of it right now, and it's currently available on iTunes, Spotify, Google Play Music, and all the other tens of thousands of music streaming services out there, and soon on Bandcamp.

The easiest way to find it is by searching for Brandon Boone. So again, the album is called Wires by Brandon Boone, sleepless synth scores set to shiver, and shake your soul. And now it's time to hear more music from Brandon, along with performances by our voice actors and productions by our producers as we kick off this week's show.

In our first tale, we meet a woman who fondly recalls another form of storytelling, the ones from her grandmother. As shared by author M.J. Pack, one tale in particular was her favorite, and it turns out it might have been less fanciful, than she imagined it to be. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and Eden.

So understand this, sometimes tales have two opposing types. There are heroes and monsters. Nana used to tell me stories when I was little. I stayed with her during the day while my parents were at work all the way up until I went to kindergarten. I would sit at her kitchen table, happily munching away on a Branchevik sandwich, kicking my legs that couldn't touch the floor yet and beg her for more stories, more stories, more stories. She had so many, but she had one in particular she told me more than the others. I don't know if it was her favorite or mine or both. It may have been my favorite because I could tell it was hers. Now it's all I have left. The only one I remember. Some things from childhood tend to

slip away before you even realize they're gone. I want to share her story the way she told it. I want to hear her voice in my mind one last time because then I'm never sharing the story again. Many little girls don't know how lucky they are. Never fall victim to that way of thinking, little sparrow. I knew how lucky I was. I had my papa.

My papa was a good man, a strong man. My papa was a hero, and not just in the way that a lot of daughters think their fathers are. He was a real hero. You see, Little Sparrow, before I came to America, I lived in a village. It had once been small, but slowly grew to a bustling, thriving place full of life and magic. I can still remember the lovely buildings, the flow of people in the streets, the pretty storefronts with their shiny glass windows. It was a beautiful place, and I knew how lucky I was to live there with my papa, because my papa protected us. Not just my mother and I, he protected the whole village. He was a hero, as I said.

Even though I loved our home, it was not always a safe place. You see, in our village, there were monsters. Now, I don't want to scare you little sparrow, but do not believe the people who tell you monsters aren't real. Monsters are very real. They are alive and well, and they often hide in plain sight. That's what made my papa a hero. He could spot these monsters, find them lurking beneath their disguises of pink human skin.

They seem good enough, normal enough, but he knew how to identify them, and he taught me too. There's something wrong with them. You know it right away. Something glinting in their eyes. Something in their very being. It makes the hair on your arms stand up. I wish you could have met him, little Sparrow. He was so handsome, so strong.

Every day he dressed, a warrior hero going into combat, ready to save us from the monsters. I knew they were around, you see, since my papa had told me about them. I even saw a few and lived to teleport. about it. One was a child, like me, but not like me, not really. I could feel it as he stared at me from behind his monster mother while we waited in line at one of the shops. I stuck out my tongue at him, but he continued to stare, dark eyes wide and glassy, nothing behind them at all. He couldn't

hurt me though. He probably knew who my papa was. And besides, my mother. My papa had taught me well. I still had nightmares about him, the monster boy, hiding beneath my bed, waiting for me to go to sleep so he could dig his hands into my guts and eat what was there. I imagined that's what they did, ate you from the inside out. It just felt bright. One night, when I was six years old, my mother and my papa got into a fight. She wanted him to stop fighting the monsters. Imagine that.

Stop fighting the monsters? Leave our village vulnerable and exposed. She wanted that little monster boy to eat out my insides. I used to simply favour my papa over my mother. But that night, I began to hate her. A few months later, my papa went back into battle. But this time, he didn't wear his war. a clothes. He dressed like a normal man. He almost looked like one of the monsters. He was dressed so

strangely. I knew he wasn't a monster, of course. He gave me a handsome wink and a kiss on the forehead and told me he'd be back soon, not to worry. He didn't speak to my mother. They hadn't been speaking for some time if I remember just right. That night, I could hear the monsters in the streets. There were screams, breaking glass, the sounds of madness. The monsters were being beaten back into the darkness where they belonged, and I only hoped my papa would come home safely. I lay awake in my bed and promised myself that if the monsters hurt my papa, I would hurt them back. My papa came home, though.

He came home from fighting the monsters, not just that one loud, frightening night. But many days and nights after that. Each time, he seemed a little weaker, a little more broken. I wondered if the monsters were eating my papa from the inside out, just in a different way. The village showed him their gratitude, though. They gave him beautiful treasures, proof of his heroism. He wore them with pride and kept them in a shiny box of black-legged wood. He let me look at them whenever I asked and even let me wear them.

