The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E24

Episode Date: April 9, 2017

It's episode 24 of Season 8. On this week's show we have five tales about jarring journeys, illicit investigations, and traumatic traps."Death Before Disco"† written by M.J. Pack and performed by Addison Peacock & Jes Echo. (Story starts around 00:03:10)"There Was a Locked Door In My Hotel Room"† written by Emily Lynch and performed by Alexis Bristowe & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:20:40)"Every Drug Takes Something"† written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin & Jesse Cornett & Peter Lewis & David Ault & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:38:55)"The Best Laid Plans of Machines"‡ written by Malcom Teller and performed by Jeff Clement & Eden & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts around 01:01:45)"The Town I Grew Up in Was Torn Apart by a Serial Killer"† written by Laura Chase and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Nikolle Doolin & Dan Zappulla & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 01:31:00)Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about M.J. Pack Click here to learn more about Emily Lynch Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg Click here to learn more about Malcom Teller Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon BooneAudio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡"Death Before Disco" illustration courtesy of Charlie CodyAudio 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. 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 jarring journeys, illicit investigations,

and traumatic trauma. This is episode 24 of season 8, and that means this season is almost at an end. It has absolutely flown past. It's been quite an eventful one with a busy October and the spring tour. Hard to believe the end has arrived so quickly. That means next week is our big season finale. We have a great episode plan for you, and it's going to be a creepy time indeed. As with the end of every season, there are some details to look out.

The finale comes out on April 16th, and then we'll take the next two weeks off before the launch of season 9 on May 7th. But that doesn't mean we're leaving you entirely for those two weeks. On April 23rd, we'll release a bonus episode with a couple of stories from season passes 7 and 8, just to tide you over. And then two special things happen on April 30th. First, we open up the pre-orders for season 9, and then we'll be able to see you over. And then we'll be releasing a bonus live episode of the show we recorded in New York City. You'll get to hear what it was like to attend one of our sleepless live shows, so make sure you join us for that.

And if you're a Season Pass 8 member, we'll have two bonus episodes coming out for you, our old-time radio style episode, and our suddenly shocking flash fiction episode. So much content, so much fun. We hope you'll be joining us for all of it. And so, before all of that stuff rolls around, let's jump right into this week's stories and kick off Season 8's Penultimate Show. In our first tale, we meet a woman on her way home. A quick stop at a rest area leads to her offering to do a favor for someone. So let's ask author MJ Pack about her advice in this matter.

What's that they say about never picking up hitchhikers? Performing this tale are Addison Peacock and... Jess Echo. So keep your eyes peeled for strange vehicles out there, especially with paint jobs exclaiming death before disco. Bama Smoke?

She was standing by the vending machines, so still I almost walked right past her without noticing. Flame it on highway hypnosis. I'd been driving for hours, with nothing to focus on except miles of cornfields and the pavement ahead

of me. Flat farmland, the whole way and not a single interesting bit of roadside flare, unless you counted that broken down old van I passed, just before the rest stop, with the words death before disco painted on the back. I turned back from the women's bathroom where I'd been heading. Yeah, sure. Camel okay? She smiled at me as I dug into my purse for my cigarettes. Beggars can't be choosers, man. She looked like one of those girls going to Coachella. All foes, and. 70s lace and fringe, a cheap Stevie Nix knockoff. Don't get me wrong, she wore it well.

The only accessory missing was a flower crown from American Eagle, but something about those festival chicks just gets under my skin. I handed her a sig, and she stuck it in her mouth at once, motioning impatiently at me with her other hand. Light? Little bossy for someone who just said beggars can't be choosers, but whatever. I fished out my lighter and held it out to her. But she just pursed their lips and leaned toward me, wanting me to light it for her like gentlemen do in old movies.

The action struck me as very Joan Crawford-esque, intended to be flirtatious but coming off as sort of bitchy instead. I clicked the lighter to life and she inhaled. The cherry of her bummed cigarette glowing bright in the falling light of dusk. She held it in for a long moment like she hadn't had a smoke in a while. Then exhaled grandly. Thank you. She pushed a lock of dark hair away from her face with her free hand. I needed that like you wouldn't believe.

No problem. She was looking at me kind of funny now, squinting a little like there was more to say, but in my opinion the cigarette was more than enough, so I gave her a wave and went back to the bathroom to do what I'd pulled into the rest stop for in the first place. When I came out again, she was still there, leaning against the vending machines, blowing out slow clouds of thick white smoke into the evening air. I felt weird, just ignoring her. But I didn't really have time for strained conversation with a stranger.

I needed to get back on the road. Have a good one. Hey, Red, wait. She took another long drag on her cigarette and ashed it into the cement. I hate to ask, but I'm sort of stuck here. Think you might give me your eye? Okay, two things. One, I don't give rides to hitchhikers.

It's a thing for me. As a young woman, I just don't feel very safe with a stranger in my car, no matter how nice their handwritten cardboard signs might be. Two, I hate being called red. I hate it. Yeah, ha fucking ha, my hair is red. You're absolutely the first person who's ever given me that extremely clever nickname. The only thing worse than red is firecrotch.

