The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E08

Episode Date: June 25, 2017

It's episode 08 of Season 9. On this week's show we have four tales about cursed creatures, sinister sleepovers, and abysmal appetites. "My Birthday Dolls"† written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Addison Peacock & Nichole Goodnight & Erika Sanderson & Victoria Cline. (Story starts around 00:03:20) "Confessor To the Dead"‡ written by Marcus Damanda and performed by Matthew Bradford & Elie Hirschman & Jessica McEvoy & Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio & Nichole Goodnight & James Cleveland & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 00:21:20) "This Creature Has Been Stalking Me For Years"† written by T. Takeda Wise and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Kyle Akers & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:09:30) "Taco Tuesday"† written by Henry Galley and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Erika Sanderson & Nichole Goodnight & Nikolle Doolin & Eden. (Story starts around 01:38:30) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here for the print version Bright Lights & Glass Houses: Therapy Edition   Click here for the ebook version Bright Lights & Glass Houses: Therapy Edition   Click here to learn more about the Sirenicide podcast   Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg   Click here to learn more about Marcus Damanda   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "This Creature Has Been Stalking Me For Years" illustration 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 storytelling podcast. Our tales are dark and disturbing, intended to shake you up. Listen at your own risk. We are all around you. And tonight's there will be, brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us.

On this week's show, we have four tales about cursed, creatures, sinister sleepovers, and abysmal appetites. You may recall the name Olivia White. She's an author and the person who told us about the final party. A writer telling us about the final party. Writer. Fiction writer. Anyway, Olivia has just released a short story collection

entitled Bright Lights and Glass Houses, Therapy Edition. It's a collection of horror, mystery, and thriller stories about serial killers, short-order cooks, child prodigies, and a particularly persistent psychiatrist. It's available on Amazon in physical and e-book form. Check the show notes for links to where you can find it and pick up a copy of Olivia's twisted tales. And speaking of real podcasts, I want to make sure you're all aware of a great podcast currently in its second season. Sirenicide is a serialized horror drama.

sat in the lone star state of Texas. It's the ongoing story of Matthew Finnis as he investigates mysterious and paranormal occurrences around him. And no sleep listeners will recognize plenty of familiar voices on Sirenaside, with many of us making guest appearances. You can binge listen to all the episodes and make sure to check out the episode coming out this week, Season 2, Episode 7, as it features their largest cast ever and our very own Nicole Goodnight in the lead role. Check the show notes for a link and treat yourself to some Texas-sized terror with sirenicide. Writers, books, podcasts, voice actors, sounds like some things we're familiar with. So let's get started and kick off this week's show.

In our first tale, we meet a woman who lives alone. Well, author V.R. Greg might remind us that she's not actually alone. She shares her house with a collection of dolls. But the way she acquires the dolls is nightmarish indeed. Performing this tale are Addison Peacock, Nicole Goodnight, Erica Sanderson, and featuring Victoria Klein. So before you blow out the candles, be careful what you wish for, because this woman got. My Birthday Dolls. The dolls never let me sleep. Not the night before. It's frustrating. That's the time when I need my rest the most, and yet they fill my room with their chatter as if I'm not there.

They speculate and cajole well into the early morning. As if they don't already know, it used to terrify me. But now I just find it irritating. I know the game they're playing. I know they're trying to unbalance me. Knowing is half the battle, as my mother used to say, back when she was a person. You're probably wondering why I still live with them then. Why I still live in the house I was born in 37 years ago.

Why, after all the blood that's been spilled here, I can still stand to walk down these halls and sleep in this room. It is, as with all things, complicated. Moving is not a simple thing. It requires conversations and relationships and relationships. relationships. You have to talk to the bank, to the real estate agent, to the inspector. You meet a lot of new people, and I have no interest in that. Meeting people, interacting with them, is bad for them, and it's bad for me. And getting rid of the dolls? No, out of the question. I am many things, but I am not a monster. The only time I really hate them is the night before my birthday when they do this to me. Other times they're perfectly pleasant, generally silent and thoughtful. I think they must get as amped as I do, and this is just their way of expressing it. So, instead of sleeping the night before, I usually end up awake and staring at the ceiling

trying to tune them out. It gives me plenty of time to think. I think about the past, about all of these birthdays and their consequences. There's some irony looking at. back on it. How much I loved dolls as a little girl. How that's all I ever wanted. Pretty dolls to dress and comb. I loved the smooth porcelain of their skin and their dimpled smiles frozen and shy delight. I loved their big painted on eyes. I think I really just wanted to be one. If I were a doll, then I could be pretty and perfect too. I wouldn't be chubby or buck-toothed or heavy-browed.

And on that day, three decades ago, when the old woman asked me what I wanted for every birthday, well, there was only one answer I could give. I wanted a brand-new doll each year. A new, beautiful thing to love and care for. I knew this year's birthday would be particularly difficult. I hadn't had a bad one in years. I'd been so careful. There'd been the mailman last year.

and the meter reader the year before. Strangers with blank faces. The hurt of their loss, not mine, but others. Felt by someone, surely, but not me. That made me sad, made my heart ache, but that ache was dull and temporary, unlike some of the others. This year was different.

I first saw Faye three months ago. I don't normally go to the grocery store, but I needed something. I can't remember what. Usually I get a delivery. A click or two online and a box arrives at the door. No interaction. It's safe and effective. But this time I needed something.