Slowly but surely my papa helped defeat the monsters. Even though I knew many of them were still out there, roaches skittering into musty corners of the world, he vanquished so many of them because he was a hero. This went on for many years. My mother stayed in opposition with him, but he was a hero. eventually grew quiet, sullen, a spoiled child who didn't get her way. Even I, a child myself, could see it happening. It was as though she was a monster herself. But time went on, and by the time I was a teenager, most talk of the monsters had finally faded away, and we left our village

forever. My papa was given a special pass to come to America. A special pass, imagine that. He had skills the Americans wanted to use. Monster hunting skills, I'm sure. And so my mother and my papa and I came to America, where eventually I met your pop-up and eventually your daddy came along. And now there is you, my little sparrow. For that, I am so lucky.

I am lucky I had my papa, rest his soul, To protect me from the monsters, to protect us all. Because of my papa, our world is a safer place. There are no monsters lurking beneath your bed, little sparrow. And for this, you can thank my papa, the hero. I can still see Nana's delicately wrinkled face lighting up as she told me her story. Every time she told it, it was the same. The monsters, her papa, the hero,

His special pass to America, it never differed. She never exaggerated. In her mind, it may as well have been carved in stone. I loved this story. So you can imagine the deep sadness I felt when I realized I could never pass it on to my own children. In fact, like I said, I can never tell it again. Until recently, I thought the story was all I had left of my nana. but I was wrong.

She passed last month. It took some time, but I found out via a clandestine call from her lawyer that she'd name me as the beneficiary of something specific in her will. She didn't want anyone else to know because it was so special, so sacred, someone else might want it for themselves.

Nana left her little sparrow something quite special indeed, a black, black,ered wooden box. I don't know what I'm going to do with my great grandma. There's numerous Nazi medals, but I do know my nana was right about one thing. Monsters do hide in plain sight. Yes, as we've learned, when a grandmother passes on, there are items bequeathed, which can be quite disturbing.

But in this tale from author C.M. Scandrith, we meet a woman whose grandmother had no intention of passing down a mysterious object she kept locked away her whole. life. Performing this tale is Jessica McAvoy. So listen and learn about the power contained in the object which held the red ink. To say my grandmother was eccentric is an exercise in gross understatement. Particular to the point of painful, she needed everything done just so, or she would throw impressive fits and claim she would never speak to the perpetrator again. How my father put up with this, I am not entirely certain. The man should have been canonized as a saint, since his patience seemed as endless as the universe itself. He would simply go along with my grandmother's requests, docile and compliant, the most perfect son one could imagine. And such, and such, and so, and so,

So, as his daughter, I also learned to behave myself around my grandmother. I never put a foot out of place, kept my thoughts to myself, and lived in dire fear of the consequences. What those consequences might be, it took me years to figure out. But given how terrified my father seemed of whatever it was, as a child I didn't dare to gain say anything dear old grandmamma asked me to do. For that, I must thank my father, for it saved both of us from a terrible fate. I must preface this next part by telling you a little more about my grandmother's other eccentricities. Proper in a practically Victorian manner,

she covered every inch of herself in embroidered clothes, with frothing low. lace, ankle-length skirts and high boots, concealing everything but her fingers and her face. I sometimes wondered what she would look like naked, imagining a pale, wrinkled thing, the likes of which you would see if you turned over an old tree stump or dug deep into the soil of a gloomy forest. Certainly, she never let anyone see her anything other than fully clothed. She even slept in the same sort of attire, never showing a scrap of skin beyond her heavily lined face and her gnarled old hands. Her house was kept similarly prim, with a place for everything and everything in its place. From a very young age, I learned to sit still on my chair,

never to fidget, and never to touch anything. Once I dared poke. a painted porcelain pitcher filled with geraniums, and she shrieked blue murder at me until my father begged her to let me be. And there were treasures all over that house, which enticed my childish mind something shocking. Impressively ancient grandfather clocks clinked away, winged by gilded statuettes. All kinds of jewels and bibles were placed in display cabinets and drawers, and my fingers ached to touch and try on every one of them. It was a paradise lost, a child's playground in which nobody played, a museum of things my grandmother had accumulated during her life.

Locked away in a special room behind her bedroom was a particular treasure, one that my father had warned me to never go near. He said that the room was a study, paneled with oak and brass. It contained only a table and chair, and upon the table rested an iron case, which I was never to even look at, let alone dare to open.

Not that anyone could open it, he told me, because the only key hung around my grandmother's neck under all those layers of fusty old clothes. And so I never went near that room. nor did I ever dream of touching the precious iron case, even though I burned with an unholy desire to see what was within. That all changed. The weekend my grandmother passed away.

