The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E23

Episode Date: April 2, 2017

It's episode 23 of Season 8. On this week's show we have five tales about distant distress, fearful fundraising, and ruinous residents. "Number 3"† written by Bethany Stone and performed by Nikolle Doolin & David Cummings. (Story starts around 00:02:30) "The Reason I Don’t do Cold Readings Anymore"† written by Kevin Thomas and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson & Penny Andrews & Andy Cresswell. (Story starts around 00:20:00) "The Pledge"‡ written by Matt Dymerski and performed by Jesse Cornett & Jessica McEvoy & Matthew Bradford. (Story starts around 00:37:50) "Mr. Grabs"† written by E.Z. Morgan and performed by Dan Zappulla & Nichole Goodnight & Jeff Clement & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 01:09:30) "The Smiling Ones on Space Station Mir"† written by Darius Pilgrim and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jesse Cornett & Peter Lewis & Kyle Akers & Atticus Jackson & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 01:26:20) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here to learn more about "The Silver Path" by Caitlin Spice  Click here to learn more about Kevin Thomas  Click here to learn more about Matt Dymerski  Click here to learn more about E.Z. Morgan  Click here to learn more about Darius Pilgrim  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ llustration courtesy of Jen Tracy Audio 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 in to your fear because tonight there will be no sleep. 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 distant distress, fearful fundraising, and ruinous

residence. It's always a pleasure to share the good news when one of our popular authors publishes a book. C.M. Scandrith is the pen name of author Caitlin Spice, and Caitlin has recently published her illustrated collection of short stories titled The Silver Path. Miss Scandrith, I mean Ms. Spice, is well known to our listeners for stories which include the highway dancer, the gin bottle, and her wildly popular tale of a seaside British pub. Not only does her book contain many of her outstanding tales, but it also features artwork by some of the best fantasy illustrators working today. I highly encourage you to pick up a first edition copy of this book

by this extremely talented author. Check the show notes on our website for a link to where you can find the book. And now, while we don't have any stories from Caitlin on this week's show, we do have five excellent tales in store for you. So let's wait no further and start this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a woman living in a small apartment with her family. That might seem normal, but as author Bethany Stone explains, it's the apartment upstairs with its mysterious noises,

which becomes the woman's obsession. I join Nicole Doolin in performing this tale, so make sure you get to know your neighbors. especially if they live in number three. There's something strange about number three. With an infant in the apartment, very little was spoken above a murmur. The pervading sound in number one, our increasingly cramped apartment, one bed, two baths, and one baby that dominated the remaining 700 square feet was murmurs.

And of course, the odd sounds that came from number three. I glanced at my husband. He was exhausted, overworked, and underslept. He was all so unbearably good-looking, unfailingly good company, and the convenient owner of half of my heart. The baby in my arms held the other half in her sweet, sticky fingers, as firmly as she grasped my index finger now in her steady sleep. I looked at my heart owners and smiled.

I jerked my head up sharply at the sound. coming from the apartment above us. We'd been living in the remote apartment building for over a year, and I still had not identified what the sounds from number three actually were. Stranger still was the sense that I should have been able to identify them. They sounded oddly familiar, commonplace. The thought I just heard, for instance, something solid and awkward falling to the floor, but what?

It happened several times a night. All the noises happened at night. There was no activity whatsoever that I could hear from my upstairs neighbor during the day. But at night there were thuds, thuds, and... What was that? Was something being dragged across the floor? Soon there would be that moist squelching sound again. I could have sworn I repeatedly heard the too loud sucking groan of a vacuum cleaner.

But that didn't make any sense either. Why would someone need to clean their carpets for 30 minutes every single night? And always, always the knocking. It was usually the last sound I heard before I drifted off to sleep. And it sounded to me like a visitor was knocking on number three's front door. But it was always the same rhythm, same volume. Three slow, resounding knocks. So resounding that it could have come from anywhere in the apartment above me, for all I knew.

And I didn't know much. That was what disturbed me most. I simply didn't know what the story was behind number three and its occupant, because I'd never seen the occupant. I'd realized it around the same time I realized how peculiar the sounds were. We'd heard the odd activity in the apartment above us from time to time since we moved in, but it hadn't been so troubling when we were still sleeping. But sound sleep was hard to come by with a newborn. Now I passed entire nights with the baby in my arms, rocking, jet.

gently in the rocking chair, staring at the ceiling, humming distracted lullabies over the thuds and drags and squishes and sucks and crashes and knocks. I told myself that if I could just get a good look at whoever lived up there, I'd feel better about it all. But I still hadn't caught myself a glimpse of my upstairs neighbor. And still the sounds sounded. I sat up suddenly in bed. What happened?

I quickly took stock of my surroundings. A.B. breathing softly in her sleeper by my nightstand? Husband stretched out in a deep sleep beside me on the bed. I glanced at my watch. 2.34 a.m. Fine. Everything was fine. I laid back down. What was that?

My eyes flew open as I heard the sound again. Must have been what woke me up in the first place. I sat up again. Where was it coming from? It was close. Coming from somewhere in the room it sounded like. It was loud, deliberate. My eyes darted around the darkened room.

