The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E14

Episode Date: August 6, 2017

It's episode 14 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about those things which hide in the dark and abscond with what we hold most precious. "The Missing Radio Hosts"† written by T. Weaver and performed by Elie Hirschman & Addison Peacock & Peter Lewis & Eden. (Story starts around 00:06:00) "Beware the Sunnyside Retirement Center"‡ written by S.A. Newman and performed by Dan Zappulla & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 00:15:20) "A Forgotten Curio Shop"† written by C.M. Scandreth and performed by Erika Sanderson & Nikolle Doolin. (Story starts around 00:36:00) "They Stalk the Thicket"‡ written by Michael Marks and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Jesse Cornett & Alexis Bristowe & Atticus Jackson. (Story starts around 01:07:30) "Old Maggie's Pool"† written by Michael Whitehouse and performed by David Ault & Erika Sanderson & Andy Cresswell. (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 Jessica McEvoy's new audiobook, "Donn's Hill"   Click here to learn more about William Dalphin's book, "Don't Look Away"   Click here to learn more about S.A. Newman   Click here to learn more about C.M. Scandreth   Click here to learn more about Michael Marks   Click here to learn more about Michael Whitehouse   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "They Stalk the Thicket" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath 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

I was terrified, but I knew I had to find out what was happening in the morgue. I slowly pushed open the door. The morgue was dark, but suddenly I could see it. Hold on, Nicole. The mic is picking up a strange sound. We need to make sure our nosley body was as clean as possible. What's making the noise? Is it stomach noise? I'm hearing it too.

Yeah, probably. Are you hungry? Why not take a break and try some nature box? No, it's not. Wait, did you say nature box? Yeah, the new box. just arrived. I made sure to get some sourdough cheddar pretzels for their savory zing, and of course some whole wheat chocolate chip cookie bites for a sweet and healthy treat.

Good choices. I love how NatureBox has over a hundred snacks that taste good and are actually better for us. I feel good about what I'm eating when I snack on Nature Box's high-quality, simple ingredients. Nothing artificial about them. When are you going to order your own box, Nicole? It's so Simple. Just go to naturebox.com slash no sleep. Choose the snacks you want, and NatureBox will deliver them right to your door. I'll be sure to do that because there's no risk, right? If there's a snack I don't like, NatureBox will replace it for free? You got it. Sounds great. But let's get this story recorded first. Where was I? Ah, yes. The morgue was dark, but suddenly I could see a... God! Now what's making noise? Is that your name?

neck cracking? You don't understand. It's not me. Try not to make noise so we can get this done. Look, now that I found my new snack obsession at Nature Box, I can't wait to enjoy them. They add new snacks every month inspired by the latest food trends and professional chefs. So what do you say? Let's finish up and eat. I'm trying, but... Action! Ugh! The Mord was dark. Cut! What in the world is happening in there? Is your flesh melting off?

It's not me that's falling apart, dummy. It's this cadaver you insist on keeping in the recording booth. Why have a decaying body in here when we're trying to record? It's for atmosphere and authenticity. Lunatic. Want to save even more? Naturebox is offering No Sleep fans three free snacks with your first order when you go to Naturebox.com slash no sleep.

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 five tales about those things which hide in the dark and abscond with what we hold most precious. It's always exciting when friends of the show have new projects coming out. We have an audiobook and a collection of tales to bring to your attention. First up is a new book from author William Delphin. He's published a collection of his best stories titled, Don't Look Away, 35 terrifying tales from the darkest corners. It not only features spine-tangling horror tales you've come to know and love

from Will, but also this book is wonderfully illustrated by Emily Holt. It's available in both paperback and e-book form, so make sure you treat yourself to this excellent collection. And the new audiobook just released is from author Karen Leranaga, called Dawn's Hill. And it's narrated by our very own Jessica McAvoy. It's a paranormal story about a woman who's looking to make a fresh start in her favorite childhood vacation spot. But returning to Dawn's Hill awakens more than nostalgia. She regains a lost psychic ability

to talk to the dead, and the poltergeist haunting her apartment is desperate to make her use that gift to find the killer. It's a great way to enjoy a captivating story, so let Jessica transport you into the world of Dawn's Hill. Check the show notes for links to both of these books

and give your summer reading list a chilling dose of horror. And one final note, this is episode 14 of season 9. That means for those of you using our rent-to-own program, if you've already purchased the first 13 episodes this season, you can contact us after you buy this 14th episode for your free upgrade to a season past 9. Just be sure to email us at admin at the noslapodcast.com and let us know the email address you use.

use for your memberships. We'll get you set up as quickly as we can. So we've got horror stories for you and audio horror. Someone should make a show where horror stories are adapted to audio. It can be extra spooky to hear creepy tales in audio form. And you know what's even creepier? When what you're hearing comes from an unexpected source. Like, for instance, have you ever heard about the strangest radio broadcast never transmitted? It was recorded, sure, and those involved seemed damned positive that it was broadcasting somewhere, but it certainly wasn't anywhere it should have been. All the local listeners reported nothing but crackling and hissing noises

when they manually inputted the station's number after being automatically kicked off the station's frequency. For whatever reason, midway through their show, they lost connection. You know what? I'll play the audio from it for you and let you know when the strange breaks happen. This is definitely a weird recording. When the radio station cuts out, people were still calling in, people who shouldn't have been able to hear the hosts. I don't have an explanation, so I'll share it with you to see what you think. The radio broadcast begins normally enough, the sounds of a few swooshes incorporating

a powerfully pleasant voice, announced what station the audience was tuned into. After a few moments of silence, the perky hosts popped onto the show. Welcome back to JJ and Jesse, the only local radio station bringing you local news and music. I'm JJ, and next to me as always is Jesse. Hey, everyone. So I've got to ask Jess, what do you think of the supernatural? You mean like ghost stories? Well, like anything.

