The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E22

Episode Date: October 8, 2017

It's episode 22 of Season 9. On this week's show we have five tales about savage simians, psychotic stalkers, and sleepless students. "The Silent Witness"‡ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Mike DelGaudio & Eden & Jesse Cornett & Erin Lillis & Alexis Bristowe & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:04:00) "Atonement for Water"‡ written by Jesse Rose and performed by David Ault & Andy Cresswell & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:20:40) "His Horoscope Said He'd Be Coming Home"† written by Olivia White and performed by Jessica McEvoy & Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 00:45:30) "The Sleep Debt"¤ written by Luke Hoehn and performed by Jesse Cornett & Kyle Akers & Dan Zappulla & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 01:12:00) "Arkansas Sleep Experiment"† written by Jared Roberts and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Peter Lewis & Atticus Jackson & Mick Wingert. (Story starts around 01:47:20) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about Mick Wingert   Click here to learn more about the "Creepy" podcast   Click here to learn more about The White Vault podcast   Click here to learn more about The Death of Dr. John Parker podcast   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about Jesse Rose   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Click here to learn more about Luke Hoehn   Click here to learn more about Jared Roberts   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Sleep Debt" 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 five tales about savage, Simeons, psychotic stalkers, and sleepless students. I'd like to introduce a new voice actor joining us. His name is Mick Wingert, and there's a very good chance you've heard Mick's voice already in one of its many different forms. Mick is known for his voiceover work in video games, movies, and TV shows. He's performed in such video games as Mass Effect 2, Titanfall 2, and he'll be starring in the upcoming Dead Island 2. We're thrilled that Mick is sharing his talented voice with us. You can hear him on this episode's final story. Welcome to the show, Mick. Great to have you with us.

And October certainly is the month to launch new podcasts. There are three shows featuring some of our friends and many of our voice actors. Let's start with a show I've mentioned before. The creepy podcast from Small Town Horrors John Grills is currently in its 31 days of horror schedule. He's posting an episode every day in October combining classic creepypastas and listener submissions. It's a great way to get into the Halloween spirit, so check out the podcast simply called Creepy. And the first new podcast I want to share is called The White Vault. Explore the far reaches of the world's horrors in this frightening audio drama. It follows the collected records of a repair team sent to a frozen wasteland to

unravel what lies waiting in the ice below. You'll recognize some of the voices in this one from the same people who brought you the Liberty Critical Research Science Fiction podcast. Be sure to open the White Vault. And finally, launching on October 9th is the new audio drama podcast from our very own Dan Zepula. It's called The Death of Dr. John Parker, and it's about psychiatrist and local celebrity Dr. John Parker, who was found dead in his office. His death was ruled an apparent suicide, but his son-in-law, Dan Zapula, doesn't buy it. Dan thinks he was murdered, and he's out to prove it. Featuring many voice actors from No Sleep, you'll definitely want to join the journey through Cape Cod as they search for the ultimate truth behind the death of Dr. John Parker.

So that's a lot of very talented voice actors and writers for you to fill your podcasts app. And if you're looking for five terrifying tales to get you started, well, wait no longer. It's time to kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a court transcriber who is writing down the spoken testimony surrounding the alleged physical abuse of a daughter by her parents. But as we learn from author S.H. Cooper, it sounds like someone else is in. involved in the audio, someone who shouldn't be heard at all. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Mike Delgadoo, Eden, Jesse Cornett, Aaron Lillis, Alexis Bristow, and Jeff Clement.

So be sure to get everyone's testimony, even if they're the silent witness. Cassandra's case came to me in a discreet padded envelope delivered right to my door. I had been expecting it for days after I got a call from Detective Smitty, requesting my transcription services. A brief note had been included, telling me that Smitty, a 10-year-old girl, and her court-appointed caregiver were present, that it was a child abuse case

and that they needed a copy of my transcription by the end of the week. Nothing really out of the ordinary when it came to my police files. I had been freelancing for the local PD and state agencies for so long that they didn't feel it necessary to give me any more guidance or instruction than that.