I was the one who found her, sprawled on the polished tiles of her third bathroom, one of two such rooms upstairs. I was still so terrified of the ancient herodian that I gingerly nudged her stockinged leg with my foot, then finally called out when she didn't rouse. I had no hope of feeling her pulse through the lace around her throat, so instead I pushed back the stiff sleeve of her left wrist

to feel for a beat under that papery bluish skin. But instead of a pulse, I found the first of her tattoos. They were names, male names, scrawled in red ink. The first one was Jacob. Coddington, and the next was Peter Lemworth, written in a large, curlicude script which I knew belonged to my grandmother. While this was fascinating, at the time it was much less important than finding any signs of life, so I pressed my fingers over the names on that bird-frail wrist, finding not even the faintest flutter. The old woman was quite dead.

Of the tattoos, I spoke to not a single soul. If the undertaker who prepared her body saw them, he certainly didn't breathe a word to any of the handful of people at the service. It seemed my grandmother was not a well-liked woman, and her friends were very few. I think most had only come along out of some lingering fear that she would smite them from beyond the grave for disappointing her. After all, the ritual of the service was done with, I walked up to the casket and placed a rose inside, while the others chatted amongst themselves, my father playing the consummate host, just as grandmother had trained him to do.

No longer fearing the corpse in front of me, now pallid and waxy with death, I gently patted her chest, feeling for the key. While my father had been trained his entire life to obey my grandmother, I still harbored some small seeds of rebellion. I was only 16, and my resentment of the old woman flared at that moment. I simply could not allow her to take what was surely her biggest secret to the grave. Before I could second guess myself, I stuffed my hand down the spill of lace at her throat, snagged the chain and yanked it off her before anyone could see. I almost laughed as her nasty old head lifted for a moment, then thumped back down into the silk cushions.

I checked to see if any of the other guests had noticed, but if they had, none of them made a move to chastise me. Viciously victorious, I tucked the key and chain in my pocket. Her secret was my mind. With my grandmother gone, the house was like a wonderland. The key, it turned out, fitted every lock in the house, from the clocks and cabinets to the iron case itself. While my father busied himself in town with the lawyers, I unlocked everything I could find, taking out amber necklaces, heavy rings of yellow gold, tarnished silver brooches,

and strings of pearls. I laughed and danced around, festooned with all the precious things that had been denied to me as a child, reveling in the freedom. I'd ask you not to judge me too harshly for this, because you must understand just how restrictive and awful my childhood had been. While my father was a touch milder than my grandmother, my upbringing had been so incredibly strict that I could hardly breathe. Be decked in her finery, I ran up the stairs to the study, determined to open the iron case and discover what was inside. With trembling hands, I lifted the chilly metal case, put the key in the lock, then turned it.

It sprang open the instant the key turned, and inside I saw at last the puzzling treasure. that my grandmother had kept hidden from everyone for so long. A gilded pen. It was beautiful in a way that differed from her antique jewels and other treasures. It was elegant and delicate, a thing of dusky near purple wood, chased gold and burnished copper. The nib still stained red with ink. Red, examining the red, examining the red, examining the red,

the tip with my finger, I found it was sharp, far sharper than any ordinary fountain pen should be. With a thrill of understanding, the eccentricities of my grandmother all began to fall into place. For some unknown reason, she had been tattooing the names of men on herself with this beautiful object. But why? What possible reason could she have for doing? so. All I knew then was that while I held the pen in my own hand, I felt strangely empowered, as though I could achieve almost anything that I wanted to. And thus empowered, I was determined to know more. Rushed back to the funeral home before my father could finish up in town. Breathlessly, I explained to the director that I needed to know something about my grandmother.

I needed to know what had been tattooed on her body. At first, he was reluctant, claiming he couldn't possibly reveal that kind of information. But when I turned on the waterworks and begged through suitably heartfelt sobs, he finally relented. Names. Her body was covered in names, tattooed in red ink. Men's names? He shook his head. No, no down her right arm and leg were the names of women, but most of the rest were men's names. Apart from her hands and face, only her back and buttocks were unmarked. Because she couldn't reach there with her own hands, I realized.

He continued, quite uncomfortable now. The odd thing was that there were also cuts, and some of the names were, would be. Darker than the others, as though they'd been tattooed over several times. Very strange for a woman of her generation? I've certainly never seen anything quite like it. I thanked him for his time and candor, then hurried back to the house. What could possibly have possessed my grandmother to have done such a thing? Why would she write people's names on herself with that strangely beautiful pen?