UFOs, demons, evil spirits, things that'll suck the blood from your veins. Well, I think people definitely think they see things, that's for sure. But you don't believe them? No, not really. I mean, my friends all have stories, but I guess those things just aren't attracted to me. We'll see about that, Jess. I've actually got some fun stuff planned for tonight.

What do you mean? I mean, I've got details about something truly evil lurking around these parts. Like a monster? Do we have our own little Bigfoot walking around? Nope, try something a little more sinister. And what could that be? A haunted phone number.

It supposedly dials straight down to hell. Oh, God, seriously? Come on, Jess, where's your Halloween spirit? It's April. I left my Halloween spirit back in October. You must be fun at parties. Here's an insider tip. She's not. Oh, stop it, Jay.

Then prove me wrong. Dial up the number and let's take this puppy for a ride. All right, all right, what's the number? All right, let's see. It's 8453549912. That's not even a local area, Co, Jay. Just call it. All right.

I'm dialing in. And, oh, no. What is it? It said, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Oh, good one there, Jess. Okay, now, every good. Okay, now everything after this point was off air. The laughing subsided and both the hosts returned to normal as if nothing had happened.

Well, that's a bust. But good old JJ never comes unprepared. We've got local legends, paranormal pests, and creepy crawlies all lined up for tonight's show. And for any non-believers out there like me, strap yourselves in and indulge JJ's imagination for a while. I know it'll be rough, but hang tight. We do have some cool stories to tell. First things first, before we take our break, we challenge all of you out there to dial up that number and tell us what you heard. That number, once again, is 845-354-9912. Now enjoy the music while we take a quick break. For several minutes, silence is recorded. Now, I have to specify the oddity of this fact. All the microphones are. that the stations were never switched off. Yet there are no sounds for several long minutes.

No chairs scuffing the floor, no drinks being moved on the wooden table, nothing. It's almost like everything, just stopped for a moment. And then it cuts back in. Welcome back. I'm JJ. And I'm Jesse.

Now, Jesse, I heard you stepped out to your car during our break and something happened? Well, no. I wouldn't say something happened. I just felt weird. I know it's late at night and it's supposed to be dark outside. But besides our parking lots lights and the lit windows of our building, I couldn't see anything else out there. Even the suburbs a few miles down were completely dark. Oh, sounds spooky. I'm sure it's just a power outage. Luckily for us, our station doesn't seem to be affected so all you listeners at home or in your cars can continue to hear my beautiful voice. That's not all, Jay. What do you mean? I mean, I know it's just a feeling, but I felt like the air was wrong.

It felt muggy and stale. Everything just felt dead. Ugh, these stories are going to give me a panic attack. Perfect. That's just what I wanted to hear. I've actually got some callers on the line ready to go. All of these names are listed as unknown, so I'd like to give a shout out to our technical support guy Ryan for really going above and beyond for these call screenings.

Hell of a job, Ryan. I know you can hear me in the back room. Anyway, let's get started with caller number one. Welcome to JJ and Jesse. What stories have you got for us? Are you close to your radio? But we'll need you to step away from it in order to hear you. Well, all right, then. I'm going to have to end that call there. Weird stuff. Let's try Unknown Caller number two. Welcome Unknown Caller. Hey, welcome to the show. Where are you calling from? I'm sorry, what? Well, that's enough of that caller Jay, this is starting to freak me out

Can we move on to a different topic? We've got one more caller And then we can move on Welcome, caller You don't have enough time Time for what? There's not enough time There's not enough time

What the hell was that? Jay, I think someone just broke a window out front I'm going to call the cops Hey, Ryan, what's going on out there? Oh, Jesus, Jay, look Ryan, get the fuck away from that window. Ryan, Ryan, what's wrong with you? Jesus, your head. What have you done? What the hell was that? It took Ryan. It pulled him right out the window.

Both on the roof now. He doesn't fit onto the antenna. Jesse, did you reach the cops? No, nothing's dialing through. Use the landline. He told me that the call cannot be completed as dialed. It doesn't sound right. Jay, something's wrong. Use the landline. We need to get out of here. I'm getting the same answer except quicker. Jay, look at the window. That noise signaled the end of the broadcast.

76 hours of impossible silence followed the recording. The police investigated the station and turned off all the equipment less than 24 hours after JJ and Jesse's disappearance. Besides this audio clip, nothing else was. out of the ordinary. All the windows were intact, no signs of forced entry were found, and the parking lot cameras revealed nothing except that Jesse had never left the building to check her car. The fact remains. Ryan Stevens, James Jackson, and Jesse Walters all disappeared that night without a trace. So like I said, horror in audio form can be really creepy.

I want to thank T. Weaver for sharing that with me. I'm glad I could pass it along to you. So why don't we keep going with some audio horror of our own on this week's show? One of the most difficult transitions we can make in life is moving to an assisted care facility. As we learn from author S. A. Newman, it's not only tough on the elderly, but also their children who want to ensure their parents get the best care possible. performing this tale are Dan Zapula and Aaron Lillis. So if you're ever searching for a residence for an elderly family member, remember this. Beware the Sunnyside Retirement Center. The choice to put my dad in a nursing home was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make.