And believe me, during high school, I heard them both more. than I cared to recall. So, these things taken into account, you'd think I would have done the smart thing and said no, gotten back in my car and headed down the road, leaving who I was already thinking of as hashtag Coachella chick in my rearview mirror. But something strange happened. I opened my mouth to tell her I was sorry, and instead I found myself saying, How far do you need to go? Her eyes lit up. Not far, man, not far. She took another quick drag.

I mean, as far as you want to take me, but if I could just, like, get to a gas station or something, it'd help me out a lot. Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Why had I said that? I had no intention of offering this girl a ride,

but the words had come out of me without any warning, almost like something else had compelled me to say them. I should have felt it then. The sick tug on my gut of something being very wrong. But I didn't, and that's why I'm telling you this story. She must have seen the look on my face because she stuck her cigarette between her lips, raised her arms, and did a little twirl for me. Her boho skirt followed the curve of her legs, the fringe of her vest fanning out prettily.

Don't got any weapons. See? No where to put them. She was right. No pockets, no bag, and I doubted there was a knife stashed in that crop top between her meager cleavage. She turned back to me and grinned. You can frisk me if you want. I blushed a little when I realized she probably saw me staring at her tits. Oops. Which was more awkward, being caught looking or trying to explain I was actually scanning her for deadly weapons?

I shifted my purse uncomfortably from shoulder to shoulder. Okay. I resigned myself to the fact that I had backed myself into a corner. I think there's a gas station in about ten miles. a few exits down. I'll drop you off there if that's fine with you. Super fine, red, super fine. A gesture to my car.

Needlessly, I might add, was the only one in the lot. While we'd been talking, the sun had set, and the overhead lights came on, giving the mostly abandoned rest stop a spooky sort of feeling. All shadows in contrast, no sound but the occasional vehicle zooming by on the highway.

Suddenly I was. ready to hit the road again. Get far away from this place. How long had the hitchhiker been stuck here? I didn't envy her. Let's go. I slipped behind the wheel of my compact little Malibu and stuck the key in the ignition. My new passenger gave the roof a cheerful slap with the palm of her hand as she hopped in. Bichin, man, thank you so much. You bet. I shifted into gear and merged back onto the highway, feeling better as the rest stop grew smaller and smaller in the distance until it was gone altogether. The hitchhiker leaned back in her seat and put her feet up on the dashboard. I noticed for the first time she wasn't wearing shoes.

Her souls were black and filthy. Hey. As I glanced over at her, I realized a few more things. She wasn't buckled up, and she was still puffing on her cigarette. Great, like the situation wasn't awkward. enough. You mind getting rid of that? I don't, don't really smoke in my car. She gave me a look, a dark, sidelong look really didn't like. Then she smiled. Yeah, no sweat. She took one more deep drag and began fumbling around the door for the window controls. I rolled it down for her from my

side and watched, satisfied as she flicked it out into the night. Thanks, I appreciate it. Even though she had accidentally exhaled that last drag kind of in my face, you should buckle up too. Jeez, Red, you got a lot of rules. There was tension in her voice now. Something I hadn't heard back at the rest stop. She didn't reach for the seatbelt and wiggled her dirty toes on my dashboard. I looked at the mile marker. Only eight more miles until the gas station exit. I could make it until then. A few long moments of silence passed between us before the hitchhiker suddenly spoke again. Where are you headed, Red? I fucking hate being called Red. Oh, just home. I didn't want to give her more information than I had to. Visited a friend out of town, so, you know, just heading home. Oh. She shifted in her

seat, put her feet back on the floor. That's cool, man. That's cool. She paused, turned around, briefly to glance out the back window. Except you ain't never gonna make it. Before I could even process this, something slammed into my bumper from behind. My car lurched forward and I heard an engine being gunned loudly. The fuck? I gripped the wheel tight, struggling to stay on the road.

My eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Behind me, right on my ass, was a bright red van. one of the ones that don't have windows on the sides, sort of like the mystery machine from Scooby-Doo. I only had a split second to register what was painted on the hood. A cartoon devil with his middle finger in the air, pointed tail looping through the words, death before disco.

Before the van fell back, its engine, and rammed into us again. The hitchhiker was laughing, a weird, high-pitched, screamy sort of laugh. You fucked up, Red. You're really fucked up. She pounded her fists on the dashboard. I remembered the van from the side of the road.

It had the same thing painted on the back without the little cartoon devil, but it had been old, rusted, red paint faded to a salmon pink. All the tires were flat. It was a piece of junk. I had briefly wondered if it was even legal to leave something like that dilapidated on a highway. Get this van? Was as new as if it had rolled right off the lot. shining as a candy apple and in perfect shape, according to the roar of its engine in my ears.