I plugged in the U.S. USB stick containing the interview's audio recording and opened up my software. It was a little over 45 minutes, fairly short, but unsurprising when a kid was involved, and I positioned my hands over my keyboard and my foot over the pedal that allowed me to start, pause, and rewind the software. I allowed myself a moment, just one, to brace for whatever I was about to hear. Child abuse cases, especially when told directly by the victims, were always the hardest. It started out the same as all the others, with the detective introducing himself, the case number, the date and time, and those present.

Smitty had a rock, steady, precise way of speaking that I greatly appreciated while I typed up his words. He asked the caregiver Matilda Sanchez to recite her agency's case number and to state her full name and position for the record. After she had done so, his attention turned to the little girl. Sweetheart. I was always impressed with how quickly he could switch. between cop and fatherly figure. The response that followed was mumbled and unintelligible, and Smitty asked her to repeat it.

Cassandra Petorski. Her voice was tiny and afraid, and I imagined her to look very much like she sounded, nervous and tense and small. Did Miss Matilda tell you why you're here? Answer out loud. Yes. Cassandra answered just loud enough

for the recording to pick up. It was just about the last thing she said during the entire interview. Detective Smitty asked her about her daddy and mummy, about her home life, about the bruises that the teachers had noticed, but every question was followed by a long silence. After the first 20 minutes or so,

I just started to relax my hands and give my fingers a break during those stretches, but I still listen carefully in case she decided to say anything. Throughout the recording, I had noticed and tried to ignore an incessant little background hum in those silences. assuming it was just the microphone picking up a fan or something.

As the interview went on, however, I was finding it harder to brush it off. It wasn't that it was becoming louder, it was something else, something that it took me a few rewinds to realize. Can you tell us about the black eye you had last week? How'd you get that? I cranked up the volume during Cassandra's silence and pressed my headset down firmly over my ears, straining to listen.

That background noise continued but turned up so high, I could finally begin to make it out. It wasn't a hum I was hearing. It was someone breathing. It could have been Cassandra, I guessed. But there was a subtle guttural quality that didn't seem to match up with the rabbit-like voice I'd heard before.

This type of breathing didn't sound scared. It sounded riled. Tilda then, I told myself, or even Smitty. No doubt they'd been getting frustrated with the lack of answers. But it continued even when either of them were speaking. It was just a single word, whispered quickly between breaths and then lost beneath Smitty's voice, but I jumped when I heard it. I paused the recording and gave myself a good shake.

I was being ridiculous. That wasn't breathing. And if it was, it had to belong to one of the three people in the room. Hell, little Cassandra had bad asthma and always sounded like a chain smoker for all I knew. And tell? I seriously doubted I'd heard that at all. It was just my subconscious urging the poor child to open up. I rewound the recording a bit, just after the tell would have been, stomped on the play button on my foot pedal and started typing again.

I only had about 15 minutes left to transcribe, and then I could forget about it. Detective Smitty was as patient as ever, asking his questions and giving Cassandra some time to answer, even when it was clear she wouldn't. Matilda tried to help to coax the little girl to talk every so often, but it never worked. All the while, that sound continued in the background, unacknowledged by anyone in the room. It's about your parents, Cassandra? Word again, whispered in low. And then the sound that I was so sure wasn't breathing became a deep-throated growl that almost made me knock my headset off. A man's voice shouted suddenly into my ears.

Bad girl! I was a woman now screeching angrily. The voices rose in a whirlwind, back and forth, screaming obscenities and insult so loudly that the interview was almost drowned out completely. Still, the detective carried on with his questions like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. And then Cassandra started to cry. Immediately the voices and the growling and the breathing stopped, until the only thing on the recording was the sounds of the detective and the caregiver, trying to comfort the little girl. The interview came to a very quick end. I took my headset off and tossed it onto my keyboard,

trying to shake off the chill that had worked its way at my body like a constricting snake. I tried to reason away everything that I'd heard. The microphone could have picked up a fight from another room. The growling was somehow from a nearby K-9 unit. The breathing really was just one of the three people present. But they all fell flat. I called the station and asked for Smitty. Did you listen to the recording before you sent it?