It must be the cats. I must have forgotten to fill their food bowl before I fell asleep. I started to stand, planning to herd the restless cats to their food bowl so I could feed them and return to bed quickly. And I suddenly registered another sound. Soft purring. I turned around and saw both cats lying asleep at my husband's feet. I became quite still. I was half standing, half sitting, fully alert.

I should move, I thought. Stand up and switch on the lamp. Jostle my husband awake. Turn around. Yes, I should definitely turn around. I remained frozen. There it was again. Slowly I raised my eyes.

The scratching. It was coming from above. It sounded like, like an animal of some kind. Something with claws. Something trying to scratch its way through. Something directly above me. I rubbed my eyes for the hundredth time that day. It had been a long night. At some point, the baby had stirred forcing me to act. By the time I'd turned on the lights and changed a heavy wet, diaper, the scratching sound had stopped. I wasn't entirely sure it had actually happened anymore. It could have been one of those vivid, abstract dreams I'd been having, ever since we left one night for the hospital with broken water and came back days later with a baby girl. Yes, that was it. A dream. I had just finished addressing a few thank-you cards, the cable bill,

a niece's birthday card. I pressed my fingernails into my throat. The acidity of the coffee was burning a hole right through my lungs. How many cups had I had? Where did we keep the antacids again? Why were things so quiet? What did number three do all day? Number one. I started. Oh, when did you get home? I'm sorry I didn't even hear you come in. He chuckled and kissed my temple, emptying his pockets onto the table. wallet, keys, fair change.

I cringed at the noise, but the baby beside me and the sleeper slept on. Thank God, I thought, sternly. If the baby woke, the baby would cry, and loud noises are for nighttime. Wait, what? Where did that thought come from? That was strange. We're number one, honey. My husband was talking to me again.

I shook my head. What? He pointed at the small stack of envelopes in front of me. Number three. There it was, on the return address line. Our names, our street number, and the apartment above us. Number three, it was on every envelope in my careful handwriting. I blinked, frowned, blinked again.

My husband moved to the back of the apartment to shower. When he emerged 15 minutes later, he found his wife sitting in the same spot. I hadn't moved at all. I'd had enough. The whole thing was getting to me. Each night I simmered in suspicion. Each day I stued in confusion. I was becoming a little fixated.

It was a mystery to be solved, that's all. Once I solved it, I'd be rid of my silly, sinister thoughts about number three. And the best way to solve it was to take decisive action. I would simply approach the tenant. I'd walk up the stairs, ring the little doorbell next to the door, and come face to face with what was surely a perfectly normal person in a perfectly normal apartment with a perfectly normal explanation for everything. I waited until my husband came home from work.

With his attention on warming a bottle for the baby's third dinner that day, he hardly noticed as I mumbled some nonsense about retrieving something from my car. I closed the door behind me and quickly patted up the stairs. Number three, there it was. I tucked my hair behind my ears and raised my finger to the doorbell. All of a sudden I stopped. My finger was inches from the little buzzer. My gaze fixed on the metal three nailed to the door.

I couldn't explain why or where my determination had gone. I couldn't explain I couldn't move. I felt it. Yes, somehow I felt it more than anything else. The presence of something close, quite close, like it was pressed against the other side of the door, like it knew I was coming, like it had been waiting, like it was eager, I slowed my breathing, willed my heartbeat to soften, strained my ears. I heard it. then the soft rattle of breath. It seemed to seep out between the hinges of the door. My nostrils flared. What was that smell? It smelled like something long expired in a dank place, like a full picnic

left to rot in a very dark, wet cave. Without realizing what I was doing, and despite the grotesque smell, I leaned closer. The breathing stopped. Time stopped. Even the wafts of stench seemed a still and pungent motionlessness. I waited in perfect silence. I stood there until several minutes had passed. I stood until I could force myself to back away and walk down the steps. In all that time, the breathing never started back up again.

In all that time, it didn't need to breathe. I shut the door of our part. behind me in a daze. My husband was before me in an instant. Where were you? Baby, you were gone for like 20 minutes, and you didn't take your phone? What were you thinking? I opened my mouth to offer some inane excuse when my husband abruptly screwed up his face. He wrinkled his nose. He leaned closer, lifted a lock of my hair from my shoulder, and brought it to his face, sniffing. He grimaced apologetically. No offense, honey, but your hair smells like death. Footsteps, I thought wildly. Those were footsteps. I'd put the baby down for a nap in her crib some 20 minutes before and had been

reading on the couch since. I dropped my book and stared upward. Someone was moving with purpose, loudly, directly above the spot where I had just been sitting. I stood and cocked my head to the side. tracked the steps. The feet above me moved to the kitchen. I followed below. Silence. Suddenly more movement. I scrambled, then caught the steps again, plodding down the hall.

I followed. Silence. The steps started again. Slower, louder. I followed beneath them. My gaze fixed on the ceiling. Silence. Several beats of it. I waited breathlessly. The moment flexed before me. I licked my lips and swallowed roughly. My brow furrowed in confusion. It hadn't moved again. It hadn't sat down. Whatever was above me was just standing in this spot. I lowered my head and looked around. I was standing in the bedroom. I was standing before the crib. staring down at my baby's small sleeping body.

My eyes widened. I took a step back. Another step. A third step. Then I heard it. A series of clicks. No, those weren't clicks. It was...