I wish I could remember what was so damned important. Anyway, I avoided eye contact with everyone at the store. It wasn't difficult. I'm not the easiest person to look at, even if I'd bothered to brush my hair or put on makeup. With my head down and my hair over my eyes, I trudged to the checkout line with whatever it was I was buying. This was the part I'd been dreading the most.

Social norms demanded some sort of interaction with the cashier, and I mentally weighed my options. I could keep my head down and speak in one-syllable responses, or I could ignore the person behind the counter completely. The latter risked an escalation. What if that person insisted some sort of response? The first option seemed to be the best. Good afternoon, ma'am.

A chipper voice rang out over the beep of the scanner. I looked down at my hands. Did you find everything you were looking for today? I grunted a response. Great. I don't think I've seen you in here before. Usually I know all the customers. Well, I'll fix that right now. My name is Faye.

What's your name? My heart started racing. This was far too much conversation. I opted to stay silent, hoping she'd get the point. Maybe she'd just think I was mentally ill and try to get me out of there as soon as possible. She did not. Not much of a talker, huh? I shook my head.

I could see from the corner of my eye that there was no one behind me in line. No one to rescue me from Fay's politeness. Well, some days I'm not much for talking either. I understand. Anyway, that'll be 527. Even though I forget now what I bought, I can still clearly remember the price. I remember because that's the moment Faye sealed her fate.

I fumbled through my pockets, working hard to avoid looking up at the soft-voiced woman behind the counter. I pulled out a crumpled $5 bill and a couple of quarters, shoving them in Faye's direction. Her fingers brushed mine as she collected the money. I pulled back as if I'd been burnt. Oh, dear, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Here's your change, $0.23. She carefully laid the change on the counter, and I caught a glimpse of her small manicured nails. I stilled myself and pulled the coins across the counter, focusing on the sound of the metal sliding along the laminate. Okay, well, you have yourself a pleasant day, and I'm telling you now, I'll have you talking to me in no time flat. That's my new mission.

I grunted again and moved to leave. I was almost out the door when it happened. A crash of falling boxes in the direction of the counter. As if by reflex, I lifted my head and looked that way. Faye was focused on the commotion behind her, a stock boy pulling cereal boxes back into a cart, and I was able to see her for the first time. Her build was slender and petite,

with narrow shoulders and a narrower waist, Copper red hair curled down her back. My heart caught in my throat, and I tried to turn back to the door. Before I could look away, however, Faye had turned back toward me. She caught me looking at her and broke into the brightest grin I'd ever seen. Her whole face seemed to light up. I turned my head away and rushed outside.

It was too late, though. I was in love. I tried not to think about her, to focus on anything. but that joyful smile. Every time my thoughts would return to her, which was more often than I would like to admit, my heart would start to race and my palms would get sweaty. I'd never been in love before, but I'd seen movies. I knew the symptoms. I wish I could tell you that I stayed away from the grocery store completely after that, that I pined like some literary hunchback tucked away in my proverbial bell tower. I did not.

I found myself going to the store once a month at first, then once a week, then twice a week. I knew Faye's schedule by then. I knew when I'd best be able to spot her. I still didn't speak much. Three decades in practical isolation makes socializing difficult to say the least. I told her my name and sometimes responded to her questions. Meanwhile, she'd chatter and smile. That was all I really wanted anyway.

I knew what I was doing was wrong. I knew that I'd pay for it on my next birthday. I'd never felt anything like this before. I had managed to get some sleep in the early morning hours of my birthday. Dredd greeted me upon waking and stuck with me as the morning went on. I tried to busy myself with chores, but the nagging panic would not be subdued. I was in the back laundry room when I heard the knock at the door. I froze.

I thought for a second that it was. if I could only stay quiet, whoever it was might just go away. It had never worked before, but I prayed that it might work this time. Another knock. I crept from the laundry room, careful not to make noise. I saw your grocery order in the queue and thought I'd bring it on over to you. Faye shouted from the doorway. I heard the creak and groan of the heavy door opening. Had I not locked it? It didn't matter, not on my birthday. It never did. At that moment, I couldn't think about anything other than shutting the front door.

No, I rushed down the hall toward the door. Stay outside, please. Pain choked my throat and the last word died there. It was too late. Faye had crossed the threshold. She was holding a bag of groceries. The smile on her pretty face vanished as you saw me running toward her. I saw your name on the delivery and thought I...

I'd bring it on over to you. You need to leave. Now. I tried my best to intimidate her. Wait just a minute. You're in this house all by yourself and no one to help you out? Well, I intend to change that. I'll put your groceries away for you,

and if you need anything else, you let me know. She wasn't understanding. How could she? I put my hands on the delicate bones of her shoulders and moved to push her out of the open door. She resisted against me, twisting one way and then another. I tried to reason with her as she struggled,

tried to explain to her that it was my birthday. Suddenly the struggling stopped. I could feel Faye's formerly tense muscles slacken and go limp. No, no, no, no, no, no. I tried to pull myself together. My hands were still on her shoulders when I felt and heard the first of the bones snapping. It was a sharp insistence. sound. Dry twigs underfoot. One bone at a time went that way. Then they all started collapsing

at once. The snapping sound was replaced by a sound like paper being crumpled into a ball. All the while, Faye was screaming. Primal animal screams. I let go of her shoulders and cupped my hands over my ears, trying to drown it out. My own screams merged with hers and I realized that I was cursing her. Why did you come here? Why? Why do you torture me like this? I screamed.