He said it was fine? Okay, Elle. Yeah, there was just some background noise. Hey, do you think I could check out the video of the interview? I want to match up some audio I wasn't sure on. When do you want to come by? Is now okay? I'll let the guys know to expect you.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for, even as I was sitting down in the cramped audiovisual office at the precinct. confirmation that I wasn't going crazy, perhaps. The video did little to calm that concern. It featured exactly zero weird breathing or inexplicable voices. In it, Cassandra sat at a table between Smitty and Matilda while they questioned her. Her attention, though, was on the small-stuffed monkey in her lap. She was petting it with increasing agitation.

Her eyes cast downwards and fixed on the monkey. As the interview wore on, I noticed she kept putting a hand over the monkey's mouth and shaking her head slightly. Subtle movements that seemed in line with the rest of her fidgety behavior. The word tell echoed in the back of my mind as I watched her pinch its mouth between her thumb and forefinger. I started talking to myself out loud in my car on my way home. That's just confirmation buyers or something.

I thought I heard stuff on the recording, so I was looking for weird stuff in the video. I was just a kid playing with her stuffed animal. That was it. I'm letting these cases get to me. I just need a fucking vacation. I wasn't about to start believing in talking stuffed monkeys, and I definitely wasn't going to tell anyone about it. When I got home, I saved my transcription to the USB stick and immediately mailed it back to Smitty. It was supposed to be the last I heard of Cassandra in her case. And then I received the request to act as court reporter for the trial of Mr. and Mrs. Stan Vatorski. I would have refused. I wanted to.

A freelance work is a fickle mistress, and turning down a job when you had availability was unwise at best. My need for a steady income outweighed my desire to avoid a child's toy. Cassandra and her monkey were present for the trial, sitting just behind the prosecutor's table in the gallery. She was waxy and pale and miserable. I did my best not to look at her while I set up my equipment. A little steno machine and earphones that were fed by the microphones placed around the courtroom. The trial got underway and I was so focused on my work

that any trepidation I'd had melted away. The prosecutors never able to get Cassandra to tell her side presented a case built entirely on physical evidence. They had photos and medical reports and testimonials from those close to the family. The Votorskis were painted as short-tempered and cold towards their daughter. Witnesses said they'd seen Stan Dragha's daughter

roughly around the yard, that they'd frequently heard yelling and that Cassandra always seemed to have fresh bruises that she tried to cover up. One neighbor even said they'd heard Camilla, Cassandra's mom, threatened to kill her. It seemed like an easy case right up until the defense team took over. The Vittorskis were a wealthy couple, and they'd spared no expense in hiring some of the slimyest attorneys I'd ever seen. They were tenacious bulldogs tearing apart witnesses and attacking credibility.

Cassandra wasn't a victim. She was a strong-willed child who refused to listen and was constantly getting into trouble. She loved nothing more than pushing her parents' buttons and would go so far as to hurt herself to guide her outside sympathy. My skin actually started to crawl when her dad took the stand in his own defense and dabbed dramatically at the corner of his eye with a tissue. Just looking at him, I doubted he even knew how to cry. She's my little girl.