Someone was giggling. A metallic grating sound. A sound of delight. Of all the sounds I'd heard from number three. This one. This one was the worst. I was alone. My husband was meeting his father for an early dinner and had taken the baby. I said I felt sick and would lie down. I didn't and wouldn't. I just needed some time to myself. They'd be back before long and I'd be rested. I needed this. I sighed with contentment and sank deeper into the hot bath I'd drawn. I let my eyes flutter shut. I willed myself to think.

think of nothing, nothing at all but the feel of the water on my skin. It was then that I heard it, the knocking. I opened my eyes. That's not right, I thought. The knocking comes later, and it comes fainter. Then it happened again. My jaw slackened. My eyes shot to my unlocked bathroom door. I swallowed a gurgled gasp, air seeped into my nostrils at my in inalation and my husband was right it smelled like death the bathroom door slowly opened and it made no sound at all no sound at all yes there is something strange about number three i haven't been here long but i can tell you assuredly that nothing is spoken not even a murmur we have no way to speak And even if we did, we would have no need of speech. My husband and baby and their little family murmurs are long gone, learning how lives are lived without wives and mothers.

I don't know who lives in number one now. We haven't met yet, but I know they hear the sounds we make. And when I think of number one wondering about them, wondering enough to march on up here and stand out of, outside the door and smell what's become of us. I just smile in delight. I smile as I scratch what's left of my fingernails on the floor above their sweet little heads

on their sweet little bed. I smile and I scratch and I smile and I smile and I smile. are always people who are desperate to speak with loved ones who have gone before them. That's why the man in this tale from author Kevin Thomas does what he does. Using tricks to fool people into thinking he's speaking with the dead. And that's all they are, right? Just tricks? Performing this tale are David Alt,

Erica Sanderson, Penny Scott Andrews, and Andy Cresswell. So let's hear the man explain the reason I have. don't do cold readings anymore. I don't do cold readings anymore. I don't tell fortunes. I don't read tea leaves. And I do not contact the other side. Look, don't judge me, all right? It was an easy gig. I mean, the first time I did it, it was a joke. I did it just to impress a go. You've been there, right? It was something I'd read about online and I thought I'd give it a go. cold reading. I don't need to tell you that there's no such thing as a psychic. It's just extremely convincing, educated guessing. I know, I know if you believe in this stuff, you've

definitely got a story to tell me that starts, yeah, most are fake, but this one time, and you'll tell me some incredibly specific thing that they couldn't possibly have known. Honestly, though, if I could have been there when you got your revelatory message, you gave them everything they needed. They just connected dots. See, people aren't desperately unique, not really. Hell, you only need 23 people before there's a 50% chance that two of them have the same birthday. You give me a crowd of 50 people, and I'll find someone born in August with an important L in their life, luck, Leeds, Louise, and I'll have everything I need. It's not hard.

People like a sense of pattern in their lives. It gives them a sense of control. It's why people like conspiracy theories. It's hard to think that everything really is as shit and meaningless and random as experience would imply. When someone flies a plane into a building, it's easier to think that it's just another cog in some grand scheme, then face up to the fact that actually it really doesn't take all that much other than a fuck-up and a box cutter to completely ruin everything. Similarly, when you're holding the hand of a five-year-old girl long after, her long black hair has fallen out, and she's looking at you for help and you can't.

Maybe it's easier to think it's just a crappy part of a bigger plan. You're both just changing lanes for a bit, but you're heading to the same destination. So look, I'm not defending myself. I'm not saying I'm not a twat in all this. I'm just saying that I never wanted to deceive people. I mean, not maliciously. I just thought I was providing a service, you know? An outlet maybe.

So when I did my cold readings, I got quite good at them. It's pretty simple, really. You're just a salesman. If you can sell a used car, you can sell a reading. It all boils down to two things. Confidence and knowing your audience. Like, all right, I'll tell you a story. So one of the first times I did it was in a bar.

It was a chain bar, one of those where the menu was the same in every. town and the happy hour hasn't changed since 2008. I was being introduced to a group of my girlfriend's friends, and so I was on my best behavior. Captain Charming, you know? So when Maria, all olive skin and deep brown wavy hair, said that the women in her family always had a sort of gift for talking to the beyond, I saw a chance. So I read her. My girlfriend was 24 and they were university friends, so I guess that Maria was likely a year either side maximum. She was thus probably a child of the early 90s, young enough that likely her parents were still alive,

but that she may have lost a grandparent or two. There were no rings on her fingers, so I guessed she wasn't married, and the way she was poured into that red cocktail dress pretty much counted out the chance of her being a mum. So grandparents was the way in. The most common first letter in first names are J for men, And A for women. For men, this is especially useful as it takes care of all of the Johns, James and Jacks,

which have had staying power during the generations, too. There's someone who wants to speak with you. Maria's eyes flicker with excitement. This is a good sign. I'm getting an A. No reaction at all from Maria. Luckily, it's an easy conversion. No, no, no, not A.

It's a J. Another flicker. She takes in a sharp breath. Bingo. I think it's a James or a John. John! Yes, John, my grandfather. He's here with us now.