I swerved into the left lane and it followed seamlessly, dropping back only to advance on me again. My foot pressed the gas pedal towards the floor and resurged forward, but the van wasn't far behind. What the fuck is this? I wheeled my shitty little car to go faster. The speedometer's needle was at 90 and wavering. They're going to mess you up, man.

She was alternating between bouncing in her seat and twisting to look at the van as it got closer. They're going to fuck you up, Brad. Just you wait. My boys are going to get you. And when they do, they're going to do things to you, man. Crazy things. The crunch of metal, as the van ran us again. In my rearview mirror, the cartoon devil gave me the bird.

Death before disco. He tried swerving right this time close to the guardrail, But the van followed suit. It was like it wasn't even trying, not all that hard. A cat playing lazily with a crippled mouse. My boys got all kinds of appetites, and they're fucking sure going to play with you, Red. They're going to have a good time with you.

Good thing you picked me up back there. I was stuck at that shithole restop, but now we're going to have such a good time. I blew past the exit for the gas station, going too fast to take it and not entirely sure what I would do if I did. The van fell back a bit. My heart was hammering in my chest. I wasn't sure if I could force her out the passenger's side,

but I knew I had to keep driving if I stopped. Couldn't stop. That much was certain. I stomped on the gas, putting pedal to the metal for the first time in my life. My car's engine whined in protest, but I put some distance between us. The speedometer heading toward 100, 110. She was laughing now, stomping her filthy bare feet like a kid at the circus. I glanced at her, prepared to tell her to shut the fuck up

when I saw that suddenly she didn't look like a privileged rich kid heading to Coachella, not one bit. Clothes were as dirty as her feet. Her hair clumped and black tangled mats. There was something on her face. I was thrown forward as the van crashed into my bumper again. Knuckles white, I turned the wheel back toward the white lines, trying to stay on the road.

What's the matter, right? She creaked toward me, her lips right next to my ear. Looked like he's seen a ghost. A stench. A stench washed over me. Wet garbage and decaying flesh. A centuries-old grave freshly pried open. I gagged, but there was no time to be set. I had to drive.

I couldn't stop. I didn't want to meet her boys. I swerved left, scraping the side of my car again. against the concrete wall that divided the highway, the Malibu shuddering violently as we sped on. The hitchhiker began cackling again, and I chanced one more look at her face. Most of her left cheek had been blown away, exposing the teeth and bone in their gleaming white glory. Blood oozed from the wound and pattered down in thick red drops across her crop top.

Her fringed vest, her boho skirt. Above the meager cleavage I'd checked out such a short time ago, her chest was peppered with what appeared to be bullet holes. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I looked frantically from the gruesome creature in my passenger's seat to the van in my rearview mirror, which now looked more like the wreck I'd seen on the side of the road. Rust spread across the metal like an exotic mold. The cartoon devil and death before disco were rendered almost unreadable by a spray of bullet holes, like the ones on the hitchhiker's chest.

I couldn't see who was behind the wheel of the van. The window was black, shiny, a dark mirror reflecting back the ass end of my battered car. But I was suddenly wildly sure that the boys looked a lot like my passenger, complete with mortal injuries and breath that smelled like utter reeking death. We're going to have fun with you, man. She played nonchalantly with a strain of my hair. as I drove for my life. We're fucking sure gonna have fun playing with you.

Tell me, does the carpet match your drapes red? To my left, the concrete divider of the highway fell away. The hitchhiker was leaning closer to me, pressing her rotting body against mine halfway across the center console. And then, I remembered. I turned towards her, forcing myself to look at her destroyed, dripping face. I fucking hate being called red. I wrenched the wheel to the left, sending us hurtling into a ditch separating the highways.

My poor old Malibu bounced and shook as we thundered toward my target. A small cluster of trees. I didn't have time to see if the van had followed me, but I did see the expression on the hitchhiker's ruined face. Shocked, furious, and a little scared. Just before she went flying through the windshield, I was all right for the mishol. I was all right for the most part. Physically speaking, anyway, bruises, cuts, typical car crash injuries. The place where my seatbelt locked hurt like a bitch for a few weeks, but hey, my seatbelt is why I survived.

The guy who called the ambulance said he saw the crash. Pulled over to change a flat and I went speeding past him like a bat out of hell right into the ditch. He didn't mention a red van, knew or otherwise, because he didn't see one. I don't know for sure what happened that night. I don't know how or when that hitchhiker and her boys died, but I know they did, and I know they didn't go out peacefully. I'm sure I could do research and probably come up with some answers, but I don't, because a part of me doesn't want to know.