Of course I love her. His voice filled my earphones and my finger stopped working for a second. I knew that voice. I recognized it. It was the man's voice I'd heard shouting over the recording. I knew that voice, too, whispered and quiet as it was. No one else seemed to have heard it. No one except for the little girl in the front row

who was shaking her head and looking down at the stuffed monkey in her lap. He continued on about Cassandra's misdeeds that led them to having to discipline her, and after each new excuse, I'd hear it again, Unlike on the recording where it had sounded urgent and agitated, the voice now sounded angry. It was only getting louder. I tried to keep up with Mr. Vittorski. I tried not to let that inexplicable growl distract me,

but it was getting harder every moment. Mr. Vittorski would speak and it would scream liar. But nobody other than me or Cassandra reacted. Nobody heard it. I don't know why she does these things to herself. Mr. Vitorsky's voice was drowned out until my earphones crackled with sharp feedback. I gasped despite myself and tore them off. The court had gone quiet around me and it felt as if every pair of eyes were on me.

The judge was looking down from the bench, one brow raised and I smiled weakly in apology. Sorry, Your Honor, technical difficulties. In the brief recess that followed, I saw Cassandra slip out of the courtroom with Matilda. she'd left the monkey sitting in her place. I left one of my ears uncovered when the trial resumed. Mr. Vitorsky finished up his testimony rather quickly, and it was obvious that serious doubt had been sewn in the jury, putting Cassandra's case at risk of being thrown out.

The whole time that accusing vicious voice was silent. Maybe it hadn't been the monkey at all, I thought, while the defense prepared for the next witness. Maybe it had been Cassandra herself. Both options seemed equally looted. and I wondered how could I be sitting in a courtroom thinking about such fanciful nonsense. Children and stuffed animals didn't project phantom voices. I was a rational, logical adult I knew better than that.

And why was I hearing the word die being whispered over and over into the ear, covered by my earphone? The defense attorney had stopped talking mid-sentence. The voice continued to whisper low and steady. The defense attorney turned and walked back to the table with the Vittorski's in the rest of the defense team were seated. The judge asked what he was doing. Just a moment, your own. The voice and my earphone didn't rise in volume, didn't sound gleeful or angry. It only sounded determined. The defense attorney plucked a pen from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He uncapped the tip and let the cap fall to the floor. Before anyone realized what he was doing,

the attorney had leapt upon Mr. Vittorski, knocking both of them to the floor. His arm rose and fell, plunging the pen into his client's throat over and over again until his hand was dripping red. Security were charging across the room, trying to get to him. Mrs. Vittorski was screaming and flailing. Everyone was out of their seats and running for the door. The second defense attorney seated beside Mrs. Vittorski,

took her by the arm and she turned to him. She was still screaming when he drove his own pen into her eye. Chaos had broken out all around me. The judge was trying and failing to restore some semblance of order while the bailiffs pinned the two very confused-looking attorneys to the ground. Blood was pooling beneath them. The Fittorskys were silent now, both very still except for the occasional twitch of a limb. Through it all, my gaze was drawn back to the little stuffed monkey

sitting alone and upright in a chair. And I would swear that his black-button eyes were fixed. on me. I doubt I'll hear such a note of satisfaction ever again. The human brain is a marvelous yet poorly understood organ. Author Jesse Rose shares a tale about a man who experienced some trauma to his brain, and as a result, he isn't quite the same man, or men he was. Performing this tale are David Alt, Andy Cresswell, and Erica Sanderson. So forgive someone whose brain fails them,

even if they're making an atonement for water. They say great minds think alike. It's an anecdotal cliché spouted by two people who are about to say or do something similar. It's an empty expression, though, because great minds do not think alike. Not at all. That's not what makes them so unique. Great minds will see the paths others failed to consider. Only ordinary minds.