I yelled until my throat was raw, until I realized that I was the only one still screaming. I stopped and closed my eyes, taking deep, purposeful breaths. I knew what I was going to see when I opened them, and it sent a wave of nausea through my body. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw Faye's dress in a heat,

on the floor. The grocery bag lay busted beside it, fruit and canned goods spilling out in a halo around her dress. I sighed and bent down, pulling the 18-inch doll from the folds of the fabric. It hadn't quite hardened to ceramic yet. Its face was still warm and soft and tacky to the touch. The temporary pliability of its skin meant that it could still show emotions. Right then, its face was twisted in pain and terror. I told myself that it was okay, that eventually it would get used to it, learn to accept its new life. It just takes time.

The other dolls can help. Not all, but some. Some still have enough of their humanity left to lend a hand to a newcomer, to whisper soothing things in the night. I ran my fingers over the softness of its face, smoothing out the contortions. I scolded it when the creases returned and it attempted to scream, but then remembered myself. Please be still, Faye.

I know it's difficult, but you don't want to be stuck like that. It'll be better in the long term if you're calm while it sets. You don't want to be ugly. I bit my lip and thought about what I was saying. Not that you ever really could be, though. It struggled futilely against me, and I tried not to notice how it's painted, unblinking eyes watched me. The still wet dot on its iris made it look as if the doll were about to cry. But, of course, it couldn't. I waited until it stopped moving before I finished my work.

I owed it that. When it had finally hardened into its final position, I looked it over carefully. It was flawless, showing no signs of phase resistance. I smoothed its hair into waves around its face and carried it to the workbench in the kitchen. From the drawer, I selected a dress that I'd been saving for a special occasion, sage green gingham, with lace daisies sewn around the hem. I carefully measured the doll before me and made the necessary alterations on the dress. When I was satisfied, I pulled the fabric up over its shoulders and buttoned the back. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made just for the doll. I finished the look with a white ribbon around its waist and smiled sadly.

The small face looking back at me remained unchanged. 29 sets of painted eyes looked on from their shelves as I carried the finished doll into my bedroom. The doll that looked like my mother spoke, its mouth unmoving. Oh, look who's come to join us! There was a cheerfulness to its voice, and its smooth, ceramic face strained itself. to smile, though the movement barely registered. Isn't that one lovely? The baby doll that had once been my brother replied.

And you thought we'd run out. You thought she'd become a hermit. The mother doll tutted and grew silent. Its face set back into its original scowling expression. As much as I hated to hear them argue, I could tell they hated it more. Their lives were small enough as it was. There was no reason to bring strife into it. Still, it bothered me.

I turned and hissed at them both, trying to keep my cool in front of them all. What happened to Fay had unsettled me, but I couldn't show that to the dolls. They'd never let me live it down. I was the one in charge, after all, not them. I set the new doll down on the shelf, adjusting its arms and legs into a comfortable position, Its red hair curled around its white porcelain face where its pink lips were set in a delicate pout. The dress I'd selected was a perfect match. Looking antique and new at the same time, a throwback to the era of craftsmanship and detail.

I sighed and pushed a curl from its forehead. It really was a beautiful doll. From the earliest days of video game consoles, the kid who got the the latest greatest system always won many friends. But in this tale from author Marcus D'Amanda, the birthday sleepover to celebrate and play video games all night turns into something much darker indeed. And while this is a standalone story,

those familiar with Marcus' previous stories, as Helen remembered it, and Paris Green Solution, may notice some connections to those past tales. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Ely Hirschman, Jessica McAvoy, Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgado, Nicole Goodnight, and James Cleveland. So stay quiet and hidden when you're around, the confessor to the dead. Growing up, I was always jealous of Zach. He had all the best stuff. Whenever there was something new,

everyone simply had to have, he was the first one to get it. This included the Atari 400 game system. at least according to him. My other friends at St. Reginald didn't believe him. There was no way for us to know for sure. None of us had ever visited his home. It was generally agreed that Zach came from a creepy-as-hell family. His sister, Hannah, wore a leather jacket and dyed her hair strange colors, which was a new thing at the time.

No one ever saw his mother except on Sundays and at the grocery store. His father was a deacon. but no one knew what he did in that capacity. For a living, he ran the hospital morgue. I never met him, this confessor to the dead, this deacon death, but I saw him all the time at church. It was December, 1979. Zach told us about the game system during lunch. There was no cafeteria at St. Reggie's, so students had to lunch out in the courts or in the classroom,

and there was ice on the blacktop today. Got the 400 yesterday. Bullshit. I'm serious. My other friends conducted their lunch trades without him. Dad said it counted both for Christmas and my birthday, which is tomorrow. He'd be turning 12, which made him a few months older than me. I could see cards sticking out of the side of his binder.

Invitations. If I was right, then lunch would have been the time to hand them out. I wondered why he hadn't done so. We were friends, but we weren't close. I didn't know that Zach had any close friends. I believed him about the 400, though. Jealous as I was, I felt a little sorry for him. I have some pretzels. What you got?

Later, when no one was looking, he passed me one of the cards. I could tell he wanted the secrets, so I didn't make a thing about it. I'd been right. It was an invitation to a birthday party and sleepover, tomorrow after school. I didn't think my parents would say yes with only tonight to think about it, but I thanked him and told him I'd ask.

I nodded to his binder where the other cards were still visible. What about the rest? No one else was paying attention. Screw them. He tucked the pack of rubber-banded invitations back out of sight. Just you, man.

After school, my mom called his mom. She waved me out of the room so I have no idea what they said. But ten minutes of conversation with Mrs. Cooper resulted in permission given, and the next thing I knew I was told to get in the car. Couldn't really go to a kid's party without getting him a present. Zach and I rode the same bus, but I lived on Garrison Road and he lived in Rappahannock Heights.