But I would have to find out another time. With my father arriving back home, I tucked the pen away in my pocket along with the key and closed the iron case. For all he would ever know, the case had always been empty, just a cipher left by my grandmother to torment him beyond the grave. When I unlocked an old set of drawers and found a love letter from my grandmother to Peter Lever, worth, I knew I had to find the man. He was difficult to search out, but eventually I tracked down his current place of residence, a retirement village, and visited him. He claimed he could only just barely recall my grandmother, that they had courted briefly, then had gone their separate ways. The idea that she had tattooed his name on her wrist, creased his ancient face with laughter,

and he told me I was a preposterous young thing. Still none the wiser, I sought out the other man whose name my grandmother had emblazoned on that same wrist. He was also still alive, but he said he had no idea who I was talking about. Oh, no, never met the woman. My only real clue was the love letter to Peter, which spoke of a much, much deeper relationship than he claimed. Indeed, it spoke of the hope of marriage and children, not a brief courtship. That was when I began to suspect that the mysterious pen of red ink harbored some kind of power to insourcele the hearts of men, that it was a love potion in a far more elegant and potent

form than any bottle. Of course, I was dying to try it out. The moment I suspected what it could do, I used the pen to write the name of my current crush, Jeremy Gordon, on the tender flesh just above my left hip. The ink burned like a red-hot poker as the pen scratched into my flesh, but once I had begun, I found I could not stop. Both my hand and the pen continued to scribe Jeremy's name, even as I shrieked in pain. Once it was over, I threw the pen away from me and wept, holding the burning, bleeding letters with my traitor hand. But it was done, and so the magic began to work. And as it did, Jeremy began to ignore me.

Confused and a little frightened, I tried to talk to the boy, but whenever I came near, his face would go curiously blank and he would start walking away. Once I called out after him, and all he could manage was a distant and vague... Hello? That was when I remembered the funeral director's words. Some of the names had been tattooed over again. How many times would it take for Jeremy to notice me? It hurt less this time, the heat of the ink more comfortable, the stinging bearable.

Confident now that Jeremy would be mine. I again sought him out. Much to my chagrin, I found that he had abruptly left school the previous day, as his parents had decided to move across the country. Angry with myself now, I found a quiet spot and wrote his name into my flesh a third time, the red letters of his name darkening to a deep and bloody crimson.

Once I had finished, Jeremy Gordon ceased to exist. Oh, I know how stupid that sounds. It's a completely ridiculous idea that my writing his name could make the boy vanish, but it's completely true. No school yearbook, no school record showed any trace of Jeremy Gordon. His parents had no longer moved across the country. They were still in residence at their home three streets over, but they'd never had any children. and certainly they had never heard of a boy called Jeremy. I knew now what my grandmother had done.

She wasn't making men fall in love with her. She had been erasing them from existence. The more I thought about it, the more the idea chilled me to the core. It explained her terrible behavior. It explained why she had so few friends. Whenever she didn't get what she wanted, she would simply banish people to one of three layers of exile. The first being forgetfulness, the second full amnesia, and the third level the oblivion of non-existence. I did the only thing I could think of and prayed it would work.

I cut the name of Jeremy Gordon out of my flesh, then stitched myself up with a needle and thread I found in the drawer of my grandmother's writing desk. The agony and the scar were worth my peace of mind, for Jeremy came back, the magic of the ink broken. I burned the scrap of my skin with his name on it, watching the flames burn an unholy crimson. I wondered just how many men my grandmother had erased in her quest for the perfect husband, and how many she had brought back. The funeral director had not mentioned how many scars accompanied the names still intact on her skin, but I suspected there were not many. Then, as I poured through all her old diaries, looking for more clues, I found the red book.

It was another diary, different to the others. All the words were written in a red ink, the color now deeply familiar to me. As I read, horror began to prickle my scalp. It wasn't her husbands she had been erasing with the despotic pen. It was her sons. Whenever they were less than perfect, whenever they showed any small sign of possessing a fractious character, she would erase them,

then either banish their fathers as well or try again. And the same was also true. of her grand children. There was also something else wrong, because as I read, I realized there was no way she could have birthed so many little boys. The names went on and on, along with those of all the unwanted girls she had deleted from history the moment she had named them after birth. For the diary to be true, she must have been over 150 years. years old. I locked it all away then, the diary, the pen, and the letter. But I couldn't forget any of it, no matter how hard I tried. The first one was a man on the morning train who just

wouldn't stop bothering me. He would always try to strike up a conversation as a pretext to asking me out. After I had rebuffed him several times, he would make a point of always sitting next to me or behind me, trying to convince me to change my mind. When he started leaving creepy notes in my mailbox and loitering outside the house, I finally had enough. So I wrote his name on my hip with the pen, and he left me alone. It was such an easy thing to do and so convenient. I vowed he would be the only one, but it wasn't long until another name joined his, then another and another. When I was particularly embarrassed by a young man dumping me in public,