think alike. I'm left wondering whether the mind of Thomas Jenkins was a great one or a heinous one. His mind was not like yours or mine. My first encounter with Mr. Jenkins was not what you would call favorable. He sat in his hospital bed with a blank stare of anguish directed at me. If I had met him on the street, I'd assume he was a lost man with a few loose screws in his head and try to maintain a safety. distance. Cut it off. It was one of the first things he said to me. His voice shook with reluctance, yet there was still a hint of conviction behind his tone. It's the only way she'll love me again. The only way I can atone. I'll do it myself if you want. The bizarre request upset my foundations of reason. It isn't uncommon for hospital personnel to witness rather outlandish cases of

medical marvel, a rare disease, survivors of horrific injuries, even the humorous cases where obscure items became lodged where the sun doesn't shine. Just yesterday a patient was admitted after her husband insisted on having intercourse through her stomach. Day in and day out, nurses and doctors see it all. But this, this I had not seen before. None of us had. Excuse me? You want me to amputate your arm? Using his right index finger, Mr. Jenkins drew an imaginary line across his left bicep. Right here, see this line. That's where the cut should be. Ordinarily, a situation like this would lead to the conclusion of either a mentally

imbalanced patient or a neurological disorder. I immediately thought of apatemnophilia as a potential explanation for the rash desire I observed in my patient. It wouldn't be my first case handling the urge to cut off one's own limbs. A young couple had previously come in after deciding to simultaneously bite off the first joint in the other's pinky finger in a sexually motivated stunt. Mr. Jenkins, however, did not exactly fit the bill. Most reverence wouldn't. And it wasn't just his request to be mutilated. Originally, he had been brought to the hospital to have his stomach pumped after ingesting an entire bottle of painkillers. He was clinically dead for three minutes during the entire ordeal. Bringing him back was a challenge.

Actions such as these were not expected from a man of God. I squinted back at him as he sat with that cold, cemented stare. Is there something wrong with your arm? Are you in pain? No pain. He shifted his head and stared longingly out the window as his eyes welled with tears. Whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life. Is that from the Bible? Jenkins nodded. John 4.14.

He inhaled deeply through his nose. I'll never get to drink that water if I have this arm. Would you like to speak with someone? You mean a shrink? A psychiatrist, yes. Jenkins' face turned stern, his voice raising in volume. I'm not crazy! The sudden outburst clouded my thoughts with uncertainty.

How should I proceed with this? A man once filled with such enthusiasm for life was abruptly showing signs of mental deterioration. A man who a man who aided many people. families in overcoming hardship was now viewed as the town villain. Beating your wife in her sleep will do that to you. It doesn't matter how many people you've helped in life. One night can forever alter the perception society has on someone. The years Mr. Jenkins had helped others were now distant memories of a completely different person than the one who sat in the hospital bed today. He was no longer seen as kind and gentle. He was a wife being. He was a wife,

Peter who had tried to kill himself, and now he was asking to be mutilated. The number of times we help others in life becomes meaningless when we need help ourselves, and no one wanted to help Reverend Jenkins. His value to the world was gone. The community tossed him aside like stale bread, feeding the language remains to birds as they shoved their beaks into him and ripped him apart. I think it might be best for your mental health to speak with someone. I don't need that. I need you to cut my arm off. I'm afraid I don't visibly see any reason for amputation. You need mental care, not physical.

Jenkins slouched back into the bed defeated, his voice calming. I met him in the afterlife. Before you pumped my stomach, I met him. He whistled at me. He stopped speaking and mimicked a whistling noise, first holding a hundred, high-pitched tone for about two seconds, before dropping the pitch an octave and holding for another two seconds. Just like that. I think he was trying to intimidate me. Who was this man? He calls himself Patrick. And who is Patrick? Mr. Jenkins lightly tapped the right side of his head with his right index finger. Right here, on this side of my brain, the right side is his. He's the right side is his. He's the the other man that lives inside of me, inside my head. That's who Patrick is. I masked the internal

feelings of pity with a coy smile at the reverend. I see. Are you familiar with multiple personality disorder? Jenkins furrowed his brow and spoke sharply. It's not multiple personality disorder. It would appear that way to me. The left arm draped over Jenkins' lap twitched, jerking a as though he were trying to alleviate a numbness. It flopped like a fish out of water momentarily before promptly raising itself and casting the obscene gesture of a middle finger pointed directly at me.