The Heights is a gated community. I was always picked up before him and dropped off after. Those of us in the Garrison gang got a good look at how the Rich kids lived on the way to and from school every day. Must be nice. I shared a seat with them that Friday afternoon. Listening to the bus rumble passed a life I would never have. What?

Living here. You know, big fancy house. Cool cars everywhere, stuff like that. My dad was a mechanic, so I knew about cars. He shrugged. Hmm, I guess. And the 400. All to yourself, that's so.

got to be crazy cool. Maybe. I haven't played it yet. This stumped me, but then he went on. Dad doesn't play, and I don't want to play it with my mom or my sister. His voice was all logic and reason, not sad or lonely in any way. What's the point? The point was fun, I wanted to say. I had the 2,600 at home and I could lose half an afternoon in front of adventure,

or half the night before bedtime playing duck hunt with. with my dad. I shook my head at him, then smiled. Well, Zach, we're going to break that bad boy in tonight, hardcore. I imagined us sitting on bean bay cushions next to loaded snack tables in a palatial living room, fighting sleep until three in the morning, at least. Looking up, bug-eyed at a TV screen that would surely span the entire wall. Good. We'll have the whole basement to ourselves. Supposed to crash before 10.30, though. 10.30? Why? I don't want to be up when the ghosts come out, do you? I studied his face, looking for the joke in his eyes.

I didn't find it. But then he smirked and I laughed at him. Ghost in the basement? That would be the best thing ever. The only vehicle in the driveway was Mrs. Cooper's town car. I found myself relieved Mr. Cooper wasn't home. And there was Mrs. Cooper herself, awaiting us on the front porch like we were kindergarteners. Zach and I clambered off, and she was good enough to wait for the bus to drive on before giving her son the obligatory hug.

Happy birthday, Zachariah. Zach looked fit to dive embarrassment. I offered up an expression of deepest sympathy. What could a guy do? Mothers. Then she turned to me. Hello, Theodore. Thank you for coming.

I didn't dare tell her I went by Teddy. Instead, I mustered up my standard parent greeting for sleepovers and delivered it, winsome and casual as I could. Thanks for having me. I promise not to break anything. Sounds like you have a history. Come on in. Let's give you the tour. The house was everything I had imagined, especially the living room, which could have easily accommodated our entire class.

Not only was there a widescreen television, but also a very cool grandfather clock in a long mahogany turntable stereo system. The turntable was three feet high and six wide, with eight-track capability and speakers big enough to blast all three floors of the house. Turned out, Mrs. Cooper was a big fan of Gospel Elvis, and she wasted no time subjugating us to his greatest godly hits. In the kitchen, we found Hannah hunched over a science textbook in a scattering of note cards. She had dark circles under her eyes

and a pallor of complexion that made her look positively ill. Her hair hung in lank ribbons. She was in her leather jacket, even indoors with a heater blaring. Her forehead beaded with sweat. Hannah, we have company tonight. This is Theodore, Zachariah's classmate, and... The pause was meaningful, as if she were about to deliver news of historic importance.

"'Friend.' "'Zack, for his part, looked as eager to be away as I felt. "'Hanna looked up, straight ahead and nodded us. "'I know who he is. "'Hi, Teddy. "'Welcome to the house. "'Good for you, Zach.' "'Mrs. Cooper put her hands on her hips.

"'If that's the best you can do for your only brother on his birthday.' "'But Hannah finished for her, mocking her. Then you can take your work up to your bedroom and finish it there, young lady. Which she did, without any further encouragement. In ten brisk seconds, she'd gathered up her school stuff and departed. Passing us, she fairly hissed. Good thing, it's just one, Mom. And to Zach.

Happy birthday. I was tempted to mutter an apology, feeling myself the source of trouble in their home. I don't think I've ever felt so unwelcome in my life. But I kept quiet, even after a door slammed shut upstairs. Instead, Mrs. Cooper did the apologizing. Forgive me, Theodore. She placed her hand on the back of my neck and gave me a little squeeze. Forgive Hannah.

She's going through a phase. A very difficult phase. After that, the three of us went downstairs to unload my things and set up in the basement. It seemed Zach hadn't been joking about that much after all. There was a large fold-out sofa for a bed, intended for me, which I had to admit was more than a little cool. But I didn't see anything set out for Zach. I had no desire to share a bed with him. I let it go for the moment, though, and took in the rest of the place.

It was absolutely gigantic, with actual pillars propping it up. Retractable partition set off odd corners for storage, but other than that, it was all one place. If only one or two more kids had been invited, we could have played flashlight tag down there. There was a television, too, although nothing quite as impressive as the one in the living room, just your typical color zenith on a TV table. But the 400 was already hooked up to it. it, and among the games Zach had been given for his birthday, I could see some of my favorites from the out-of-time arcade.

Supper in two hours. Mrs. Cooper nodded at the TV. You're free to blow up as much of the universe as you can until then. Will Dad be home in time for dinner? No, honey, it's one of his late nights. I'm sorry. Couldn't be helped. But, judging by the slight smile on the corner of Zach's lips,

I guessed he didn't mind. Can we just have it down here then? I'm sure Hannah wouldn't mind. Mrs. Cooper stood there, considering it. No, I suppose she won't. Well, it's just sausage and pepper sandwiches anyway. Cake later. We wasted no time after she left.