Now most people at this point are still pretty skeptical. Maria was taking the bait with gusto, but most people would still be sat back in their chairs at this point. Single eyebrow raised. Now you've got to hear. hit him with something a bit more personal. With grandparents, it tends to be a pretty positive relationship that you're playing on. I mean, if it's a dead partner, there can be all kinds of baggage to unpack,

but dead grandparents are usually a big bag of happy memories. So that's the card you play. If they're wanting to talk to grandparents, it's because they want to feel that same safeness again. First, though, got to pull them in with something that seems specific. I see him watching over you, but I see him. blackness in his chest or abdomen, that kind of area. It's a fair shot, usually.

Something north of 85% of deaths of men over 65 are due to some form of complication around there. But he wants you to know that he's at peace, that he says that he sees you struggling with something, a choice, perhaps. He's saying that you should follow your heart and you shouldn't worry about the money. See, that seems really personalized. but actually, when are we not toying with some kind of big choice? Even if it's not imminent, people are always juggling the idea of moving house or jobs

or changing something up with their partner. And what big choice doesn't have financial implications? Or moreover, who isn't worried about money literally all the time? Same as ever. Feels personal, but applies to everyone. Maria is almost breathless at this point and starts asking really direct questions that would expose me if I tried to answer them honestly. No, no, no, no, he's fading.

Oh, he's gone back over. So that's how I got started. But then it got out of hand. See, Maria had bought the whole act. She told a friend, who told a friend, who told a friend, and soon I had people ringing me and texting me, asking for readings. Then they started offering money. Well, cut a long story short,

That's how I ended up on stage here, earning two grand for a two-night performance in the conference centre of a shitty airport hotel outside Manchester. The first night was like any other night. The venue was about a third full. I was wearing my black suit with the open-collared blue velvet shirt, very 80s, butlin's entertainer outfit. I was scanning the room for easy marks, someone clutching a jewelry or a picture. The ticket asks them to bring something belonging to the...

the person they wish to contact. So the second you see anyone with their hands full, you know, you've got a gullible mark. And there she wants, nervously spinning her wedding ring with a photo resting on her lap. Dead husband, my bread and butter. I sat with her and, well, there's a reason I don't do these anymore. I played it safe at first. I'm getting a J. She took a deep. She took a deep breath and started to react. Before I could get a chance to read her reaction, another voice called from the other side of the room. It's him! Sometimes you get someone who's a bit over-enthusiastic, someone who's so desperate to get in touch with their beloved that they'll assume that whatever voice is coming through is trying to get in touch with them, regardless of who the current mark is.

It's why I stay away from sensing the letter R, between the Richards and Dicks and Roberts and Bob's, half the sodding room thinks they're being contacted. I got ready to politely ask the interruptor to sit back down. But there was nothing. No one. I turned back to the widow. She was stealing herself to get in touch with her, Jay. I caught a brief glimpse of what I thought was the name Alan on the wedding photo in her lap and was ready to fix my pitch accordingly when the voice came again. This time just a single word rang through so loud, it arrived with a blinding white. My eyes focused again on the widow in front of me.

She was taking little shallow rasps of breath and staring at me with eyes like a startled deer. I spun round to try and find the source of the yell, but there was no one. Did anyone else hear that? The crowd, assuming it was part of the gig, simply should bear heads. Catching my breath, I tried to get back on. track. No, no, not a J, it's, it's an A. Slam. Another bullet train of sound to the back of my mind. Him, it's him. I was knocked back a few paces. Panting, beads of sweat form on my forehead. I pulled at my tie to loosen it. Please, try not to shout when the voices are coming to me.

It makes it hard to concentrate. What had been amused, half smiles at what they assumed was. showmanship became puzzled silent exchanges with the people sitting near them as I asked the silent crowd for quiet. I went a third time to speak to the widow but the voice rung out again popping in my ears as though it had been trapped in a bubble. Third row red shirt him he killed me. I was still catching my breath panting heavily I scanned the crowd and sure enough there he was Third row, red, casual, fitted shirt that looked expensive. Short brown hair in a modern professional cut framing a neutral, polite smile. Light brown chinos and brown leather shoes.

Arm draped around the shoulders of a nervous-looking blonde woman. I couldn't see her face as she held an unbroken look with her lap. Her hands gripped the blue velvet clutch on her knees. Her legs were pinned together with vice-like strength. Her shoulders drooped under the weight of his arm. Even as I met his eyes, he didn't let that neutral salesman grin drop. It was the grin of the man who sold the car and is going in to sell the paint job. Him. It's him.

My knees cracked with the punches of the sound and I fell to the floor. I could hear the gasps in the audience. People were out of their chairs craning their necks and crowding to see what was happening. I told you that this gig is all about salesmanship. This was me losing the pitch. They wanted enthusiasm, not seizures. Back on my feet, the widow well at the back of my mind. I managed to rise zombie-like to my feet.

I raised a pointed finger at Mr. Redshirt. I'm getting a voice. I pinched the bridge of my nose and put out an arm evangelical style. What's your name? Gemma. My name is Gemma. She says her name is Gemma. name is Gemma, does that mean anything to you? Red Shirt's grin spreads.