I tried to put it off as long as possible, but Dad's health had been on a steady decline since we had lost mom a couple years back. Now, he was a stubborn, fiercely independent individual who had spent a tough life growing up in farm country. And the thought of spending just one night in an old folks' home, as he would put it, made him speak with a special kind of anger that I rarely got to witness anymore.

No fucking way. That would be his usual response in his old grouchy voice. just before he'd spit saliva on the ground in front of my shoes. Now, Dad has dealt with bouts of shortness of breath and anxiety, and it was his last trip to the hospital that seemed to convince him to flip his decision about the whole thing. I got the call while I was at work in the middle of my shift. My supervisor was gracious enough to let me clock out early,

and thanks to me speeding down the highway, I was there in 20 minutes. The social worker at the hospital came in to talk to us about getting support at home for Dad. She wasn't the usual one I had known from Dad's previous visits, but she seemed nice enough. Like before, Dad had managed to blurt out his usual response while he was struggling to breathe with a nasal cannula tube in his nose. No fucking way. I was expecting the social worker to respond when my dad spoke up. again, surprising both of us with what he said next. It was like a switch had been flipped. I don't want to go back home. I can honestly say that we were in shock. This man who had been

fighting me tooth and nail for two years about getting some kind, hell any kind of assistance, just declared that he was surrendering. Dad went on to say that this last incident was an eye-opener for him, but he later admitted, with tears forming in his eyes, and above all else, he was lonely. He had tried to fill the void that Mom had left when she passed with drinking and spending time with all his tractors, but in the end, just couldn't make it work, he was too proud to admit just how lonely he'd become.

He was a man's man after all, and I knew how hard letting all this out. it was for him. The social worker at the hospital gave us a brochure for a new place that had opened in the area. Sunnyside Retirement Center.

Better than living at home. I was a bit taken aback by the slogan. I had to admit, though, it was bold, and the pictures in the brochure looked incredible. I showed it to Dad. He stared at it for the longest time before saying anything.

He spoke again without swearing at us. I'll give it a chance. I silently thanked God and I smiled. The social worker said that she would work on setting up a tour and start the admission paperwork right away. I studied the brochure some more as Dad took a nap. I recognized the address as it was in an area that I had passed every single day along a highway on my way to work.

But I realized that I had never. noticed anything there before. And what hit me as even more strange was that I'd always remembered the area as an empty open field. No structure of any kind had been there for years. It was basically a large, empty, concrete lot. I know construction jobs go a lot quicker these days, but hell, not that fast, right? Something about this troubled me. I suddenly had a lot of questions. but the social worker had disappeared before I could ask. I knew Dad would be a very hard sell about being placed anywhere. We had done it from Mom in her later years at a nursing home in town.

It had been the only place taking admissions in the area at the time, but I always hate it going there, and smelled like piss as soon as you walked in the door, and the staff didn't seem to give a shit about anything besides yapping and playing on their phone. and God, Mom would always seem so sad. She had been diagnosed with dementia, and the two of them just couldn't make it work at home, so we felt we had no choice.

And sometimes, it seemed like she didn't even recognize us, so you could imagine my surprise when the social worker at the hospital gave us a brochure for a new place that had opened in the area. My surprise to Dad's reaction. And after helping Dad into the car, we were on our way. I'd made sure to pack some of his clothes and farming magazines that he'd like to look at. He saw the bag and he muttered.

Well, somehow, I don't think they'll be allowed. Besides, you said you would give this a chance. Yes. He mumbled something I couldn't make out soon after we arrived. I have to say, the look of the building took my breath away a little bit. The landscaping was immaculate, with small shrubs and trees lining the outside, with the large water fountain positioned near the front entrance. We pulled up under a huge awning to double sliding glass doors.

Pesino. Dad hadn't sworn yet, so I was taking this as a good sign. Now, we were met by a representative of the facility, Susan. She was dressed very professionally, wearing a gray skirt and blouse. with a matching gray jacket. Oh, and her perfectly white teeth, well, it has shone whenever she smiled. We went on the tour, seeing the apartments,

the exercise room, lounge areas, and the dining room. I couldn't quite read how Dad was taking in everything, but the hell I was sold. There was bright lighting everywhere. There were lament floors and fully furnished private apartments. And in the end, Dad said that he liked it, and we ended the day. moving into room 215.

I never did get a chance to ask about how the place had seemingly gone up overnight. Well, the next few days were pretty uneventful. I talked to Dad for a bit on the phone each day, and he would tell me the transition was going pretty well so far. Hearing all of this made me so happy. I really wanted this to work for Dad. Soon after, though, our conversations began to shift to a, darker tone. Now the first time I noticed something was off was when I called Dad to talk.

We had set a time each day so he would be ready for my call. And when I asked how he was doing, he almost sounded nervous to me as he stuttered. Now, John, I need to go. His answer perplexed me completely. Dad, is something wrong? I thought everything was going good. so far. For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. I could hear Dad's breathing getting heavy. Hey, Dad, are you there? He responded, but this time it seemed like he was whispering into the phone. I tried to ask him who, but all he said next was that I needed to get up here so we could talk more. So I made the drive as soon as I got off of work. When I got to Dad's room, he had the door locked. Finally, after convincing him to let me in, he quickly shut the door, redoing the lock.

Over the next hour, we sat in his living room, and I listened as his words spilled out. He told me that strange things had been happening since his third night here. Dad said that he had been hearing people skulking outside his apartment door at night, and that they were communicating in some bizarre-sounding language. Now, I knew that Dad was still pretty sharp for his age. so I didn't instantly believe it was some kind of delusion. As for the unknown language, I summarized that some of the staff who worked here at night were foreign,

and they hadn't quite picked up English just yet. But Dad, he dismissed that notion. He said the sounds they made when they spoke were unlike anything he had ever heard before. Almost animal-like, he said. Well, I looked at him and I could see. see how genuinely scared he was by all of this. And he also told me that he had seen lights flashing outside of his windows at night.