We cranked the volume on the TV as far as it would go. Even through the closed door and down the stairs, we still had to compete with the voice of Elvis Presley. My sister's going through a phase. Zach took his turns at the controls of asteroids, laying down some serious emphasis on the last word. A phase, Teddy. You know, phase of being a dumb bitch, if you ask me. That got me cackling.

God. He prayed aloud, looking up away from the TV, hitting the fire button and twiddling the joystick in random directions. God. Freeze me in time. Right now. Let me be 12 forever. If that's what being a teenager is like, then save me, God. Unattended, his ship got pulverized by an asteroid right away. He was having fun, but he didn't seem to care about getting very far in the games we played, nor about his score. I didn't understand that about him, but whatever, people could be weird. Anyway, that made it my turn. Our plates lay next to us, nothing but crumbs on them.

Crumpled soda cans littered the rug we'd camped out on. It was a good thing we were right by the bathroom. Between us, we'd killed a six-pack of Mr. Pib. And, back then, there was no such thing as a pause feature in video games. It was a hand-off in P relay, and in spite of Zach's on-screen recklessness, we were getting pretty good at it. My present to him had hardly seen any action at all. The handheld plastic walkie-talkies that had been on sale were a little dated at the time.

Once, during a reluctant break from the 400, we'd separate it to opposite ends of the basement to try them out, saying things like, breaker, breaker, and what's your 20? Because we'd both seen Smokey and the Bandit. But they just could not compete with asteroids, centipede, defender, or missile command. On this system, they were near-perfect clones of the stand-up arcade versions, but you didn't have to put in a quarter to play. It was joyous, kind of like stealing without actually doing anything wrong. At 9.45, we heard the door back to the upstairs open.

Come on up, boys. Jammy's on. Time for prayers and a little red velvet. All right, so he hadn't been kidding about the bedtime either. Disconcerting as that was, worse yet was the command, Jamies on. Mine consisted of a complete set, perfect for wandering around in the middle of the night without having one's modesty inadvertently compromised. And they weren't footy pajamas either, thank you very much. But I hadn't counted on walking around on the middle floor of a strange house on them. I figured it would just be me and Zach, hanging out casual in the basement until sleep on the night.

But I told myself to be big about it, to not overthink it. Going up the stairs, I noticed Zach brought one of his walkie-talkies with him. I was surprised to find Hannah again in the kitchen when Zach and I emerged from the basement. She was now in a nightgown instead of her jacket. Whatever she may have felt, this was more than a little embarrassing for me. I didn't have sisters, apart from the kind that wore white and black and taught math and geography at St. Reggie's. Nevertheless, there we were, the four of us. Gather two on either side of the kitchen table, staring down a hearty heap of red velvet cake with white icing topped with 12 candles.

Who wanted freaking red velvet over chocolate anyway? That was the kind of cake my grandmother liked. Mrs. Cooper and Hannah lit the candles together, working from the middle toward the outside with wooden matches instead of lighters. It was impossible not to notice Hannah's slightly sunnier disposition throughout the ritual, and I wondered what had been. brought it on. With the candles freshly lit, face beaming behind small points of flame, Mrs. Cooper directed us in singing Zach, happy birthday. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Zachia. Happy birthday to you. And what are the house rules?

rolled his eyes. That's dad's question, mom. And you usually say the first one. Your father is not here tonight and we have company. They need to be understood. Her gazed fixed on him, kind but stern. I'll start same as always. The first house rule is,

always say your prayers before dinner and bed. Hannah tossed her hair over her shoulder and winked at me. The second is, Never watch God bring in the new day. Was that code for stick to your bedtime? And the third, finish your cake. I almost laughed at him. He'd been cracking me up all night,

and this seemed like just one more of his smart-ass comments. Anyway, how could that be a house rule? It wasn't like they had cake every night. Mrs. Cooper didn't correct him. Instead, she smiled benevolently, and approvingly. Hands. We clasped hands and we closed our eyes.

I didn't peek. Zach began it. Watch, dear Lord, with those who wake tonight and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Guard us against all evil. Hannah followed him. Her voice practically a whisper. Keep silent the night and bless us with peace in our home.

be with our Father on earth. Bless his holy work and keep him safe. Bless the dying, O Lord Jesus Christ, that they may come to you in good time. Rest your weary ones for your love's sake. Guide the wakeful dead to their righteous contrition. Save us all from the fires of hell. Forgive us our sins, both the living and the dead.

lead all souls to heaven in your infinite mercy in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit And at the last all of us together Amen When I opened my hands and let go I found myself looking straight down at the table trying to process what they had been praying for I blinked considering it for long seconds seeing only the tiny cake fork and the china played until While abruptly, Mrs. Cooper slid a sizable wedge of crimson cake onto it. It was so moist and fresh. The velvet seemed to bleed.

But it smelled good, like a mountain of sugar should. Using the dainty little fork felt rich and sophisticated to a middle-class kid like me. I said to it and quickly forgot that I preferred chocolate to red velvet. Go slow. Don't want to get sick, do you? Mrs. Cooper didn't have any of it. Most of the cake was left unserved. Maybe she was waiting to have hers with her husband.

When Zach yawned, long and expansively, his plate empty, Mrs. Cooper came to him, took him by the arm, and led him to his feet. That's it, birthday boy. Up you get. Sleepy time for my new 12-year-old. He didn't fight her. I felt a surge of panic when she began to lead him towards the ups and stairs, Elvis singing how great thou art in the background.

My hand clutched the little fork. Hannah took it and let it back down to the plate. I had to sleep downstairs in the basement alone. Mrs. Cooper looked over her shoulder. Little boys can get excitable in the night. I wouldn't want you two to do anything you'd have to confess in the morning. She disappeared upstairs with her weak and unspeaking son. Surprisingly, I felt a bit sleepy myself.