Sorry, pal, nothing to me. She's saying she knows you. Redshirt laughed. Never known a Gemma in my life. His companion raised her head at the mention of the name. Her eyes were wide and pricked with tears. Gemma's voice in my ears got louder and shriller and more panicked. I could feel the heart.

beat in my eyes. Soon I was simply parroting her words. She's saying, she's saying you killed her. You killed her and buried her body out the back of Bleacher's woods by the A55. She's saying you were waiting for her after she finished work and you came up behind her and clocked around the head and put her in the back of your white Ford Transit. The crowd was bustling by now, this was not what they paid for. They wanted financial advice from granddad, or to know that little Robbie is happy in heaven after he came off his bike and fell under the 681 bus to Salford, not to have some sweating charlatan shouting accusation at innocent audience members. People were grabbing their bags and starting for the doors. I couldn't stop, though. By now I was just a puppet

for Gemma's voice. You thought I was out cold, you fuck, but I was just barely conscious. I felt everything. I felt you tearing my clothes. I felt the way you scraped my underwear against my thighs when you were too weak to tear them off in one. I felt the dirt as it landed on my back. I heard you pat down the soil before one type of darkness gave way to the next. The steadfast grin on red shirt's face was back. I was alive, you bastard. Not even a hint of his grin slipping. Gemma's voice was fading. Like someone being dragged away in a noisy bar, her voice replaced by the din of silence. No, not yet, you have to warn her. Amy! Amy!

And with that, Gemma was gone. And like a puppet with the strings suddenly cut, my shaking knees buckled and I fell to all fours and emptied my guts over the worn and dirty brown carpet flooring. People were streaming out now muttering criticism. under their breaths. Worst show ever. Look up. Red shirt strong-armed his partner out of her seat and started marching towards the door.

I reached out from my prone position to try and grab the hem of her skirt, but she was already out of reach, and I could barely stand. Through the sweats and the panting, I looked up to see Red Shirt ushering the woman out of the door. I thought I saw tears in her eyes. In the confusion and bustle of her. the crowd leaving the room, I thought I saw her reach out towards me, but Redshirt had a firm grasp on her shoulder. He stared back at me, that same salesman grin on his face, and he winked,

and they were gone. I stumbled to my feet standing in my own vomit as I started towards the door. I burst into the foyer, desperate to try and find Red Shirt in his crying companion, but in the bustling crowd, I couldn't see either of them. I just stood there. A wave crashed through again. A final hurrah from Gemma. Useless! Complaints about my performance flooded the venue,

and they were forced to cancel a second night's performance. Of course, I'd already paid for the hotel room, so spent the second evening sat at the bar, trying my best to forget about Gemma. I was on the third whiskey when a tail-end news report caught my ear about a missing woman. The prim newsreader stated, Police are appealing.

witnesses in the disappearance of Amy Hoxtedder, a woman from the Salford area who was last seen leaving the Keys Hotel Conference Centre with an unidentified man. She had been attending an event hosted by alleged psychic Theo Capewell, an event that she'd attended because according to friends, she'd been hoping to contact her sister, General Hoxstetter, who disappeared last year. Anyone with information should contact them. The rest of the report was lost to the din of the bar. Like I said, I don't do cold readings anymore. They're not cold enough. When it comes to starting a new project, many people turn to crowdfunding for revenue.

But in this tale from author Matt Dimmerski, one young man is enticed to donate to a campaign with increasingly mysterious levels for its backers. Performing this tale are Jesse Cornett, Jessica McAvoy, and Matthew Bradford. So when you feel like supporting a campaign, make sure you know where your money is going before you make the pledge. I was skeptical when my online friends first linked me to the supposed evil Kickstarter that was going to viral on the less than wholesome forums we frequented. And we were an unmoderated haven for trolls, weirdos, and radicals, sure. But this Kickstarter was something else entirely. It seemed to have no publicly stated goal. The writers had only promised something awesome if the funding amount was reached.

Stranger still, the rewards were all hidden except for the first level. In the pledge $1 or more box, the text read, Want to get started? Throw in $1 and you'll receive access to the higher pledge tiers. Also, two things will happen. You will have a minor and tangible wish granted. And we will send you a video of one. of us kicking a random stranger. Estimated delivery. Tomorrow. Tomorrow? Don't these rewards usually

only get sent out after full funding? But I understood what they were going for. This was a gimmick to get attention, and judging by the high number of backers listed in the box it was working. Screw it, I thought. I'll throw in a dollar and see what happens. As I woke up the next morning, I trudged around the kitchen making coffee and then sat sipping at it at the table while trying to escape the groginess of sleep. All I wanted was a day to myself to avoid the grinding monotony of classes. At that moment, my phone dinged. Lifting it, I saw that someone had sent me an email with a video attachment. I instantly became fully awake as I realized what this was, opening it with trepidation.

I hit play and watched. Five teenagers in black hoodies and expressionless white masks ran through an alleyway together, often looking back with the camera and laughing. When they reached the street, they made a beeline for a tired businessman on the bench, and the lead kid ran right up and kicked him in the shin. Confused and angry, the businessman left.

up and began shouting, but the hooligans were already running away. The last few seconds of the video were a close-up of a white mask and dark and motionless eye holes as they fled the scene. The speaker said, This one's for you, Jason Phillips. Thanks for your dollar pledge. It would be an understatement to say I was put off. They were actually going around kicking people in return for a dollar. I had to call the police. I picked up my phone again, moved to action by the fear that I might be liable for this, but my phone dinged again. I had a text message and an email from the official college department telling me that classes were canceled today on account of a bomb threat.