Not ambulance lights that you might expect at a retirement center, but just seemingly random white lights. And I didn't ask if he ever peeked through the blinds to see what they actually were. The expression of fear on his face, well, that told me enough. And I left later that night after Dad ate dinner and got ready for bed. I told him I would look into what he had told me, but honestly, I didn't know what to believe. This could all be some sort of mental trauma from the move, so maybe Dad just needed more time to make the adjustment. I had to get up early for work the next day, so I just put the last few hours in the back of my mind as I drifted off to sleep.

Now, the next morning, while I was getting ready for work, I saw that I had a voicemail from Dad. I had kept the phone on silence, so I never heard it ring. Instantly worried, I listened to the voicemail. What I heard was maybe the most horrific thing I had ever exposed my ears to. I wish I had taken Dad more seriously. Even took him last night. I could hear him begging them to stop. And then all of a sudden it was silent and the lights came back.

John get me out of here! I replayed the message that Dad had left several times. I was forced to hold the phone away from my ear as it sounded like he was screaming. I didn't know what to do. If I was going to call off work, it would have to be now. If Dad had been showing signs of a mental breakdown, I would have thought someone from Sunnyside would have called me, but in the end, I decided to go to work and stop by to see Dad afterwards.

The whole day, I felt like an awful son. I knew Dad was having a hard time with the transition, and even the social worker from the hospital told us that it would take time. I checked my phone a few times, and no messages from Dad and no messages from Sunnyside. My guess was that Dad had probably come to his senses. I'd see him later anyway to hear all about it. So I left work, and I arrived at Sunnyside around,

dinner time. I went to Dad's room, room 215. But Dad wasn't there. In fact, his whole apartment had been cleaned out, furniture and all. I went to the dining room, and he wasn't there either. At this point, my heart was beginning to pound in my chest. I went to the nurses station by dad's room, and I inquired if he had been moved to another room. The nurse on duty smiled and said she didn't know who I was talking about. I demanded to see my father, and I was pounding my clenched fist on the desk counter. And then I heard a voice from behind me.

I recognized it as Susan's, the woman that we had met on our initial arrival. I hadn't even heard her walk up behind me. And she smiled at me with those pearly whites, wearing the same exact outfit as before. gray skirt and gray jacket. Hello, John. Wonderful to see you again. Can I help you with something? Where the fuck is my dad? I got a voicemail from him last night. He sounded absolutely terrified,

and now it's like he's vanished. Where is he? I stepped towards her as I noticed several of the faculty's employees had already begun to step towards me, encircling me, in fact. Come with me, John. I'll show you where your dad is. We made our way towards the main dining room where dad usually ate all of his meals. Susan entered first and then beckoned me in. The other staff were still following us, like they had all stopped working for this moment. The tables were mostly filled with a few random seats empty. So where is he? I swear to God, a few people have done something to him, I'll... I was interrupted by...

Susan, who had walked over to one of the food cards, picked up a plate, and brought it back to me. She held it up to me. It looked like roast beef with some various vegetables. Okay, so what? I'm going to ask you one more time before I call the cops. Here is your dad. Susan held the plate higher up to her face, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Smells so delicious My mind had to catch up with what she was indicated No, that's

That's impossible You couldn't have That's murder Oh but we had to John Your dad was a problem for us He chose not to join us So we had to take certain measures I stood there for what seemed like an hour

staring at the plate of steaming meat, the plate now sitting down on a table. The chunk of meat was still bleeding. I then looked back at Susan, at all of them. I wished I could forget what I saw next. All the residents sitting in the dining room stood up at once from their tables, pushed their chairs in, and walked towards us. In a moment, I was completely surrounded. Susan turned to one of the other workers and said two words.

Show him. The worker lifted up her shirt to reveal her bare stomach and what looked like something pulsating just beneath the skin's surface. It looked like a large mass trying to push its way through to the surface. I then watched in stunned silence as the mass traveled up her chest and into her neck, causing it to bulge and retract. My God, you're not human. All of them began to twist their bodies in sickly and disturbing ways.

Their skin stretching with masses pushing up just below the surface. All except Susan. She just continued to stare and smile at me intently. You... You are monsters. That was right. You killed the other guy too, didn't you? Did you eat him? Oh, Bill. Yes, well, he was also a problem. He tasted more like what you would call pork, though. Not our first choice of meat. I couldn't take it anymore. This wasn't happening. I watched as Susan raised her hand, and the withering crowd snapped back to human form.

The residents returned to their seats and began to devour their meals greedily. They were eating what was left of my dad. I hit my end and everything went black. I woke up in my home, having no clue how I had gotten there. I immediately found my phone next to me and was preparing to dial 911 when I found a piece of paper next to the phone. There was a note written. Dear John, I'm sorry you had to see all of that last night. We hadn't planned on revealing ourselves yet to your people.

And yes, just in case you're wondering, it was all real. We are real. Don't waste your time calling the authorities. We have infiltrated and watched. Ready in case any more, problems should arise. Except what happened and move on. We cannot be stopped. Our takeover cannot be stopped.