The Reverend immediately expressed regret for the action. I'm sorry, Doctor. His hand lowered and draped itself over the owner's lap once again. That was Patrick, not me. It's quite all right. I've had patients do far worse. I buried my face in the patient chart and documented his actions. We're going to keep you overnight for observation. I'll send someone to speak with you shortly so we could get a more precise diagnosis.

You believe me, don't you, Doc? You have to cut my arm off before Patrick emerges again. Don't worry about Patrick, Mr. Jenkins. You're in great care. Just let us do our job. I spun and ignored his cries as I walked out. After I closed the door to his room, I could still hear his muffled cries from the hallway. Patrick is real.

Patrick is real! The words faded as I walked away, heading straight for Dr. Quinn's office, the hospital psychologist. Later in the day, despite my attempts to shake Mr. Jenkins from my mind, his condition piqued my interest and remained in my thoughts for the remainder of my shift. What could possibly drive a normal, god-loving man to such extremes? It's not your problem, I tell myself. There's nothing you can do for him. Perhaps it was my previous studies in neurology,

or perhaps it was the slight scar I noticed under his hairline, but Thomas Jenkins found a cozy little spot to set up camp within me. Patrick was surely just a figment of his imagination. He wasn't real. He couldn't be. It was Mr. Jenkins' mind that engaged the brachial plexus nerve and primary motor functions to give me that middle finger. The image of that finger stuck with me even after I had left the facility and went home for the evening. Something just didn't quite fit.

Why had his left arm twitched the way it had before giving me that finger like it was struggling? Like it had a mind of its own. Mr. Jenkins had tapped the right side of his head. head with his right hand when he proclaimed that specific side as the area where Patrick resided. It was the left hand that had twitched and shot the middle finger at me. The right hemisphere of our brains controls the left side of our bodies. Not many people were aware of that fact. Was it a pure coincidence that Mr. Jenkins tapped that side and then gave me the finger with his left hand? Or had he done some sort of research beforehand? Could he really be able to be. He could he really

be that desperate to convince someone to amputate his arm to thoroughly study neuroscience. I went to sleep that night still thinking of the Reverend, promising myself to look more into his case the next day. But when I arrived my evening shift that day, I was met with a rather grim situation. I remember first seeing the carpet in the lobby being completely stained with blood upon my entrance through the sliding glass doors. The event was later played back to me on security camera footage. Mr. Jenkins had been discharged in the morning, went home for some time, and came back to the hospital with an electric knife, the kind you would use to cut the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. He walked into the lobby of the emergency room with his shirt off,

pulled the knife from his pocket, plugged it into a nearby outlet, flick the switch and immediately dug the blade into his left bicep, soaring away at his own flesh in front of horrified families all waiting to be seen. I was told his screams were so intense that his vocal chords went into paralysis, but it didn't stop him from cutting away as much as possible before the sore began to struggle cutting through the bone. He twisted the blade around, desperately trying to completely sever the limb. When it became clear to him that the blade was not strong enough to finish the job, he began cutting through tissue vertically down the length of his arm, ripping through the flesh from his bicep all the way to the tips of his fingers in jagged zigzaggs. Eventually a security guard

was alerted and took action, tackling Mr. Jenkins to the floor to prevent further damage. But by then it was too late. There was simply no saving the mangled remains of his left arm. It had been turned into a useless lump of meat. He was rushed into the operating room where surgeons completed the amputation. While the whole ordeal was odd, and frightening to watch. What really caught my attention was Mr. Jenkins' face and his actions moments before he was tackled. During the process, his face was filled with agony, but at one point something changed. The agony washed away, and it was replaced with a burning hatred. He stopped cutting his arm and glared at everyone in the room, as though he were about to turn the knife

on an innocent bystander. But he was taken down before anything else could happen. Ultimately, I suppose you could say Mr. Jenkins achieved his goal. His left arm was now gone. Why do you think he did this here?