Hannah's voice never rose above a breath. It's drugged, Teddy. Stay with me for a few minutes, okay? My eyes wandered to her plate, half empty, like mine. Her feet were unsteady as she swept my plate away and plucked the fork from my hand. She staggered to the sink, jammed our cake into the disposal while Elvis creamed in the background. She ran water. For a hot second, she ran the disposal. It's not good for you. You're too small. It's too dangerous. You shouldn't be here.

Make sure he finishes, Hannah. He's done. Never seen a kid finish like that. I'm taking him down now. She helped me up, just as her mother had done with Zach. My brain was, Muddy, fear prickled like ants at my feet. She led me toward the door. She opened it and flipped on the lights. You want to be asleep by 11, Teddy. Can you make it down there on your own? The record reached the end of its side.

Silence bloomed. I took the railing and I started down. I returned alone to the basement. It'll be over when... Once I was back on floor, floor level, Hannah pointed to the bathroom. Then she slapped the lights back off. I heard a key go into the door and softly lock. Mrs. Cooper drugged me, my mind raised. She freaking drugged me. I could feel it. The gentle but inexorable swell towards unconsciousness. Half a slice of cake

churned in my stomach. So much of that cake was still upstairs. Would it have been enough to put down every kid Zach had written invitations to? I could still walk. I could think. By the light of the television, I could make out the bathroom. I lurched for it, head spinning, guts roiling. It wasn't hard to get sick. It was more of a challenge to hold it in as I turned on the light and the ceiling fan,

bending over the toilet. I heaved and heaved until I was only dry-wetching. I knelt there for minutes after I fleshed it down, praying I'd be able to sleep. that I could fast forward this night like a cassette tape and hurry in the new day so I could go home. I felt a little better after that. My legs were wobbly when I stood, but I figured that was mostly from the puking. I patted my way toward the black and white static of the television in the fold-out sofa bed.

My world resolved into dim, soft focus. I stared into the TV light for, I don't know how long, waiting for myself to return to normal. I could hear nothing from upstairs. It'd all gone to sleep, I guessed, including Mrs. Cooper. I couldn't even hear Elvis. Between the TV and the sofa bed lying on the floor was the other walkie-talkie. Had Zach taken his upstairs? I couldn't remember.

But I sat down and picked it up. I held down the button. Breaker, breaker, 19. Zach, it's Teddy. Can you hear me? Are you up? When nobody answered, I started to cry. Couldn't help myself.

I wanted to throw this stupid toy, break it. But then, from the other end, faintly and tired. My 20 is your big-ass basement, Zach. I wipe my nose with my hands, and I'm all alone, I thought, but did not add. Zach again, answering, fading. A dull bang abruptly echoed. from the interior of the house. Some kind of adjustment in the heating system.

That's what my dad would say. Something in the air ducts. But there were moans after, and words, spoken in a chorus of hisses and whispers, hundred strong. Be gone, hell, child. The line has moved. Go to whatever awaits you.

We don't have room for you anymore. And something like a fading Doppler effect scream. Like hell it will. I smeared away fresh tears. I wanted to yell for help, but I held it in. I didn't want to summon Mrs. Cooper. I'm going to tell on you. On all of you.

My parents will call the cops. Your mom will go to jail. Oh, yes, I will. I'd broken the house rule. I hadn't eaten all of the cake. Not even half of it. No, Zach, get me out of here. I want to use the phone.

From the other end, only breathing, as though he had fallen asleep still holding the button. Several times I called his name, sitting there, rocking back and forth, crying, sobbing like a baby. Nothing. I crawled over to the sofa bed, which was already pulled out. The house banged again, forcing a half-strangled yelp of terror from me. I crawled under the covers, still clutching the walkie-talkie. wrapping the pillow over my ears. Upstairs, the old grandfather clock peeled 11 times.

I couldn't shut out the noise. And when it was done, my walkie-talkie clicked twice. As if Zach or someone was pushing the button on the other end. Again, I was about to throw the thing. But then, through the distortion, I recognized Hannah's voice. I pressed the button. Why did you lock me down here? Moments passed. I'd almost given up on her when she answered. From upstairs I could hear someone

walking around. The sound was soft, as if whoever it was didn't have on any shoes. It wasn't Hannah, though. She was in Teddy's room, or she had taken the little radio into her own room. I started to feel sweat trickle into my eyes along with the tears, then restarted. What are you talking about? Didn't dare leave the bed. The footsteps sound. sounded like they were just outside the door. Hannah was whispering now, as if she could hear the footsteps as well. It didn't sound like a ghost. It sounded like a person, wandering, pacing, just one, walking all over the place, with real feet.

And the sarcastic, bitter way that Hannah had said the word important, conjured more questions than it dispelled. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to be asleep. but Hannah kept talking and I didn't turn off the walkie-talkie. She was my guardian. The walkie-talkie was my lifeline. The footsteps stopped. Hannah whispered.

Upstairs, the front door to the house opened with an echoing click. Then the door shut with an echoing thud. I didn't feel high anymore. I lay on my back, listening. The police would later suggest that I imagined everything that took place on the entry-level floor of the Cooper House. My mind was in an altered state, they'd remind me. I was terrified. And, as my parents would add, I was a very imaginative boy.