Sincerely, Susan, director of Sunnyside Retirement Center, better than living at home. These things are here, and I don't know how many there are or where they all are. How can I live with myself knowing that innocent people are being slaughtered or worse and not do anything about it? It gets worse, though. I looked up Sunnyside Retirement Center online this morning, just out of morbid curiosity, I guess. There's not just one of them. They're a nationwide company. Over 500 locations in the U.S. already, and many more are being planned soon.

And they're all taking applications for new residents. God help us all. If you've ever ventured into one of those old antique stores cluttered with knickknacks and all sorts of items from various eras and places, you may wonder where they all come from. Well, according to author C. M. Scandrith, one such shop knows a lot about the items they sell, especially the previous owners of the items. Performing this tale are Erica Sanderson and Nicole Doolin. So before you buy anything, consider this story fair warning when you enter a forgotten curio shop. There are forgotten places in every city. They decay quietly, buried beneath newer buildings.

Layers of less forgotten places pile up on top of them, like the striations in some prehistoric canyon. But the colors of this history are not limestone white and clay orange. These are concrete gray and the rich. browns of old wood. A few of these abandoned places can still be found by the tenacious and the lost. They wait patiently behind swollen doorways and down ill-used stairs littered with middens of brittle rat droppings. Some can't be accessed at all. The eyes of their windows gaze only into dirt and darkness, and once bright paint trembles to dust as trucks and cars rumble overhead. Modern vibrations quickly hasten the entropy of years. Some suffocate when an earthquake cracks the last

support shoring up a mouldering mausoleum. Concrete and dirt thunders in, eager to fill the dusty void and mill the antique carpentry to splinters. Others drown when a water main develops a leak, filling the underground void with water one slow drip at a time. All things inside swell and rot, their sodden fibres becoming a uniform grey slurry at the bottom of a secret urban lake. But some places survive. Although they are mostly forgotten, the meticulous care with which they were built ensures that they persist. Or perhaps they are loaned an enduring spirit by their purpose or what they contain. Once in a while, someone will stumble across one of those places without having any idea what it is.

This is a story about such a place. Some cities should never have been built. The place where I live is a case study. The original tiny settlement, built in a hill-bound harbour, expanded too fast with the influx of population in its infancy. Like many overfed toddlers, it grew into a fat, sprawling adult. The messy metropolis drapes itself over the steep hills, demanding and devouring more inhospitable lands.

every year. Consequently, roads are too narrow, houses the same, their piles and supports exposed and roar from erosion as constant sea storms batter the soil into salty mud. Having lived here all my life, this seemed perfectly normal until I'd chance to visit a land-bound city, all flat and geometric, the streets straighter than arrows, neatly laid out like the grids in a mathematics book. To outsiders, my city seems needlessly convoluted, with streets stacked above one another, hidden tunnels and scribbly wooden bridges connecting otherwise disparate terraces together. The harboside central city is even worse. Hundreds of years of accumulated architecture have been colonised by newly minted towers of glass and steel,

like so many modern parasites. It's the sort of place where anyone can get lost. Even people who are born here can't resist the occasional wrong turn just to see where that weird little road they've never been down might lead them. I did that a lot. Walking in no particular direction through the twisting, mazy streets just to see where I would end up. And that's precisely how I managed to stumble upon the curio shop.

I'd seen the entrance many times, but I'd never felt the urge to explore. It was a brick-arched alley, narrow and deep. dingy with no signage and no indication that anything interesting lay within. I don't know why that familiar arch piqued my curiosity on that particular day, but I found myself walking beneath it, navigating the cracked paving stones of an alley that curled beneath buildings and ended in a flight of graffitied concrete stairs.

They led up and down, both directions littered with faded city garbage. Down the stairs, I found nothing but a cave in of rubble and scum-com. water. But upwards, the steps opened onto another brick alley, carpeted with grey-green lichens and spongy bolluses of moss. My shoes were sodden when I found the ancient arcade at the very end. It must have been glorious, once upon a time, a not quite Victorian wonder of lead lights and timber. Diamond panes of red and yellow glass were interspersed with wrought iron and glazed tiles. But now the tiles were cracked and broken. The clever mosaics smashed beyond recognition. The glass was equal parts whole and shattered, mold-rimmed fragments of it crunching beneath my feet.

It was a sort of mezzanine arcade, clearly built to show off a lower level, which must have been a pretty space, centred around a painted fountain and an indoor garden. No water gushed from the flaking stone snout of the bottlenose dolphins in the same. center of the water feature now, and the thick sludge accumulated in the basin below them barely counted as water, grown green with algae. Somewhere in the overgrown moistness of ferns and grass around the fountain, a frog registered its displeasure at my echoing footsteps, then fell silent. Most of the shops were empty or boarded up. One was piled to the roof with broken furniture, sagging upholstery long succumbed to fungus and time, strips of haberdashery and, and

hanging like flayed flesh from wooden bones. But at the end of the arcade stood a single, impossible, pristine store. Its stained glass intact and the wood shining with linseed. Yellow and orange light glowed in windows stacked with an assortment of useful and unnameable junk. Some of the items looked like they predated my grandparents. Above the door, in a curling font so old I'd never seen anything like it before, was painted, A forgotten curio shop.

Was this all some sort of elaborate theatrical setup for a boutique so hipster no one was supposed to know where it was? I wasn't sure. But certainly this place wasn't easy to find, and business must not be very good. Then again, I didn't imagine the rent was very high, if the shop owner paid any rent at all. So perhaps that was how this strange little shop stayed afloat.