I sat in silence until it hit me. I'd just been wishing for a day to myself. Had these violent teenagers guessed that that would be my minor wish? Had they called in a bomb threat to get me the day off? I shivered. I couldn't call the police. I couldn't be connected to this. I would be expelled at best and jailed at worst.

They might even look into my history of trolling online, and then I'd really be screwed. How the hell had they gotten my name? And I've been so stupid as to use my real credit card. I flipped through my logs and confirmation emails, but no. I'd taken the proper precaution and used an anonymous cash card. How had they gotten my information?

My friends had to be in it. Of course. This was all a prank. Oh, they'd gotten me good. There was probably no bomb threat at all. The text had likely been faked or spoofed somehow, smiling the whole way I went to class anyway. But it was canceled.

And cops were everywhere. Rather than going home, I stopped in a Starbucks and pulled out my laptop. Was it paranoia to avoid using my computer at home? Something about this seemed off. Checking the Kickstarter again to try to understand what was happening, I saw that I'd been given access to the $5 tier. Now that you've seen, we're legit. Why not up the stakes a little?

Pledge five bucks, and we'll get you something tangible. of your choice worth $500 were less. We'll also send you a video of us punching a stranger in the face. Estimated delivery? Tomorrow. I could actually feel my circulatory system in my torso, thanks to the stressed beats within. It was not a pleasant feeling.

Pay $5 and get something worth $500? The first thing that came to mind was that gaming, console I couldn't afford. All my classmates were talking about the greatest new games, but I could only watch gameplay videos online to carry out the charade that I had them myself. In some sense, I believed that the Kickstarter videos were staged and that the end parts with the close-up and my spoken name were edited onto the end of each file they sent out. Reassuring myself, I pledged five bucks.

I drank more than my share beer that night with my roommates. trying to pretend like everything was fine. I forced smiles and told some jokes. One of my friends mentioned that I seemed strained, but I laughed it off and said it was just the stress of upcoming finals. The beer helped me sleep, but I awoke with a start and ran downstairs as morning light shimmered in through the windows.

There was already a package on my doorstep. It was addressed to someone named Ricardo Jimenez, along with a note that read, happy birthday son. I opened it, but I already knew what it was. Someone else's gaming system had been diverted to my address.

As I opened the box, my phone dinged. My blood ran cold. They teenagers? They were thin and lanky under their black hoodies and blue jeans, but their masks hid any identifying features. Watching them run, I noticed their gate seemed odd. Then I steeled myself as they burst out a different alley and ran at a haggard mother pushing a baby cage.

I screamed at my phone. No! But it was useless. The lead hooligan ran straight at her and popped her in the side of the face with a punch that took a straight line. From that, I knew they were the same height as her. I absorbed that fact to counter the horrible feeling that I'd caused this to happen to some unsuspective. mother on the street. Again, a mask filled the video view for the final sequence. Thanks for your $5 pledge, Jason Phillips. I hope you enjoy those games.

The gaming system found a new home in a dumpster five blocks away from my apartment. I couldn't keep it, not after what I'd seen. And I certainly can sell it without confirming intent for any police that might be chasing these guys down. On the walk back, I took a round about route, and I eyed every car around me with suspicion. No one seemed to be taking note of my presence, but why should they? To the real world, I was just a random college senior. They had no idea what I did or said online. Classes blurred by. I could think of nothing else but the Kickstarter. I knew I would see another new pledge level if I looked again, but I feared what I would find. Between classes, I tried to contact the friends that linked me to it.

None of them were responding. I was still half certain they were somehow in on it. But the feeling this whole thing was giving me, I just couldn't be sure anymore. My resistance lasted two days. Ostensibly, I was checking to see when the mysterious goalless Kickstarter was ending, but I couldn't help but glance down and see the $10 tier. You're in it now, friend.

For your amazing support of $10, we will free you from an intangible chain that's weighing you down. We'll also send you another of those videos you love. In this one, will non-fatally stab someone just for you. Estimated delivery. Stabs of Christ! But an intangible chain weighing me down? God, my student loans. I hit the pledge button without letting myself debate further.

My student loan debt was over $80,000, and it represented a lifetime of tithing servitude that I would never fully repaying, not with the way the economy was going. Wine was my friend that night rather than beer. I sat watching pirated movies online until the sun came up, not bearing to think about what I'd done. At the same time, I very much needed this to be real.

When the student financial services office opened, I was there. As I barged in, the instant the clock hit the hour. A blonde fellow student looked up in surprise. Can I help you? Yeah, I need to check my debt balance. I tried my best to look calm, but I guessed my turn. purse restraint just made me that much more suspicious. My name's Jason Phillips.

Here's my student ID and papers here. Sure. She took my paperwork and turned to her computer. After a moment of typing, she began to recite. If this is about a payment, you can go to our... Oh, looks like you have a zero balance. Barely able to keep myself from shit. shaking in my sneakers, I clarify.

No debt? It got paid off? She shook her head. No, you've never taken out alone with us at all. You're enrolled, but the registrar's database says you've paid in cash every term. From what accounts? I forced a nonchalant smile. Oh, we don't have access to that here.

I'm just here through work study. Is something wrong? I'd kill to be debt-free. My phone dinged in my pocket. Don't say that. Don't say that. Out in the hallway, I sat and watched the video. The same five black-hoodied, white-masked,

thugs were running through an alley. As they merged onto the street and headed for a bald teenage girl in a shirt that read, I stood strong. I fought hard. I won. I closed the video and put it away. I couldn't watch it. I recognized that kind of shirt from my father's own struggle with cancer.