Heavy shoes clumped into the house, totally different from the footsteps that had been pacing upstairs minutes ago. They softened, stepped onto the carpet of the living room. Again, Elvis Presley filled the house, this time singing Amazing Grace. Into the kitchen, ice cubes rattling. I heard him gulp the drink down and sigh before setting the glass in the sink. I saw it too somehow, perfectly clear, never leaving the bed. Deacon Death and a black overcoat with a tail, still wearing his hat and gloves. I saw him from the back, as though I were watching through the eyes of another.

He remained at the sink until the song finished and the needle reached the ear. inner label of the vinyl, scratching and skipping, playing nothing. The deacon never moved, but someone must have grown annoyed at the noise because I heard the needle lift and reset, followed by the muffled electronic fomph of the speakers being shut off. A single ghost spoke, just one among the chorus of hisses and whispers that had moaned and screamed earlier. The ghost was calm now. She sounded. satisfied, maybe even happy. You're just in time.

We must speak at every night, this very hour. This isn't a good night for it. It's my son's birthday. He has company. They're asleep. The ghost answered, as though through the very walls, from everywhere. That isn't our concern. We're finished with you after tonight, one way or the other.

Do you understand? I have your word on that. We've used up this place already. There's nothing left for us here anymore. We'll be gone very soon. The more so if you release us. You aren't the one I talked to last night. No. Tucker Brownstone is no longer with us.

I am in command of the host now. Quickly, Mr. Cooper. time short. Deacon Death turned. I recognized him, but just barely. He'd become suddenly old. His features sagged as though his face might simply fall off at any second. Let's go then.

He led this phantom back through the hall and into the dining room. At the table, he sat himself in front of a tall oval mirror. Through it, I could see the person or thing, to whom. was speaking. Across the hall in the family room, the grandfather clock peeled again. Once, twice, three times. The ghost was only a girl, no older than Hannah. Her hair was done up in curls and ribbons. She wore a black pullover robe. Her eyes were protuberant and bloody. Her front teeth were jagged, broken and black. Her mouth dribbled inky smoke. Mr. Cooper produced a tape recorder from an overcoat pocket.

He set it between them, even as the clock peeled his seventh time, and an eighth. You don't mind? If this works, we couldn't care less? He pushed the record button. I was Myra Corinne Blankenship. My father was killed in a train robbery. My family was ruined. In April 1895, when I was 14, I killed myself with his own gun, and I repent.

As the clock finished, Mr. Cooper made the sign of the cross and responded, God, the Father of Mercies, through the death and resurrection of his son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us. For the forgiveness of sins, through the ministry of the church, may God, give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. I saw her body change, quickly, bone shifting, frame, growing, shoulders broadening. I could hear her ripple away to nothing. But then, just as quickly, I was back in the basement. I was in bed. Just like that, I'd been released from the vision, but I could still hear the voice of the

ghost that rose up in her place. Again, it was like a faint tremble in the walls, an inescapable litany of penance. This time, the voice was male. It was Jonathan Mark Flynn. I was caught in the act of fornication with one of my own sex, and I was imprisoned. In January 1898, when I was 17, I stabbed myself in the femoral with a quarry pick. and I repent. And again, from Mr. Cooper, the absolution prayer. I don't know what possessed me to ease myself out of the bed just then, to pat as quietly as I could back toward the staircase, closer to the ritual,

even as a third penitent surfaced, and a fourth. Marshall Armory had only been 12 when he had done it in 1900, but Amanda Forsyth had been 17, like Jonathan had been when she killed herself in 1905. Thankfully, the stairs did not creak as I ascended, drawing closer. I told myself I was crazy, absolutely nuts, crawling on all fours up and up toward this madness. What was I thinking? And even if it did make sense in some kind of backward messed up way, the door was locked. I stopped at the top and pressed my ear to it.

I think, although it's impossible to be sure, that it was the seventh ghost who spoke at that moment. Its voice was, at first, both long-suffering and impatient. Mr. Charles Hutchinson, I was lonely. I loved a girl, but that love was not returned. In June, 1912, when I was 15, I hanged myself. And I... I...

You know what? Fuck of this. This isn't working. We're not going anywhere. The others are still here. I can, I can smell them like old summer shit. I heard Mr. Cooper clear his throat, sounding nervous, but he didn't answer that. And anything I did, I didn't ask for this. You're not like the others. You and this host. I don't think you've been consigned to the middle hell. I don't know where you are.

I don't know what you are. I don't know what to do with you. Alistair laughed. A long, slow chuckle of resignation. What do you mean? Alistair continued. I know what to do with you. There was a sudden terrible tumble of noise.

Chairs legs scraping the floor, wood splintering, a tumbling, and a pumbling. A tearing, glass shattering. Through it, neither Mr. Cooper nor Alistair Hutchard. said a word, and after, there was only silence. Then, sniffling, an inhalation taken through an open mouth. A thought transmitted in Alistair's voice directly into my own brain, clear and calm, as though it had been spoken to me. You, the sleepover.

Teddy, is it? You've been eavesdropping. I gasped, let out a small scream. I got to my feet and grabbed the railing, taking the steps back down three at a time. You've been bad, Teddy. I heard the doorknob rattle, and then simply snap and fall to the floor, as though it had been pushed or punch through. The door crashed inward, half off its hinges. The thing made a scuttling noise as it pursued me as though it were going down the stairs on all fours like an animal.

I was still a couple steps from the bottom. I thought I had been fast. It got me with one hand by the ankle. I tumbled forward, my hands barely saving me from what would have been a nose-crunching face plan against the concrete floor of the basement. Still facing away from him, not daring to look behind, I heard the thing stand and turn, never letting go of me. It dragged me, my fingernails clutching and scratching at concrete, back toward the stairs.