A brass bell tinkled. as I opened the door, the bright sound charmingly anachronistic. I glanced up at it. One side of the tiny instrument was badly dented, as if it had survived many, many years of use. If this was a hipster set up, the attention to detail was astonishing. Beyond ranks of shelves cluttered with old flotsam was a mullion counter, and behind it sat a middle-aged woman. She was smartly dressed, but her garments belonged to another era. A peacock feather tucked into the crinoline brim of her hat bobbed jauntily as she inclined her head towards the sound of the bell. Welcome. A smile claimed her face with light switch alacrity. To a forgotten Curio shop.

The shop wasn't big, but every nook was densely packed. There were so many things crowded cheek by jowl I could barely register what they all were, even when I did recognise them. Some of them were familiar from history books, some from illustrated fairy tales, iron heating pans for beds, different styles of Indian hookers, and an impressive array of enameled snuff-boxes, rich with cloisonae. The glass-beed eyes of taxidermid animals regarded me, frozen snarls and rictus faces leering through piles of old books and brass pots. I breathed musty sourness, faded perfumes, and the tan. of old metal. Can I help you with anything? Her accent was pleasantly transatlantic,

like an old movie or radio stars. I wondered how long she'd spent practicing it. Just looking, thanks. That's an Invenous cape, you know. Real bargain for ten pound. Belonged to a murdered banker. Her eyes were slightly too small and far too bright for the topic.

Wife did him in with a flat iron. which is over in the houseware section. Still get the blood stains on it and all. You're pulling my leg. I squeezed between shells of apoplectic-looking porcelain animals and painted pewter mugs. Oh, I could be. She gave me a gummy grin,

then winked like a music hall bawdy. Or perhaps everything here really does have a story behind it, and you just need to suspend disbelief a little to see it. So that was what this place was all about. The whole set up was carefully curated chicanery to make you feel like you'd found something special that you'd stumbled upon a nearly mystical place forgotten by time. Now I'd figured out the mystery.

The shop seemed tawdry and overdone, the stacks of old things hackneyed and silly, just piles of junk with exorbitant price tags. And yet, I still wanted something from the shop. Whenever I went on my random excursions through the city, I liked to collect little keepsakes. Sometimes it was the skeleton of a leaf from an overgrown cemetery. Other times it was a pleasingly smooth pebble, or an oddly shaped fragment of driftwood, wearing the contours of a tiny dragon's skull.

Some tarnished jewellery hung from the antlers of a stag. Each piece carefully hooked over the spreading times. None of the earrings matched. Each had lost a twin somewhere in its journey through people's lives, and I felt an odd pang of sadness for these old things. Not only had each lost its mate, but they had been abandoned by those who had once cherished them. From the crown time dangled a pearl earring,

its silver chasing and hooked wire almost black with age and neglect. It was quite large, far larger than a conventional pearl, and warped its shape more lozinge than severe. On a closer inspection, I could see the crack that ran from the base to the top, a zigzag hairline of black that seemed a testament to how unloved it had become. But the tiny paper tag tied to it said that it was only two pounds. So I lifted it off the antlers and took it to the counter, the mother of pearl warm in my palm.

What's the story behind this one then? I was casual, careful not to let my jaded thoughts colour my voice. Oh, this is a pretty one. The woman reached under the counter for some rose-tinted tissue paper. It belonged to a courtesan who frequented the palaces of King George III. Whilst she was not as lovely as her peers, her charm and wit were without parallel. Thus she swindled the fortunes out of dozens of nobleman. I like her already.

I smiled despite myself. The keen eyes of the proprietor held mine for a moment. I think it's entirely mutual. That's why her earring chose you. Pleasant tingles crawled across my scalp as I watched the woman's deft hands wrap the object, then place it in a tiny box. Here you go, miss. That'll be two pound. Strangely thrilled by the whole experience, I handed over a fiver and told her to keep the change. As I left the shop, my fingers wiggled an uncharacteristic little wave,

and I heard myself promised the woman that I'd visit again sometime soon. The earring matched none of the jewelry I owned, so instead of hooking it through my ear, I twisted the silver wire around a necklace chain and let it hang as a pendant. Although I didn't believe the stories of the Curio Shop's owner, my mind wandered in those spare moments between work and responsibility, imagining the remarkable woman my new Borbel purportedly belonged to.

In my mind's eye, she was a short thing, with hips wide enough to be embarrassing and a pop belly squashed flat by layers of clever corsetry. Just as the saleswoman had said, she wasn't beautiful in the slightest, possessing none of the aesthetic qualities or modern sensibilities would deem conventionally attractive. But her face was animated, cheerful, and stamped with a lively wit that could be read in every tilt of her two plump lips and every quirk of her thick eyebrows. I envisaged her talking to rich men sporting elaborate pre-Victorian costumes, her coal-lined liquid brown eyes pulling them under her spell like the Ruzalka of Slavic folklore. As I went about my day-to-day business, I let her imagined presence whisper through my thoughts,

and I began to play a game with myself, or I would try to react and respond to people as though I were the mysterious courtier. To my surprise, I was actually quite good at play. playing the part. Oh, I didn't entrap men and take their money like she had. Of course I didn't. But as I grew enamoured with the role I was playing, as her honey words drizzled from my lips more and more often, I found myself the object of a lot of male attention. After I took home the third suitor in as many days, after we made love like frenzied teenagers, I started to wonder about my sudden change of romantic fortune. Was the earring to blame? Or was this all just me?

Whatever the case, it was time to pay another visit to the Curio shop. I was almost surprised that it was still in the same dilapidated arcade, that the homely golden glow of light still spilled from those cluttered display windows. I think I had almost expected it to have disappeared, or that I had imagined the whole thing, and that I would be met with nothing but a dark, smelly alley. smiling to myself at the lively tinkle of the brass bell, I entered the shop and greeted the proprietor with all the newfound warmth of my adopted persona.