I wrote his name twice, banishing him to another country where he would never be seen or heard from again. When my first boss cornered me in the washroom at a staff party, drunk, then put his hands down my skirt and pushed me against the sink. He didn't come to work the next day. But that wasn't a problem or a surprise to anyone, because of course he had never existed. The only trace of him was the latest, darkest name at the bottom of a growing list decorating my left leg. When I added three times, and without even thinking about it, the name of the barista who served, me the wrong coffee two days in a row, I realized what was happening. I was becoming my grandmother. Even now, as I sit here writing my story with the pen, I can think of so many more people in my

life I don't like, people whom I could easily banish with just a few strokes of ink. It is a heady power this thing bestows, more powerful than anything else I can think of. Because in a single impassioned instant, I can delete any man. With this red ink, I can rewrite history. And perhaps it's the ink running through my veins. But it's getting more and more difficult to believe there's any good reason not to. So I must finish my story here while I still have some moral sense left. I commit this account to paper with the hope that it will endure

and that it will be read thoroughly before the mystery of the pen seduces another. Once I finish it, I will put the nib to my body for the last time and I will write my grandmother's name thrice across my flesh. I hope that with this final flourish, all the wrongs that she has wrought will be undone, and my family line will be forever forgotten by history. Pop culture and celebrity gossip is full of stories about people in the public eye who stray from what is considered the ideal body shape.

In this tale from author V.R. Gregg, we meet a model who, despite her objections, is being forced to deal with her eating disorder in a decidedly unsettling clinic. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock. and Nicole Doolin. So if you feel rehab is what you need, we'd recommend not choosing to recover at the New Beginnings Center. You probably didn't hear about it. Not in the news or on some parasitic insider fashion blog.

I'm not high-profile enough to make the rags when I enter treatment. Headlines like little-known model Elena Solano committed don't sell any papers. Not like some of the others. about whom everybody speculates endlessly. Was it anorexia or the drugs that got her? For me, it was neither. My parents first started talking about the New Beginnings Center months ago. New Beginnings was the kind of posh eating disorder and rehab clinic

that Starlets are forced into whenever they begin suffering from exhaustion. My parents would leave brochures lying around my house. They would insist that they knew. better than I did what was best for me, what was healthy. They kept telling me that I was a role model and didn't I want to be a positive one? To be clear, I've never had a problem with food. I'm thin, and I have to maintain that thinness for my work, but I don't starve myself. I know a few tricks of the trade that I use before shoots, but I do not have an eating disorder.

Of course, I told this to my parents, and of course they didn't believe me. I took comfort in the fact that, though they might harangue me about new beginnings, they couldn't make me go. It turns out that that isn't precisely the case. What parents can do is have a doctor write a note, which then goes to another doctor, which then turns into a court order. It seems that they all felt I was mentally ill, and once enough people think you're crazy, it doesn't matter much what you say. The more you claim to be sane, the crazier they think you are. So, yeah, I was committed. I wasn't dragged to the New Beginnings Center in handcuffs, but I might as well have been.

To say that I was an uncooperative patient was an understatement. When I entered the gleaming modern building, I blamed the sense of overwhelming dread on the shameful way my family had treated me. But the dread was there, just the same. The interior of New Beginnings was just as shiny, and polished as the brochures had promised. Immaculate white tile floors led down white hallways entirely devoid of art. The whole place seemed to radiate with the clean fluorescence.

The sunlight coming in from the few small windows seemed garish and yellow by comparison. The staff shared the building's spotless facade. Each one wore pure white scrubs, paired with immaculately buffed nails and shiny, helmet-like hair. I felt for a second that I must be on set at a futuristic photo shoot. I briefly had a twinge of guilt. There was no telling how much money

my parents dropped on this place, but it was clearly substantial. The receptionist greeted us and swiftly ushered my parents into another room to work out the billing. Before I had time to orient myself entirely to my surroundings, I heard someone call my name.

Miss Alana. A pretty woman. with a clipboard and an all-white suit came quickly toward me her white stilettos clicking efficiently on the tile floor. My name is Louise and I'll be your private consultant for your stay with us. Consider me your personal health concierge. Her smile widened with each word but her eyes registered no change. I managed to produce a stoic nod despite the churning in my stomach.

Louise gently grabbed my elbow and led me down a series of maze-like hallways. Along the way, I looked for other patients, someone to share in my bewilderment, but I found no one. Only white-clad staff bustling from one room to another, their crisp footfalls echoing down the empty hallways. When we finally arrived at my room, I was surprised to see that it was a single. I had imagined that I would get a roommate. Here we are. I'll let you get settled in. If you need anything at all, just press the call button and I'll come running. I've got you scheduled for your first group session at four and then after that is dinner.

Louise gave me a thumbs up and rushed out of the room. I put my suitcase on the bed and looked around. It was white and nearly barren. A single twin bed sat against a blank wall and a bookshelf filled with self-help books lined another. A pedestal sink was set up in the corner, though no mirror stood above it. The door Louise had just left through locked with an electronic deadbolt. I sat on the bed and stared around the room before bursting into tears. I didn't want to be in this place.