Here's what I do know. I'll never stop at that rest stop again. I'll never pick up another hitchhiker. And I'll never tell the police, no matter how many times they ask, where the candy, apple red paint chips on my bumper came from. Most people are drawn to the city of New Orleans for the music, the food, and the intoxicating history steeped in the strange and macabre. As shared by author Emily Lynch, this tale is about a woman who visits the Beguise

and is forced to stay at a rather strange hotel. Performing this tale are Alexis Bristow and Erica Sanderson. So let's listen to the woman tell us there was a locked door in my hotel room. I have a career that's only made possible by current technology. As a millennial with a bachelor's degree, I found work outside of fast food scarce, so I created my own business. Essentially, I run an Instagram account that works as advertisement. I travel and go to parties and festivals,

and take pictures of myself wearing products and patronizing businesses that have paid me to do so. I know that it's only really viable while I'm young and attractive, but I'm saving up a ton of money for my future, and I love the opportunity to visit far off places for free. For my most recent trip, I headed to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. I was supposed to stay in a five-star hotel in the city, but when I arrived, I was told that there was an electrical issue and that there was no power. I was offered a full refund on my hotel room.

However, as I didn't pay for the room, it wasn't of much use to me. I used my phone to browse other local hotels, planning on using my numerous airline miles to pay for it, but nothing was available due to the festivities. The concierge gave me the information for a few smaller motels in the area that might have availability. The brochure for the Ursula Hotel showed a gorgeous building that was a lot older than the places I usually. stayed. I called and spoke to the proprietor who seemed thrilled at the prospect of having a guest.

Tired for my trip and not having many more options, I grabbed an Uber and headed to the hotel. The outside was breathtaking. A Victorian-style manner painted a charming mint-green with black and cream gingerbread accents. Although I spend quite a bit of my time in five or four-star hotels, I love the quaintness of classical architecture. My design is. My design is a little bit of my time in five-or-star hotels. My disappointment with losing out on my suite faded as I entered the Ursula. Inside, the lobby had an old Hollywood feel. Contrasting with the rounded pillars and turrets, the style was much more boxy. The floor was checkered with diagonal tiles, black and white.

Sharp red features found their way onto both the lobby seating and paneling on the walls. At the counter stood a middle-aged woman whose style of dress matched the decor perfectly. She shined like a 20s Hollywood starlet in an ankle-length silk dress with a flatten neckline. Her hair was rolled in soft curls around her aging face, a jeweled headband topping her off like a Christmas tree. I made my way to the counter with haste, eager to lie down for the evening. The woman introduced herself as Lady Elizabeth, an air of sophistication surrounding her as she spoke. She was every bit as hospitable as she was on the phone, stating that most of her clients, were older people and locals and that she was pleased to have a beautiful young woman staying

the night. She even took my photo with an old Polaroid camera, stating that it was for the brochure. I'll admit that I was flattered and quite charmed, making a mental note to make an Instagram post in the morning to give her some free publicity. We made her way up the main staircase and down a long hallway to a large suite, not as large as I was used to, but still bigger than the average hotel room. Entering the room, I threw my bag atop the enormous bed's rippling silk covers and thanked Lady Elizabeth. As she left, I changed out of my traveling clothes and into some yoga pants and a t-shirt, eager to relax. The jet lag had me ready for an early night, even though my adventure spirit longed to roam the city. I really do have a curiosity problem.

In every hotel that I enter, I check every nook and cranny for what I might discover. anything a previous guest might have left behind. Typically, I find the usual's, Bible, toiletries, and stationary. A few times I've found things a bit more interesting. Novels left behind, a journal once, coins or jewelry, and of course the rare but always disgusting, used condom. As soon as I changed, I started to snoop. I checked under the bed, nothing.

In the drawers of the bedside table were a Bible and a deck of playing cards that were worn and tattered. The dresser drawers were empty besides a few small pouches of peony poterie. The last place to check was the closet. I turned the glass door knob to find it resisted. I turned it again, but it wouldn't open. I was ready to give it a firm hug when I heard a knock on the door. I opened it to find Lady Elizabeth, holding an ornate teacup in a saucer.

If you're planning on staying in, I thought a night. cup of chamomile tea might help to relax you. She smiled. Oh, thank you. That would be lovely. I took the tea from her and set it on the bedside table. Is everything to your liking? Yes, everything is wonderful. The only thing is that the closet is locked and I'd like to hang up some clothing.

Oh. The corners of her smile turned down for just a moment. I have to admit, the hotel is my home, and I have lived. limited space in my room, so I'm forced to use the closets as my own storage. But there is a tension rod in the bathroom with a few hangers that you can use. I nodded, but satisfied with the answer. I thanked her again for the tea, and she asked if I'd be needing anything else. I told her that I was content, and she made her leave.

Curling up on the bed, I took a sip of tea. It was warm and sweet and reminded me of being little, drinking sleepy-time tea before bed. I pulled up my phone and started checking notifications that I'd missed while traveling, but didn't even make it halfway before falling asleep. I woke the next morning, more grogly than usual. My eyes were crusted closed, I guess due to allergens in the room that I wasn't used to. I grabbed my toiletry bag and headed to the bathroom. I popped an allergy pill just to be safe and turned on the shower.

As I undressed, I noticed something a bit odd. my left arm just in the crook of my elbow. There was a weird mark. It looked like a bug bite. A red dot with swelling around it in a ring, but it didn't itch. I really, really hoped that there weren't any bedbugs in the room. I took a warm shower, my eyes barely opening until I stepped into the chill air outside of the bathroom. I dried my hair, applied my contour expertly, and changed into a flowy dress, some wedge heels, and a light jacket. knowing that I'd want to take a lot of photos. I met up with a few friends once I left the hotel.