You're enjoying it then? She nodded at the pearl around my neck. I had the good grace to blush, bought out in my self-indulgent roleplay. It's fine love they all like to come out and play, those that own them. It's not to be ashamed of. I wanted to ask her if it was a little.

real. If some fragment of the souls of the owners truly persisted in their lost possessions, or if this was all part of her schick, the mysterious forgotten curio shop that sold nearly magical items. But I couldn't find the words, even with my new gift of the gab. Trying not to embarrass myself further, I held my tongue and quietly browse the overstocked shells for a while. May I ask what this is, and to whom did it belong? Ah, that may that may dear is a silver chafing dish, formerly owned by one of the finest cooks in London. Even during the leanest of times, she always served marvellous meals in it, notably filled with the most succulent meats. As her artfully accented words washed over me, I felt those same pleasant

tingles creep from the nape of my neck to the top of my head, where they spread and danced like warming, pretty wildfire. I'll take it. I lifted it carefully from where it rest. atop a teetering pile of junk. You haven't even looked at the price, love. In that instant, I was all cortisans, confident and charming. There is no need to, madame. This object was meant to be with me. Saying nothing, she wrapped the tarnished dish in the same rose-tinted tissue,

her efficient hands and the whispery crumple of paper amplifying that orgasmic feeling radiating from my scalp. I don't even remembered what I paid for it. I barely recall leaving the arcade. The brown paper bag clutched to my chest like a precious child. Even though the dish stood crooked, one leg shorter than the others, everything I made in it tasted divine. If I broiled even plain carrots in its inner dish, they melted in the mouth,

their sweetness and most pleasant flavour notes amplified to the perfect culinary pitch. The cook herself lingered in my mind. her massive, homely presence hovering behind me as I salted and spiced different dishes. Disapproving frowns let me know that I shouldn't use this or that ingredient. And silent laughs that set her impressive jowls wobbling told me when I was on the right track. The first party at my house was a roaring success. Between the fantastic food and my newfound socialite races, the last guest didn't leave until well after midnight, asking when would I host again?

and could they get the recipe for that incredible salmon souffle? But after a few weeks of constant parties, each culminating in an all-night fucking with the most eligible male and sometimes female guests, I was utterly exhausted. Yet I wasn't ready to let it go, and neither were my two skullmates, the cortisans and the cook. I just needed something to pick me up,

to give me the pep and stamina of a 20-year-old athlete instead of the chubby, 30-something office worker I really was. I barely remember making the journey to the curio shop, nor did I register the jolly tinkle of the bell on the door this time. I must have looked haggard, even though I was dressed as smartly as I'd ever been. My thoughts rose sluggishly through a murky haze of fatigue, always a step behind events as they transpired.

You look like you need a little vim and vigor in your life. The canny proprietess took me by the hand and led me to a corner of the shop I'd yet to browse. Let's see what we can do for you. In this nook, all manner of men's accruuments were gathered and displayed, from stained silk bow ties to antique gorgettes on brass chains greened with verdigris. My tired eyes roved over the assortment, not quite processing why I was here and what I could possibly want with such masculine objects. I think you'll like this one, my lovely.

Yes, I think I will. She closed my shaking hands around a silver letter opener, much worse for wear. Its point snapped off, and the Naker handle cracked in two places. He was a famous pugilist, the feather who owned it. She led me to the counter. A bare-knackle champion who fought round after round without tiring. He never lost a bout. I already knew that because he was already there, watching money change hands, far too much money for a useless old letter opener.

He was a massive, ropey bear of a fellow, nose so broken it was nearly flat, yet his curling, waxed moustache was perked and jaunty, at odds with his otherwise thuggish appearance. As I left the shop, I could almost feel those huge sunken knuckled hands kneading the fatigue and tension out of my shoulders. My step was already lighter, and my spirit freshened by the time I reached the street. He was always there, the massive boxer, his indomitable will propping up mine whenever I faltered. I kept the letter opener tucked into the top of my garter, the latter and affectation from the courtesan, and the cool silver pressed against my flesh was an energizing balm. The trio of personalities worked perfectly together, like a well-oiled engine-gerned. crew serving some elaborate chattering machine from a previous era. Each of them played a vital part

in keeping it all running, leaving me with little to do but observe and enjoy. But such elaborate engagements didn't come cheaply, and I wasn't a wealthy woman. When my bank account was finally reduced to a string of zeros, the courtesan shushed my panicked cries and had me lift my mattress. Beneath it was a thick layer of banknotes, the money she'd been taking from all the money she'd been taking from the eligible suitors. All willing gifts befitting a lady, she assured me. I didn't question whether I believed her or not. Men no longer graced my bed, however, but the pugilist would have no truck with any of that. Women only, he insisted, and he came to dominate all bedroom activities, while I eagerly drank the oceans of pleasure he drenched me with. When the chokings and beatings

started, I didn't care. This was his time. and he could do with it what he pleased. Besides, all the women consented to it, with the slippery words of the cortisans in their ears encouraging and cajoling them. Left free to roam my own thoughts, I found I could explore theirs too. My brain felt like a boarding house, each of them taking up residence in a particular room,

filling those spaces with memories of times lost to history. I danced complicated Pavans in the court of King George, and I walked the streets of Victorian London, walking pies of strange, tender meats. Best of all was reliving the glory days of the pugilist. I felt the fists of stevedores and sailors break upon my iron jaw, watched my own sledgehammer hands, crushed their noses and cheekbones, smelled the blood and sawdust, and heard the animal screams of the crowd. But I delved further than I should have.