I didn't need help. I pulled out a photo that I kept in my pocket. In it, a tall, elegant woman stood underneath a waterfall. She wore a red evening gown. It was wet and clung to the angles of her body. She was so beautiful that sometimes I had to remind myself that, Underneath the makeup and the lighting and the touch-ups, she was me. The photo reminded me of what I could be.

I touched it lightly, careful to avoid leaving fingerprints on its shiny surface. It was more than just a confidence booster. It was my talisman. It would get me through this. Four o'clock came quickly, and Louise whisked me into a large white room filled with chairs arranged in a circle. Group Several other patients sat around the room, all dressed in clean white smocks.

I guessed that my outfit change would be coming soon. I looked at the faces of those in the group. Most were women. All looked like corpses. Greyish, thin skin and was stretched over hollow eyes and cheeks. Though their limbs and torsos were covered in loose fabric, I could see that they all looked deathly frail. Couldn't everyone see that I wasn't like that?

Among the ashen faces, I found several that I recognized from movies and television. It shouldn't have surprised me this was a swanky recovery center, and the pressure to be thin could be overwhelming. Still, they looked worse than I ever remembered seeing them on screen. As much as I try, I can't remember much about that group session. We all sat in a circle. A blonde man with teeth as bright white as... his scrubs urged us to talk about ourselves, how food made us feel, how important our positions

as role models were. The words out of every mouth sounded hollow, rehearsed. A woman that I recognized from the tabloids began talking about young girls being our future and about how ashamed she was to be a bad influence. She cried. A bony hand reached out from both sides to comfort her. So it went, around and around. When they got to me, I told them only that I didn't belong there. Blank faces avoided making eye contact, and fragile bodies shifted uncomfortably in their hard plastic chairs. The blonde man cleared his throat and smiled.

He moved on to the next patient, and when my time to speak came again, he skipped me entirely. When group ended, a steady stream of New Beginnings' staff appeared as it. if conjured. Each health concierge greeted their charge warmly and ushered them out of the room. Louise was the last to enter and seemed more distant than she had earlier in the day. Let's get you to dinner. Then you'll have a chance to say goodbye to your parents. When I looked confused, she continued. For you to get the best possible treatment, you must be cut off from potential triggering elements. For this reason, we ask that family not visit after the

first day at new beginnings, you will see them again once your transformation is complete. There was no warmth in Louise's tone, only a business-like curtness. I nodded at her and allowed her to take my arm. The dining room was large but relatively sparse. Seven round tables dotted the room, each with five chairs. Patients that I had seen at group and some new phases greeted my arrival with detached curiosity. Louise set me down at a table and left the room without comment. Hi, my name's Elena. It's my first day here, so I'm still getting settled in.

Shall we all introduce ourselves? The women around me did not react, other than to cast their eyes downward every time I tried to make eye contact. I could tell that my presence was making them uncomfortable. No, it wasn't my presence alone. A look around the room confirmed that there was no conversation happening anywhere. All around me, patients sat, silent, and still. The only movement came with the food.

Servers brought out platters of fruits, vegetables, and meats, all piled high and served family style at each table. I watched as the others at my table selected small amounts of fruits and vegetables, a celery stick here, a strawberry there, and avoided the meat tray entirely. I took no such pains in my food selection. I was famished from the day's stress. I loaded up my plate with turkey, mangoes, and carrots.

The food tasted delicious, and I went back for seconds while my companions watched me incredulously. After dinner, Louise escorted me to a private room where my parents waited. We said our goodbyes, and my parents tearful and full of doubt. I assured them that I was different from the other patients and that it wouldn't take long for the staff to realize it and release me.

My mother nodded, her face swollen and red. That night, I lay in my twin bed, looking around my dark, empty room. I tried to plan how I might get out of here, how I might show the people in charge that I didn't need treatment. My first thought was to be as compliant as possible, to be the best little page. ever to stroll into the new beginning center. There would be no more vocal denials like in group today, no more assertions of normalcy. I stroked the photo still in my pocket and fell into a troubled sleep. The next morning, I woke to Louise striding purposely into my room.

Her mouth was pursed into a thin line, and she looked less polished than she had the night before. In her hands was a covered tray. Breakfast, I assumed. She sat the tray in front of me on the bed. Good morning, Louise. Breakfast isn't in the dining room? Not for you, it isn't. My confusion must have been evident on my face.

She huffed and continued. After that little outburst in group and the spectacle you made of yourself during dinner, we thought it best for you to eat in private for a while, until you learn cooperation. What? What spectacle? I couldn't begin to understand what Louise was talking about.