An old roommate was staying with family and a fashion blogger who was also in town for the occasion. We visited tourist attractions, ate at a wonderful little cafe, and of course joined the Mardi Gras festivities later that evening. By the time I went back to the Ursula, it was very late, and I was again exhausted and a little tipsy.

I was surprised to find Lady Elizabeth, still awakened moving around the lobby when I returned. Somehow in the lighter glow of the evening lamps, she looked younger. The wrinkles around her eyes softer. She asked me about the day, and I excitedly filled her in before making my way upstairs to my room. Not long after I had laid down, Lady Elizabeth arrived, yet again with a cup of tea. I expressed my gratitude and said good night. I took a few sips of tea and fell asleep in my dress.

The next morning, I awoke even more out of it than the day before. I felt weak and drowsy, but contributed it to having not fully recovered from my jet lag, along with a slight hangover. I showered and dressed, moving slowly, but taking care to keep up my appearance. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the lobby's machine before hitting the town again. I again met up with friends, this time following a strict itinerary of places that I had contact before making the trip. I went to a few local boutiques where I posted pictures of myself shopping for the items they paid me in. I took pictures of myself and my friends drinking espresso and eating kingcake at some local bakeries and cafes. Later that night, the photo ops made their way to bars and clubs before making my way back to the hotel.

Lady Elizabeth was awake, yet again, bustling around the lobby. She's done something different with her hair. It looked healthier. shining glossily as it draped over her shoulders. She expressed how tired I must be from all my activities, but I had a surprising amount of energy, most likely due to all the caffeinated beverages I'd imbibe. She scrunched a nose at that, scolding me.

She seemed disappointed that I was intoxicated as well. A young lady must get her beauty sleep. I chuckled and nodded in agreement. I'll be asleep soon, Lady Elizabeth. She smiled at that, and sure enough, barely ten minutes after I'd enter my room, she was at the door with tea, yet again. I laughed and thanked her as she insisted kindly that I'd go to sleep soon. I set the tea down on the bedside table and sat on the bed,

checking the notifications on my posts from earlier in the day. All of them were doing fairly well. I lifted the tea cup to take a sip, but caught a whiff of something a little off. I frowned and put the cup down. Maybe all the drinks I consumed at the bar had turned my stomach sour. Bored and brimming with energy, the closet again caught my curiosity. I walked over to it and gave the door another tug, but it wouldn't budge. Inspiration struck me, my buzz making me bolder than I normally would be.

I reached into my hair and pulled out two bobby pins, a ringlet of hair falling onto my neck. Now, I'm aware that knowing how to pick a lock doesn't exactly look good for my character, but there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. In college, I was constantly losing my key, but I almost always have pins, and I have the internet with me at all times, so I just started learning how to break into my own room. As the lock gave way, I turned the doorknob and open the closet, gleeful at my success. It had been a while, and I wasn't sure that I could still do it.

I was disappointed, however, when I realized that the closet was empty. No clothing, no pirate treasure, nothing. I looked down at the ground to find the only thing worth noticing. A ladder. I looked down to see where the ladder led, but I wasn't able to see anything other than carpet. A chill ran down my spine, the thrill of exploration urging me forward. I turned the flashlight on my phone and climbed down the rungs cautiously. As I descended, I was surprised to see how bright it was.

I didn't name my flashlight at all as I neared the bottom. My feet hit the soft carpeting and I found myself in a hallway, not much different from the ones above. The only difference being a ladder leading down from quite a few of the rooms, I wondered if perhaps the hotel had been a speakeasy at some point. Walking down the hallway, there was a door at one end and two at the other, nothing in between. I made my way to the door at one end and tested the knob.

It opened gently. Inside was a Starlet's dream dressing room, a large vanity table stocked with creams and powders and perfumes, brushes that beauty bloggers would kill for. On the mirror was a picture of a girl in her 20s. I'd have guessed that it was Lady Elizabeth, if it weren't for the age of the photo. The edges were crumbling and the photo was colorless.

Along the walls were racks and racks of clothing. Every decade was presented here. Gowns and skirts, smoking jackets, and fur coats. There were mannequins wearing gorgeous dresses and various different wigs. It was the most beautiful assortment of fashion history. The strangest thing was at the center of the room, a bathtub that didn't look like it was hooked up to any pipes. I looked inside to find it stained red, most likely for.

from rust. I took a few pictures, not really planning to post them, but to show my friends. Everything about this was so odd. Leaving the vanity room, I continued to the other end of the hallway, where the two doors sat. I opened the one on the left to find a pile of suitcases. No, a pile is an understatement. This was a mountain of suitcases. My stomach turned. Why would Lady Elizabeth have so many suitcases? Perhaps they were things that people had left behind over the years? I exited the room rather quickly. I almost didn't have the courage to open the last door,

but my curiosity won the battle against my fear. Inside was an office, shelves were lined with books. On the desk at the center of the room, I found a small rolled-up case that looked similar to the one I used for makeup brushes. I unrolled it over the desk, gasping softly as I saw the contents. Inside was a small vial of alcohol and a baggy of cotton swabs, along with several needles of different sizes. I ran my fingers over the mark of my arm, noticing that it was right on a vein. I shivered, realization washing over me.