The shaking wouldn't stop. And I imagined I was bright red from the absolute chaos going on inside my chest. Oh, God. I was free of debt, free of the weight of $80,000. that had racked up when my father's illness ate my college fund. I was free of the debt, and I was happy for it.

I was happy. Meanwhile, some teenage girl that had just survived the unthinkable was about to be stabbed in exchange. My only consolation a spit and tears plopped onto the floor by my sneakers was that the pledge box

had specified non-fatal. Are you all right? Right? It was my turn to look up in surprise. It's not often that someone comes in, freaked out and sad that they have no debt. Something's the matter, isn't it? After studying my face, she sat next to me. I'm Kelly.

Jason. I was unable to look her in the eye. Why don't you tell me what's wrong, Jason? It all spilled out of me in my. one long, babbling wave. The Kickstarter, the plagued tears, the bomb threat, the kick, the gaming system, the punch in the face, the canceled student loan debt. She sat and listened to all of it, wary. After I was done, she nodded once and narrowed her eyes.

Show me the video. That was not the reaction I'd expected. I'd been braced for disbelief or having the cops called on me. Are you sure? It's... Just show it to me. She took the phone and watched without visible reaction. I heard it say my name and thanked me for the $10 pledge.

Well, they stabbed her, but I think she'll live. I finally found myself able to look at her. Now that someone else knew I wasn't so gripped by terror and self-loathing, you're not scared? I don't know enough to be scared yet. Do you have the other two videos on this phone? Yes. Here. She watched the previous two with the same calculating gaze.

They always originate out of sight. Why is that? And who exactly is doing the filming? Tonight, let's get these on a bigger monitor and watch for reflections. These look like random city streets. There's no way they've got all the angles covered. And if they do, you'll know it's fake. After a sigh and a nod.

I have a desktop computer at home. Two big monitors. You a computer science major? Yeah. All right, here's my number. Text me your address and I'll come by after work and classes. Taking my phone back with a sense of dumbfounded shame and hope. Why are you helping?

me. Maybe I'm one of them, and this is just a way of secretly getting closer to you. I laughed nervously. But she returned to the student financial services office without taking it back or even hinting that she was joking. Something about her deadpan attitude made her seem trustworthy. Or maybe I was just desperate to have help in this. But I had no other option anyway. That night, I sent her my address, and she showed up with a laptop of her own and sat at my desk alongside me. I loaded up the videos in my large monitors, and we began to go through them frame by frame, staring at each and every single blur and corner. Hackers of some sort. She drank from a very large fountain soda she'd brought. You'd be surprised the kind of information

they can get online. Oh, I'm no stranger to hacking. I felt much better now that I had an ally. I basically live on the internet. And career, no life are here. But this is a whole other level. I mean, calling in bomb threats, redirecting mail, canceling debt, and all without any police attention that I've seen.

These guys are good. She glanced up at one of the tab names in my browser bar about the video. You frequent that forum? Red-faced, I quickly closed the tab. I'm not a brony, I swear. I was just trying to get info on these guys. I believe you. There was nothing in the first or second video.

Even going frame by frame. Could just be unlucky. Load up the third one. I glanced over at my small digital clock. Are you sure? It's two in the morning. I'm sure. There's something here.

Again, I had to ask, why are you helping me? She looked me straight in the eyes, which I'd found was rare for. It's a mystery. Don't you want to solve it? They're hurting people. My heart was beating fast again for many reasons. This is messed up. Look, they're halfway to their fundraising goal.

And I don't even know what'll happen when they'll read. reach it. Could be some sort of terrorist attack, but that doesn't seem right. These guys have some sort of moral code lurking behind their cheery shenanigans. They're giving you things, but they're also hurting people. Before we look at the third video, what's the next pledged here? I opened up the Kickstarter and stared. You've come so far in your support of our grand goal.

It's a few dollars more. Pledge $25, and we'll get you something tangible that will go a long way towards your happiness and freedom. Our video offering here is also pretty kick-ass, pun intended. With this tier, we'll send you a video of us kicking someone you know. Estimated delivery? Tomorrow. She looked at me.

The cost and violence. appears to have gone down. But now it's someone I know. But what does that mean? I mean, what level of being familiar with someone means I know them? Do they mean friends online? Classmates here? The choice is yours, but it seems like a small price to pay for more information.

A fourth video would help, along with seeing them in action again. That's true. I'd been thinking that myself. Before I could second guess the decision, I clicked the pledge button again. She gazed around my bedroom. Nothing happened. Well, yeah, it's not immediate. Then let's go over this video.

We began going through the third video frame by frame, looking for any hint of editing or angles that might show something the five mass blankie figures had missed. And I finally lost all feelings. in my limbs for a moment as I finally saw it. Pointing, I drew Kelly's attention to a reflection on a passing car window. Five black hoodies and white masks could be seen, but... There's nobody filming. That's where the camera should be, right?

Yeah, there's the pole that just passed on the left. Where's the cameraman? Where's the camera? While I got up and began to pace back and forth in a panic, She sat in her chair staring down at the desk and murmuring to herself. Coding, digital alteration, married for us to find. They want us to be scared. They didn't make a single mistake in the first two videos. Why now?