Dr. Quinn asked me, her voice shaky with uncertainty as the two of us looked through a window into the room where Mr. Jenkins was sedated and resting peacefully while a nurse checked his vitals. Why didn't he do this at home? home. Probably knew he was going to need immediate medical attention. I kept my eyes fixed on Mr. Jenkins.

My focus landed on the subtle scar in his hairline once again. Did he ever have brain surgery? I believe so. Had some sort of procedure done to treat epilepsy around ten years ago, if I recall. My eyes narrowed, squinting at Mr. Jenkins. So he's a split brain? She shrugged. I have no idea what that means, Kenny. A split brain. You know, to treat epilepsy, the corpus callosum is severed, leaving both the left and right hemispheres in the brain independent from each other. Oh, that kind of split brain.

Well, why does that matter? That doesn't have anything to do with disassociative identity disorder or his mental state. Well, actually, it does, sort of. Studies have shown that split brain patients experience a second personality, so to speak. The right hemisphere controls the left side of the body and will act independently from the left hemisphere, which controls the right side of the body.

At times, the two sides will disagree with each other. There were cases where the left hand would swat away food it apparently did not want to eat. In one case, doctors had trained the right hemisphere to answer questions by pointing at words laid out on a piece of paper. The left hemisphere, a conscious, vocal cell, answered on a different piece of paper with the right arm. The man was asked simple questions and provided mostly the same answers with each hand

until they were asked whether the subject was male or female. The right hand pointed to male while the left pointed to female. Dr. Quinn shot me a menacing glare. So you're saying his procedure ten years ago birthed a whole new person? I gave a frown. I don't really know. No one does for sure. There's conflicting conclusions drawn from the experiments conducted on split-brain patients. Some say the idea is nonsense and that the two hemispheres are a collective single person.

Others tend to think that there's always another person or soul or whatever you want to call it attached to the right hemisphere, that the mind houses two separate people at all times, and that the corpus colostomy procedure somehow unleashes the right hemisphere as though it were a caged beast dwelling within our whole lives. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. You observed him yesterday. What do you think? I recalled the events from yesterday.

The twitch in his left arm, the middle finger he gave me, the tap he placed on the right side of his head. The truth was hard to deny. I finally took my eyes off, Mr. Jenkins, and turned to meet the gaze of Dr. Quinn. Patrick is real. Our discussion was interrupted by a scream inside the room. Dr. Quinn and I quickly turned our attention inside to see the nurse bent over the bed at the waist.

Mr. Jenkins had buried his head into her neck. The nurse struggled and screamed again, frantically flailing her arms around in a frenzy panic. In one swift jerk, Mr. Jenkins pulled his head away. Hanging from his mouth was a thin slab of skin. that dangled in between his teeth. Its red texture glistened in the fluorescent lighting above as he leaned over and spit the skin out, projecting it forward onto the floor beside the bed.

The nurse rolled over onto her back and instantly a stream of blood shot upwards as though it was propelled by a super-soker. Repeated surges of blood squirted into the air with each beat of her heart, quickly painting the blankets in bright red gall. There was only one reason, and for blood to shoot like that.

Mr. Jenkins had bit into the nurse's carotid artery. If we didn't immediately help her, she would soon bleed out. I rushed into the door, eager to aid my fellow medical worker. Her screams persisted as I reached her side, pressing my hand against her neck. I need to put pressure on the wound. I hoped it would calm her and keep her from squirming like a worm cut in half. Hold still, please.