The thing spoke aloud again. Let me go, please. I'm sorry. Back up the stairs. as we went. Alistair ignored me the whole way, even as I begged him and bargained with them and made promises to be good. I told him I didn't even want to be here. We were just supposed to play video games and no one told me I was going to be locked in the basement. I was scared, I told him, and I was so, so sorry. He didn't let go until we had made it to the middle floor. Ahead of me, I could see the kitchen. At my back was the hall in the front door. On either side

were the living room and the dining room. Alistair stopped. He dropped my foot. I scrambled to my butt, then to my knees, but I didn't dare run. I could see him now, with my own eyes, his back to me. He was wearing the same black robe that Myra Blankenship had worn. He was just a kid with a mop of black, curly, uncamped hair, holding his head on both sides at the ears. His voice was straining. fighting. Not yet, Marybeth, bit longer. Which made no sense at all. When he turned, his face contorted to a hateful glare. I wondered where his injury was. If he had killed himself by hanging, I expected to see bruise marks. Silly thought, stupid, but they bloomed, unbidden to my brain like a sickness. And I knew that he had perceived them when his neck stretched half a foot, like a

fucking turtle, and his face drew closer to mine, staring, enraged. I shrieked. He grabbed me by the collar of my pajama top, brought me to my feet, march me toward the dining room, where I could not help but see that the tall oval mirror had been brought down over Deacon death, who lay on the floor in a pool of spreading blood. There was a deep gash in his neck and a jagged sliver of mirror glass jutting from it. Blood pumped from the wound in streams. Mr. Cooper's eyes were wide, blinking. He was still alive. And there, Alistair seemed to surrender. He released me again, walked serenely to the broken table, and turned up a chair from where it lay sideways on the floor. He sat himself down. He reached over, turned off the tape recorder. His finger hovered over the eject button, hesitated, withdrew. I didn't watch him change.

I heard it happen, but my eyes fixed back on Mr. Cooper. I watched as the blood stopped flowing. His eyes unfocused. I saw my friend's father die, and I did nothing. I was sick and couldn't walk. In September, 1912, when I was 12, I drank the rat poison the doctors left out for me, and I repent. Upstairs I could hear Mrs. Cooper.

She was praying. Just as Hannah had said, she was saying the Lord's prayer over and over again. Run. Leave this house now. Never mind your stuff. Never mind the cold. Just go.

Someone will find you. Instead, I bounded upstairs. I had to find Zach's room. Hannah's too. I had to get them out of here. Maybe Hannah could drive. At the end of the upstairs hall, the door to the master bedroom was open. And there I saw Mrs. Cooper on her knees, head bowed, before the foot of her bed.

Over the head of the bed hung a massive full-color crucifix that left few details of the horrors of Christ's crucifixion to the imagination. Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. I found Zach's room unlocked. Inside, he was completely obliviously asleep. No matter how many times I shook him, he didn't stir. Downstairs, yet another ghost was recounting his suicide and making his repentance. From Mrs. Cooper. Thy kingdom come.

Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Hannah's door was locked. I banged on the door, yelled at it, screamed Hannah's name. But I was 11 and wasn't much good at kicking down doors. The phone, the kitchen. The voice of Mrs. Cooper receded as I ran back down the stairs for it. Go give us our dress against us. When I got there, perhaps ten of the thousand ghosts had made their repentance.

I caught a glimpse of a single transformation of a body within that black robe changing shape, the hue of its skin darkening, the tone and pitch of its voice altering, going male again to female again. How long would it take to finish them all? us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. But the first thing my eyes settled upon as I emerged into the kitchen was not the phone. It was the countertop. The red velvet cake was gone.

All of it. I made the call. Not to the police, not for an ambulance. I called home. Mom picked up. I didn't say much, but I told her what I was going to do. I ran out of the house straight out into the cold, wearing only my pajamas.

I ran out on the Coopers, out on my friend. I left him there, helpless and asleep, at the mercy of the thousand ghosts. And that sin, even after having it absolved in confession and later apologizing to Zach himself,

still tortures my dreams. I was picked up in no time. A night shift worker at the local hospital caught me on her way home, and she intercepted my mom's car even as she was driving me back to my own house. I'm told it was a couple hours before the police made it to the Cooper estate. I'll never know if the ghosts were still there when the cops arrived.

The official story makes no mention of them. I reported everything. It needn't be said that no one believed a word of it. I was drugged. I was the survivor of a horrible crime, witnessed to unspeakable events no child should ever see. My mind had rebelled, fabricated its own version of the events,

turned it into a fantasy to hide what really happened. But nothing can make me doubt the evidence of my own memory. It was real. It happened. I think now that Hannah had finished the cake and overdosed on her mother's drugs before ever picking up that walkie-talkie. She was already in the host at that time,

allowed out by the ghost of Myra Blankenship to urge me towards sleep, and to explain herself. Mrs. Cooper was arrested and eventually institutionalized. Zach went into foster care. I've seen them once or twice. As for me, I've never been bothered by the ghost since that night, unless it is in the dark and wilderness of my sleeve.

I take pills for that. I see a therapist. Sometimes it helps. I'm a regular at church, too. I keep up with confession. I go every Sunday. I work hard to keep my sleep clean, to keep my account settled. Honestly, can you blame me?

So, another episode has drawn to a close and our nightmares dissolve. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long and three exclusions. and 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 dark tales will envelop you in a nightmarish, swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.