Murder was far easier in those times. before forensics and detectives. Nobody cared much if some villain's daughter was found strangled in a ditch, or if some nobleman's mistress and ill-gotten child perished from another mysterious form of consumption. The courtesan's first poisoning had been the wife of a minor merchant, not an enemy, simply someone who was in the way of her plans. As the pages of her memories turned, they grew progressively blacker. Whole chapters of callous murders no longer.

discriminating between women and children. There were all just obstacles between her and her burgeoning wealth. I fled then into the warm, homely memories of the cook, redolent with the comforting aromas of fresh baked bread and rich spice stews. She was a helper of women, this one. A feminist, well before such a word existed, her skills extending beyond the kitchen and into counselling and minor surgeries. Women knocked on her door during the darkest hours of night, their bellies swollen with illegitimate airs,

and she would take the shame out of them, allowing them to live a life free of the stigma of bastard babies. I watched her, reverently carry the blooded remains of a 20-week fetus away from its exhausted mother, who lay blissfully asleep on a crimson-stained pallet in the Cook's scullery.

I knew what she was about to do before it happened, and I pleaded with her. with the woman's memory not to do it, to change history, to leave it at the point where she had helped instead of committing the final depraved act in her arsenal. But the past cannot be changed. And so, into the dish the dead child went, the seething water parting London's tenderest meat from friable nascent bones, a skeleton that would never thrive and strengthen on its mother's milk. I fled then, down the corridors of my mind, away from the twin evil, I had so readily invited into me.

I ran back towards my own memories, strangely distant, mothballed and dusty in the lower recesses of my head. The pugilist stopped me, his broad, tattooed chest, filling the narrow passage and his jackhammer fist knocking me off my feet. He bore me over one mighty shoulder,

into his own chamber of horrors, piled haphazardly with the bruised-necked corpses of girls and women. You knew! The resonance of his voice was a vibration in my bowels. You knew from the start I was a killer. No. No. But that was a lie.

The Curio Shop seemed impossible to find this time. The curling confused streets of my city even more misleading than normal. As I walked, finding dead end after dead end, they fought for control of me, the trio in my head. The pugilist battered my synapses with his powerful knuckles, while the cortisand drizzled deception over my bruised brain, sticky and sweet as a Russian honeycake layered with lies. But the cook, for all her own evils,

did not see herself as the others did. For her, there had been no complicit embrace of darkness. In her own mind, she was still protected by a purity of purpose. All along, she had only been helping other ones, women to escape from the tyranny of the opposite sex. And if the hideous conclusion she had wrought from that brought some personal gain, well, that simply allowed her more resources to help her poor unfortunates. And so it was that she placed herself between my thoughts and theirs, her corpulent bulk absorbing the hammering blows of the fighter, and her cavernous mouth

shouting down the lies. The entrance to the alley was suddenly there, a gaping brick vaulted. A gaping brick void, and I ran down it before it could disappear. I ran up the graffitied stairs, through the second moss-carpeted alley, and stumbled out into the dimly lit arcade. The lambered glow of the curio-shop window was as welcome as a candle in a moorland hut guiding the lost traveller home. As the brass bell tinkled, the clamour in my head subsided, and all three intruders fell silent. I don't take back items. An unfamiliar heartiness. her voice. But I can sell you another,

something which will help you control them. No, I'll not buy any more of your cursed junk. Then enjoy what remains of your wretched new life. Best of luck staying their killer instincts. Sapped of the pugilist's indomitable energy. My knees and hands trembled, weak with exhaustion. Perhaps they've killed here already, or should I say, Perhaps you have.

How many strangled girls are hidden beneath your bed. How many wives have died of mysterious ailments after you finished with their husbands? She was close enough now that I could smell her breath. Heavy with coffee and cinnamon. And something rank and old. How many babies have you boiled? Yanking the necklace off, I held it at her. It struck her cheek, then fell to the floor.

Oh, no, you can't get rid of them like that. Those people are part of you now. The shop was spinning around me, leering animal heads, flashes of old brass, sparkling smeared trails of coloured glass and shiny tat. I struggled to steady myself. Then how? Just tell me how. Reaching inside the front pocket of her neatly tailored dress,

She pulled out a long silver chain From which dangled a set of well-polished keys The shop is for sale Should you wish to buy it? I stared at her, Dizzy, not comprehending as she jingled the keys The sound uncannily similar to the pretty chime of the bell. And the owner of the shop cannot be controlled by the objects.

I licked my dry lips. With the familiar eloquence of the cortisan lost, My voice sounded wobbly and pathetic. What, what will it cost me? Everything. Everything that is yours. She walked out of the shop, wearing my clothes, my face, and my flesh. She was awkward in them still, but everything that had been mine,

everything that had been me, from the birthmark on my wrist to the memories of my fifth birthday, were now hers. She would adjust quickly, and I knew she would thrive, finally freed from her imprisonment. And in turn, everything that was hers is now mine. There are thousands of items in the shop. And as my old memories fade and wither, hers continue to blossom, spalling their secrets and stories into me. Thus I have embraced my role, or it has embraced me, as the new owner of this place, this forgotten Curio shop. And I'm destined to remain here, until some poor sap chances upon the brick archway and is finally ensnared.

And so another episode has drawn to a close and our nightmares dissolve into the ether. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length burst. 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 exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our dark tales will envelop you in a nightmarish, swirling fog. This audio production is copyright 2017 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

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