Does it make you feel good to show up the other patients? Does it make you feel superior? Power games have no place in a center of healing, and until you can figure that out, you're on your own. Socializing is a privilege, and you'd best remember that. I heard the deadbolt click behind Louise as she left the room. I had more questions than answers. Was I rude to the other people?

at dinner? Did I do something against the rules? With these questions racing through my brain, I reached for my breakfast. When I opened the cover, I gagged. There on my plate was a hunk of gray, rotting meat and fuzzy mold-en-cased fruit. I pushed the whole thing off my bed and disgust. Why would Louise bring me spoiled food? Wasn't this a place to help those with eating disorders? I got up and paced the room, carefully avoiding the mess on the floor. I needed to use the bathroom, but every time I knocked on my door, I got silence in return. I resorted to perching one leg on the sink to relieve my aching bladder, hopeful that no one would see my humiliation.

But no one did. No one came into my room until late in the evening. It was Louise who finally opened the door. She scowled at me when she entered, muttering about the stench of an animal. Two orderlies followed, armed with cleaning supplies to deal with the mess of food on the floor. Scrub that sink, too. Louise Bart, looking at me in disgust. So you still think you're better than everyone?

Too good to eat your breakfast. I've seen plenty of your type in here. Oh, I'm a model. Oh, I'm an actress. I'm a superior human being. Well, you're not. You should be a good role model, but instead you stick your nose in the air and succumb to your vanity. Louise stared hard at me.

Her hands curled into fists. I tried to tell her that the food was rotten, that I wanted to get better. But she had already turned to leave. We'll try again tomorrow. She walked out the door. The orderlies followed her, leaving me alone. The next morning started in much the same way. Louise entered my room with a plate of food, scowled at me, and left.

Once again, my food was rotten. It looked as if it could have been the same food from the day before. The gray meat was tinged with green, and there was a silvery sheen to it. The fruit was heavily furred and collapsing in on itself. Instead of flinging the tray across the room, I set it gingerly on top of the low bookshelf. I didn't understand this game, but I still resolved to be as good a patient as I could. After once again perching atop the sink to relieve myself, I returned to the bookcase. I hadn't looked twice at the double row of self-help books there. I went through them now,

cataloging their contents and deciding which might be the best to pass the time. Most of the books were about being a good role model. They had titles like, be admired, learning to turn your experiences into lessons and the receptive mind modeling for others. At least one was written by someone affiliated with the New Beginning Center. I flipped through that one, but I saw nothing about unconventional treatment methods. The orderlies came by to pick up my tray. I looked away an embarrassment as one cleaned my sink. No one will let me out to use the bathroom. The orderly didn't react. I tried asking them about the treatment. About how long it would last.

They didn't make eye contact, didn't speak. When they left the room, I felt more alone than ever. That day served as the model for my week. Every day, Louise would come in and leave me with the same rotten food. Each day, I paced the floors of my room. Each day, the orderlies would come in and take the uneaten food away. Each day, I would pull out my photo and run my finger along its edges until they became smooth and worn.

By the end of the week, I felt like the other patients looked. My stomach and my head hurt every moment of the day, and I could no longer think straight. Standing made me dizzy, so I spent my days lying in bed reading motivational garbage and wondering how much longer they could do this to me.

On the final day of my involuntary fast, Louise entered my room as she had the day before. She sat a tray before me and opened it. Inside was the same rotten food that I had become accustomed to in the previous days. On this day, however, Louise was smiling. Have you learned not to be an entitled little cunt? Are you ready to finally eat today? I can't eat this. It's spoiled.

Just like you. Before I could react, she shoved the meat into my mouth, using all of her strength to hold it there. The taste and texture hit me like a puny. to the face. The meat had begun to breed maggots, and I could feel them wriggling as I struggled against Louise's hand. I reched into my mouth, covering her open palm with bile and rotten meat.

Louise jerked her hand away and wiped it triumphantly on my bed spread. I clawed at my mouth desperately trying to get every bit of taste out of it. I continued to dry heave, my empty stomach contracting over and over again. Louise left the room and returned with clipboard. She began to write, narrating as she did. Patient still refuses to eat any and all solid foods. The patient demonstrates bulimic behavior in addition to anorexia nervosa. The patient is repeatedly non-cooperative.

A feeding tube is recommended for patient safety. With that, Louise smiled brightly and left the room. I thought about Louise a lot that day, as I balled up the disgusting food in my bed sheets and positioned my mouth under the sink's faucet. With every swallow of that foul taste, I thought about what she had written, what it could mean. Why would they starve me only to put me on a feeding tube?

What could the purpose of that madness be? I focused on Louise's smile, that awful, predatory smile. Was it me? Did she delight in torturing me specifically? My questions went unanswered, as even the orderlies left me to myself that day. The next morning, a stranger woke me from my sleep. Hello, Elena. My name is Dr. Holman, and I'm here to help you. I stared at the kind-faced man as he continued to speak to me in soft and soothing tones.