With shaking hands, I rolled the case back up and picked up the journal next to it. The book looked old, leather-bound, but cracking from wear and tear. I opened the cover, pages smelled of mold. On the first page was a Polaroid of a beautiful girl around my age. Next to it was writing, S-B-M-Type AB. 4-0-2-23, 5. 403-23-10, 404.23.15. 405. 23.206. 23. 25. 4.06. 23. 25. 4.088. 23. 117 expiration. I wasn't quite sure what the numbers meant, but I had an idea.

I looked through the book. Every entry was exactly the same. A Polaroid, dates, a number, and a blood type until an expiration date at the bottom. I found myself growing sicker and sicker, flipping through the pages, until I reached the final one. On that page, there was an unfinished entry, only two dates, and a picture of myself. listed with my entry were my initials, the date of my check-in, and the two days after, each with a number next to it. I don't think that I've ever felt the kind of fear that I did then, but adrenaline fueled me. I grabbed the journal before leaving the room, finding the ladder to my room and climbing it back up.

Once inside, I closed the closet door and pushed the dresser in front of it. I grabbed the necessities and made my way out of the hotel. I wanted to be quick, but I didn't want to alert Lady Elizabeth to what I knew. I took off my shoes to make my steps more quiet and sped walk down the hallway on the balls of my feet, down the flight of stairs, and through the lobby without looking back. The air outside was cold, but I didn't stop walking. I called my blogging friend, an old roommate until one of them picked up the phone. I begged them to come get me.

As soon as they met me, I called the police. I gave the journal as evidence before having to tell them my story over and over again. I'm back home now. I took the very first available flight after they released me. Police have refused to tell me anything else that they found out other than the fact that there is an ongoing investigation. I love my job and I love to travel, but I think that I'll be staying home for a while. Sometimes the pain of grief leads people to seek some form of drug to dull the emotional ache.

But one man, as we learn from author V.R. Greg, sought out a drug for a different reason, but the effects and the withdrawal are equally nightmarish. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Nicole Doolin, Jesse Cornett, Peter Lewis, David Alt, and Jeff Clement. So no matter how much you think you need it or can handle it, remember, every drug takes something. It's a fact of nature. Nothing you do to alter your body or mind is without potential consequences. Most of the time, those consequences are minor. You're tired and you drink a cup of coffee, even though you know it makes you a little jittery, minor. Generally speaking, the greater the effects, the greater the consequences. Adderall can help you finish that term paper on time, but the come down is no fun.

Meth can help you write that term paper, clean your apartment, and work double shifts, but soon you're a paranoid addict with open source. It goes on and on. Doesn't matter what it is. Every drug that gives something, takes something. Only the magnitude is different. That's why I was hesitant when I first heard about S. It started out with whispers through my group of friends,

A miracle drug that can do things no other drug has done before. A drug that can blur the lines separating this physical world with the world beyond. In short, this drug, S, could let you speak to the dead. But it sounded too good to be true, and I figured it created some sort of auditory hallucination. I didn't dismiss it outright, though, not when it hit so close to home. You see, I lost my wife last year to a three-year battle with lymphoma. Losing her was the hardest thing I'll ever do. There was the big pain, of course, watching her slowly wither away into nothingness and leave this world.

But on the other side of that are all the infinite little pains, the waking up to silence, thinking about something funny to share with her and realizing I can't. Trying to remember and sometimes forgetting the sound of her voice or laugh? These are the things that hurt the most. The things that happen after that awkward time when your friends and family walk on eggshells around you and when you've settled into your new reality, that's when it's the toughest. Gina and I saw the path she was on. We knew that our time together was limited.

That didn't make it any easier. We filled our days with conversation, trying to get out every word we possibly needed to say to each other. But that wasn't enough. There's so much more that I need to tell her. It's not even the big things. It's not the I love yous and the you're the best thing that ever happened to me's. It's the mundane things that I miss telling her.

The stories about what I saw in the drive-in to work, or the anecdote about my cousin Terry, spilling beer all over himself while attempting to Hulu. I just wish I could tell her all the insignificant things, the trivial, minute experiences that she's missing. Those are the things that really matter. I guess you could say I was the perfect sucker for a drug like S. It offered me the only thing I really wanted in the world.

That's not to say I didn't try to resist it. I did. I waved it away when the whispers of its existence got around to me. Well-meaning friends would bring it up tentatively trying to suss out whether I was quite crazy enough to try it. I think they were curious, too. But eventually, well, the lure of it got to be too much. I'd wake up in the middle of the night from a dream that Gina was there sleeping beside me. When she wasn't, I'd feel her loss all over again.