They knew we'd comb through and find it. All part of the gimmick. Yeah, yeah, that has to be it. But to edit the reflection on glass on a moving call, car so perfectly? She rocked back and forth slightly. It's amazing. She snapped out of it then and looked at me.

It's too late to walk through the city. I'm staying here tonight. Just like that, one confusing terror drained out of me to be replaced by another. Okay? She slept on the other side of my bed while I remained awake. I was getting increasingly fatigued, but I was far. too tense to sleep for many reasons. Morning came as a gradual gray lightning,

and I sat up warily just as the sounds of a loud and heavy truck began emanating from outside my window. Kelly awoke and popped up instantly with no sign of exhaustion. Together, we went outside to see a heavy set man operating a winch to lower a sports car onto the pavement. Hey, you Jason Phillips? Yeah? Got some ID?

Sure, hold on. I showed him. He grunted. Huh. This car's for you, kid. What'd you do? Get all A's and your parents bought you a car? This one's an easy hundred thou.

Must have been some tough classes. Staring, I said nothing. He handed me the title after I signed something on a clipboard, and suddenly I was the new owner of a Lamborghini. The delivery man knew nothing of interest, only that the order had come in online and cleared. And I was left to sit in my new sports car while my phone dinged every so often to remind me I had a new video. This didn't do it for me. I didn't care about the car.

I wasn't really that material. Except what else had the tears said? Something about freedom? A car meant the ability to travel with a car. car, class would no longer be a 20-minute walk away. I could give rise to people, curry favor, impressed girls. I looked over at Kelly, who stood studying the title and paperwork. Did this kind of thing impact her at all? Nothing seemed to faze her. But I was not nearly as stoic. The fourth video immediately began in a dark gap between two houses.

And the five white mass perpetrators ran across the street toward a house I recognized. As they broke in the door and the sounds of my mother's screaming reached my ears, I watched an abject horror as the invaders broke my dad's at-home medical machines and began brutally kicking him until he was crawling on the floor. Exact grammar was important. The first tier had said that one of them would kick a random street, stranger. This latest tear had simply said the video would be of us kicking someone I knew. I hadn't paid close enough attention. My jaw began trembling as I watched the five run from the house, laughing.

What is it? Through the open car window, I handed her the phone in silence. She watched it calmly. This is great. Great? Did you see what they did? Yes. They entered a place they did not control. And by the color of the sky, it looks like they literally just did this. They'll have screwed up this time. They didn't give themselves a chance to edit the video. Get inside and get this on your monitor.

Wiping away tears, I did as instructed, and we began going over the fourth video frame by frame. It was gut-wrenching to see my father be. beaten so brutally after what he had already survived, and to know that I did that. It was something I could never apologize for. The Kickstarter is almost at its goal. Glancing at my other monitor, I saw only a sliver remaining to be filled. It was me, wasn't it? It was counting down for me. I kept finding excuses to gain things at the cost of others, and I kept finding ways to feel

confused, they're surprised about the result to shirk responsibility. It had clearly stated what would happen in each tier. In fact, while Kelly continued studying the fourth video, my eye is strayed to the fifth and final tier.

Are you ready for the change? Pledge the maximum amount and we'll reach our goal. Untold wonders await our most devoted supporters. We'll also send you a video of us killing someone you know.

Don't worry, and won't be a family member. Estimated delivery, immediate, told wonders. What could that entail? They'd already done such incredible things, but they'd all been within the realm of possibility via computers and social engineering so far. Next to me, Kelly gasped. They missed one. They missed a reflection.

She grasped my arm. But I just kept staring at the pledge button. They're not human. Jason, Jason, look! You have to look! My hand floated to my mouse and I moved the pointer over the pledge button. I had an idea of who would be sacrificed, if not a family member. Kelly seemed like a great person.

Strange in some ways, very caring in others, but did I really value her as highly as whatever these untold wonders were? I didn't know her that well. But yes, yes, I did. She was human and she was alive just like me. This wasn't some anonymous person on the internet that I was slinging insult. at. This was a real person and I understood now that they had always been real people behind their monitors somewhere. God, I'd been a terrible person. The stress of my father's illness and the

pressure of my finances and family had pushed me in a dark direction. A direction I now had to resist. I let out a sigh and released my mouse. The spell was broken. It was over. The madness was over. No more. I can't go down this road any further. It's just not right. I turned and froze.

The ominous black maw of a gun barrel had been pointed at the back of my head, and it was now directly touching the bridge of my nose. Kelly? She slowly withdrew the weapon and slotted it in. into an unseen holster. Still eerily calm, she began to walk away. What? What was all this?

I called after her from my seat, my mind racing from adrenaline. Jesus, was this a test? She paused at my door without looking back at me. She said softly. Yes, a test for admittance. And you failed. Her gaze turned slowly toward me. And now that she was no longer putting on an act, I understood that her expression was face.

Was that of an animated corpse? Glad you did. You wouldn't like it. Where we are from. With that, she was gone. And I was left to quiver in my chair. Process what had happened and stare at the one reflection. the editors had missed in the fourth video.

The face of the cameraman. It was a demonic hollow-eyed, maggot-infested sneering visage. It was a face that would haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. It was my face. I'm in our netherworld back into 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 be. 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 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.