Today I will be placing in the feeding tube. It may cause some temporary discomfort, but it will help you to get stronger. Getting stronger means that you can continue your transformation. Your treatment is very much. very important to all of us. I don't want to continue my treatment or my transformation or whatever the hell they say is I went out of here. My voice sounded raw and weak as I shouted at Dr. Holman. The doctor patted my head paternally and turned to look at Louise, who only shook her head sadly.

They placed the tube that morning, fastening my hands to the bed to prevent me from removing it. The round plastic entered through. my nose, scraping and jutting against the sensitive tissue there. I continued down my throat, making me gag and heaved. Slowly at first, and then faster, a thick brown liquid began to creep down the tube. I couldn't taste it, but it felt warm and somehow bitter. I wanted to fight it, but the bonds held me still. They left me then, tied to the bed with a tube down my nose. I didn't have the energy to cry. The doctor returned the next morning with more brown goo for the tube.

Before he left, he turned to look at me curiously. Are you here? I stared. I've been here for over a week. The doctor shook his head solemnly and left. That night, I heard the first whispers. They were nearly too faint to make out, but I knew they were there, could feel them somehow inside my head.

They cooed and laughed, a dark and ugly sound that filled my head like white noise. As the whispers invaded my thoughts, my muscles twitched and flexed of their own volition. I tried to relax, tried to sleep. But I could not stop the movement for the whispers. By the time dawn broke in the white room, every muscle in my exhausted body ached.

The next few days were a blur. Each day the doctor would arrive and send the thick brown liquid down my tube. Each day, he would ask whether I was here. Each night, my brain would play tricks on me and my body would twist and turn against its bonds. I began to make out the whispers more clearly on the third night. A voice inside my head was telling me to be a good role model, that I had so much influence on young minds. On the fourth day, something had changed.

When I awoke, my body felt strangely heavy, as if weighted down. I began to feel afraid that I'd become paralyzed. When I tried to move my limbs, they didn't respond. Sometimes, though, they would. Despite the lead and rate of my body, unpredictable and intense movements would rock through me. A leg kick here and a shoulder jerk there. When the doctor arrived, he looked at a little. looked at me hopefully.

Now then, are you here? From my own mouth, with my own voice, came a response. Yes, I am here now. It was me saying that, but it wasn't me. In my mind, I saw the image of a marionette, its hinged jaw moving up and down mechanically with the pull of a string. There was a pause while the doctor looked at me. Finally, he replied,

Good. It seems to be moving along quickly, yes? My head began to spin. What was happening to me? What was this stuff running down my throat? The doctor moved around to the front of me and shined a penlight into my eyes. Can you tell how long it will be now? The voice that wasn't mine responded. Another week? Maybe two.

She gets stronger by the moment, and her mind is quite fertile. My mind was what? As I began to panic, the voice inside my head started making soothing noises, encouraging me to give in, to let it take over. It'll be so easy to be a good role model. Each day I slipped further and further away. My thoughts felt like my own, came from within me, but they were not mine. All day I was with them.

without even a self-help book for distraction. The orderlies no longer came in only the doctor once a day to fill my tube. No one even emptied my bedpan, though it neared to overflowing. I watched as my stomach swelled, becoming full and round in stretching my skin. Once I could have sworn I saw movement, something pressing upwards against the skin. I couldn't understand. Whatever was in the brown goo could not be doing that. Power hummed through my arms and legs even though they remained bound to the bed.

The doctor unshackled me yesterday, and I made no move to escape, though the part of me that was still me wanted desperately to run. Louise even came in yesterday and brought me a computer. You need to shore up your social media presence. You are a role model after all. She smiled at me, just as she did the first day that I came to the new beginning center. I have moments of being myself, but I can feel them shrinking, little by little. I will pull out my photo and remember who I was, but then I will forget. I'll hate the woman in the picture with a passion.

Or I'll be typing away, struggling to write this all down to make it known, and find myself suddenly posting on Facebook about how wonderful new beginnings has been. Inside, I scream. But it doesn't matter. The voice just chuckles and assures me that it will all be over soon. Just. My own voice says to me, You have so many good things yet to do. I want the world to know that I was a person once who controlled herself.

I was once someone who made her own decisions, who chose to live. I don't know how many there are like me. People who wants or people. I don't know when I am becoming, but please know that it is not me. I'm in our netherworld to your own reality. 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 pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our unseen hands will drag you down into our dark storyland. This audio production is copyright 2016-2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are hands. held by the respective authors. The name The No Sleep Podcast is a trademark of Creative Reason Media, Inc. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.