In those moments, thoughts of S wriggled their way into my mind, tempting me beyond anything I'd ever thought possible. S was not an easy drug to get, it turns out. I'll spare you the details of how I tracked some down, but eventually I am. ended up in the back room of a run-down adult video store, talking to a man with a long scar splitting his face in two. One dose. That's all you'll ever need. He handed me a small syringe, the kind diabetics used for insulin, and he gave me precise instructions for administration. I paid him an insane amount of money for it and went on my way.

Once I got home, I hesitated. I had really no idea what S did, other than some stories told by drunken friends late at night. I felt like I had gone insane. If Gina was still here, she'd talk me out of it. She'd call me an idiot for even thinking about putting some unknown drug into my body. But Gina wasn't here, and that was the problem. I steeled myself and pinched a section of skin.

on my stomach as the scar-faced man had instructed. The syringe had trembled slightly as it pierced my skin with a needle so fine I could barely feel it. I pushed down and watched the clear liquid empty into my body. Then I waited. I sat for hours like that, listening for any hint of an interloper in my mind, watching for any evidence that the drug was doing anything. Midnight, It came and I still felt nothing. I cursed it myself for being stupid enough to get ripped off like that. And then I went to bed. Next thing I knew, it was morning.

I awoke to sunlight shining harshly into my eyes. Good morning. I smiled and reached languidly across the bed. Good morning to you. My hand fell on an empty mattress. I leapt from my bed, tangling myself in covers as I went. There was no one there. Of course not.

Gina was dead. She's been dead for a year. I could have sworn I heard her, though. The drug. In my disoriented state, I had forgotten all about S. I spoke tentatively at the empty room around me. Gina? Honey, is that you?

Who else would it be? You have any other dead wives I don't know about? about? I laughed, full and hearty. It was her, just as I remembered her. I was talking to my wife. Is this, is this real? I mean, how was this even possible? This time it was Gina who laughed. I don't know. You're the one sticking poisons in your belly, you tell me. I sat back down in the bed and started talking to the air around me. I could hear Gina clear as day. In my ear, in my head, it was as if she was right in front of me,

but also inside my head at the same time. I felt like I could feel her small, cool fingers in my brain. I barely slept, and when I did, I was sent off to sleep with a good night and awoken with a good morning. Aside from the fact that I couldn't see or touch Gina, it was like she had never left. Oh, you don't realize how meaningful the little interactions are until they're gone. And I was determined not to take them for granted. I took to wearing a Bluetooth headset wherever I went,

so as not to look crazy with my constant chattering about nothing much at all. We talked about the weather, about what happened since she left, I told her about the extra gray in my hair. Can you see what's going on, or can you only hear? Oh, I can see. Are you with me all the time, even in the shower? Especially when you're in the shower. She punctuated the sentence with a growl.

I laughed, picturing her wagging her eyebrows at me. It was heaven. But, as I said, every drug takes something from you. The greater the reward, the greater the punishment. I was driving down Route 17, three days after taking S when I saw a mini golf course. Even though I drove past it nearly every day,

I hadn't thought about that place in years. It had been too painful. But now I remembered everything. Hey, remember this place? We went here on one of our first dates. Of course I remember. I lost my ball in the first place. pond. Yeah, and you made me go tell the manager that a bird stole it so that you get another one.

I still can't believe you did that. Maybe I would have done anything you wanted me to. I still would. And so would I. I thought I heard sadness in her voice. There was a long silence. Finally, I spoke. There was a question that had been weighing on my mind since Gina first came back. I knew I shouldn't ask it, but I couldn't help myself. What's it like where you are? At first, Gina didn't reply. The silence was so long that I thought she might have gone away.

Just as I was about to start calling for her, she spoke. Before you took the drug, before you opened the door, it was different. It felt like I was in a waiting room or floating. in the ocean. Do you remember that time we floated in the sensory deprivation tank? Yeah. Well, it was a lot like that. I was there, but I wasn't me. I don't know how to explain it, so you'll understand. I was there, but I wasn't a person. I wasn't a body. Wasn't even a consciousness. But you're conscious now, right? There was another long silence. I am. Well, what changed? What's I don't want to talk about this right now. Can't we just enjoy our time together?

Gina's voice was strained and thin. I wanted to let it go. Wanted to just take her for what she was, but I couldn't. I pressed on. What's it like right now? Gina sighed. I don't want you to feel guilty. It was my decision. Gina, what was your decision? Here's the thing. When you took S, you opened up a door. There was nothing specific about it. It wasn't just for me. I felt it and I had the choice to enter through that door. When I made that choice, I made another choice as well. You see, in order to have consciousness, to be with you again with all my memories and personality, I had to choose to be aware of myself. That self-awareness will never go away. I could float in nothingness unaware, or I could be aware of it, and I could be aware of the sensations that go with it. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and shut it off.

I needed to think. I'm not sure I understand. You know that there's a heaven and a hell? In some religions, yes. Well, that's not quite true. Here it's more like there's feeling and not feeling. not feeling is heaven and feeling is well you know when it's over

when I'm not with you anymore I've chosen to feel wait you mean when this thing wears off you're going to hell? No it's not quite like that oh I don't know this is why I didn't want to bring it up

I just wanted to enjoy this time we have The weight of what I had done hit me all at once. In my selfish need to speak to my wife again, I had sentenced her to an eternity of suffering. I sobbed, desperate, and ugly cries escaping from my lips. Over my tears, I could hear Gino whispering, comforting things into my head. What had I done to her? When I finally pulled myself together, I thought of another question for her.

Gina? Yes, my love. Does this wear off? S, I mean, will you at least have the rest of my life? It doesn't wear off. The door opened is permanent. At least there was that, I thought. Before I could feel too relieved, though, Gina spoke up again.

There is something that you should know, though. Yes. Remember when I said the door you opened was not specific, that I had to choose to come here? Yeah? Well, others didn't necessarily make the choice to feel. Some had a thrust upon them. And for those souls, well, an open door is a respite.

What does that mean? It means now that the door is open, the others can come in. I've been trying to hold them out, but I'm not as strong as they are. I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I won't be able to keep them. them out and I'm afraid they'll kick me out before our time is up. What can I do? Gina laughed sadly and said nothing.

I had two more days with Gina before her voice started to fade. I wish I could say I had made the most of them, but I didn't. I was angry, mostly at myself, but I'll admit to being a little angry with her. How could she have made that choice? Why did she risk her soul for more time with me? And how could I have asked her to do it? My waking hours were filled with tears and sullen silence, while Gina pleaded with me to forget about what she had told me.

But I couldn't. I tried. I really did. But I couldn't. Gina was becoming quieter. I thought it was because of me. I noticed as I drift off to sleep one. night that she didn't tell me good night. I didn't blame her. It was my selfishness that damned her

after all. The next morning, I awoke to a voice I didn't recognize. A male voice. Good morning, sunshine. The voice cackled maliciously as I leapt from my bed. Who are you? Where's Gina? Oh, she's not here anymore. No. I gave her the old. The voice laughed again as I fell to my knees. Gina! Gina! I screamed, hoping against hope, to hear her voice. Instead, I just heard mean-spirited laughter. Oh, she can't hear you where she is, father.

It's just you and me, and maybe some of me. My buddies. The voice laughed again. It barely stopped laughing all day as I tried to figure out what to do, how to get Gina back. I tried to find all I could about the afterlife. I tried reading about S, about near-death experiences,

but I couldn't concentrate with that constant laughter. I was exhausted and full of grief. I cried more than I didn't. All while that voice... laughed in my head. I took a sleeping pill. I washed it down with whiskey, but the voice kept me up through the night.

The next day, the voice had a friend. Another malicious laughter to join the first. They began describing where Gina was. They described what was happening to her. I won't repeat it. I can't. I screamed until my voice was raw. mad animal screams of grief and guilt.

They took more pills. They drank more whiskey. I still didn't sleep. The next morning, a third voice joined the chorus. I didn't have anywhere to turn. I knew I couldn't live like this. My only hope was to find a way to turn S off. The antidote or something to make it stop.

I would deal with what I had done to Gina, I had to get the voices out. The scarred man greeted me with suspicion as I arrived at his place of business. I don't blame him. I must have looked terrifying. I hadn't slept in two days by that point, despite the sleeping pills and my face was puffy from crying. I was trembling by the time we passed through the curtain.

What's the antidote? The man looked at me curiously. There is no way it's permanent. I screamed. I howled at the man. I can't live like this. Night, buddy, it's not my problem. You knew what it did.

You think you go opening up doors to other realms and it's going to be okay? Man, you some common sense. I didn't know it would do this. I can't stop the voices. There's got to be some way. The man shrugged and pointed back out the door. I ran at him, egged on by the chattering. voice in my head and his casual indifference to my suffering. The punch was not unexpected,

but I blacked out all the same. I came to in the alleyway, cheerful laughter greeting me from inside my head. I pulled myself up, holding my cropping temple. The physical pain did not detract from the onslaught of mockery inside of me. The voices came together to inform me that I had run out of options. It's just you and us from now on, pal. Get used to it. Just as one voice became two, two became three, three became dozens. A non-stop cacophony inside my head.

It doesn't stop. It doesn't fade into the background like white noise. It's just an ever. present maddening din that will not be drowned with alcohol or sleeping pills sometimes a voice breaks through louder and clearer than the others it mocks my plight laughs at my wife's death it's never the same there are so many now but the theme stays true she was got her away from you you're pathetic I can't take it anymore. I just fucking can't.

There's a pistol next to the chair. I'm going to use it. The voices are agging me on, but I don't care. Buried deep within them. I think I think I can hear Gina. I think I can hear her screaming my name. I just know she'd want me to join her. I'd like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program.

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