Whistling. The second, pitch an octave below the first, just as Mr. Jenkins had described. I looked up and found Mr. Jenkins standing over us on the opposite side of the bed in his hospital gown that was now drenched in blood. He looked down at us both with a raging fury in his eyes, making it abundantly clear he intended to cause further harm. I quickly grabbed the nurse by her arm and began dragging her towards the door. We needed to get to safety, and I had no intention of. of leaving this poor nurse alone to be devoured. As I pulled the nurse away, I heard the whistling

again. The location of the noise had moved slightly. I looked up and saw Mr. Jenkins was walking towards us slowly, stepping with left foot first, then dragging a stiff right leg behind him. The remaining stump of his left arm raised itself as though he were reaching out to us. His right arm retaliated, bawling its fingers into a fist and thrusting its arm. into Mr. Jenkins' face. His breathing labored, and he began taking short, quick gulps of air. The right hemisphere of our brain is not capable of controlling speech. Although a few hospital personnel would later argue that he whistled because of his vocal cord paralysis from earlier in the day, I knew the real reason. It was the only way the right hemisphere could communicate. Patrick

was announcing himself to us. Mr. Jenkins was clearly. he no longer in charge, the will of Patrick had somehow taken over. I was seeing an internal struggle where the right side of his brain was overpowering his left. It was Patrick, frustrated by the removal of his arm that was now acting out. And all Mr. Jenkins could do to fight this monster was to keep his leg stiff and beat his own facing, hoping it would slow Patrick down. Dr. Quinn rushed into the room with another doctor she had hailed down. Together the three of us pulled the nurse out and placed her on a gurney. I pulled the door shut behind as we exited,

and after watching the other doctor wheel the nurse away, I looked back at the room and saw Patrick standing right up against the window looking back at me and Dr. Quinn. The anger that had shaped his face was now replaced with frustration. Without a working hand, there was no way for Patrick to turn the knob and exit the room. Patrick? Is that you?

I hoped to confirm my suspicion. He didn't whistle this time. Instead, he widened his eyes like a madman and curved the left side of his mouth into a small smile. Maintaining the mad look on his face, he pulled his head backwards and then violently thrust it forwards into the window. The blow cast a spider web of jagged crows.

cracks in the window and sent the piercing sound of broken glass echoing through the hallway. He repeated the act again and again and again. Rapidly he bashed his own head against the window over and over, each blow spreading more cracks through the glass. Blood began to flow out of numerous lacerations in his forehead, covering his entire face. With one powerful blow, the glass finally shattered. Patrick's momentum sent him tumbling through the new opening and crashing against the tile floor. He lay there, unable to pick himself up with just one working leg. Instead, he rolled onto his stomach and began pushing himself forward with his left leg,

slowly inching his way towards me, breathing heavily with his mouth open, wide, all too eager to sink his teeth. into another person. I stood frozen, unsure if I was believing what I was seeing, until a hand grabbed my shirt and pulled me backwards. What's happening to him? A team of police officers rushed into the hallway from around the corner. They pulled their weapons, named them directly at Patrick, but before they could say or do anything, Patrick abruptly stopped.

His body went limp, and his heavy breathing ceased. An uncomfortable silence took over the scene, all of us standing over the body in awe. Mr. Jenkins is gone. We have a long history of associating evil with left-handed people. In biblical times it was considered a sign of moral compromise. Matthew 6 verses 3 and 4 reads, But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret.

and your father who sees what is done in secret will reward you. For Mr. Jenkins, his left hand cost him his life. The official cause of death was a ruptured brain aneurysm, the result of severe head-force trauma. The area of the aneurism was on the right hemisphere, which leads me to speculate as to whether Mr. Jenkins had somehow caused the aneurism from within. Since that day, a lot of questions have been asked by many people, Some of which believe that Patrick was real and some that refuse the notion.

The most intriguing so far has been where split brains end up in the afterlife, if one hemisphere is considered worthy and the other is deemed evil. Would they both go to heaven? To hell? I can't answer that for certain. I can only hope that Mr. Jenkins got his wish. I hope he achieved atonement for his water. And most of all, I hope the strangers dwelling inside us all won't prevent us from doing the same.

What's your sign? It's a question not asked much these days since astrology isn't as popular as it once was. But in this tale from author Olivia White, we meet a couple who can thank the stars for their relationship, even though the message wasn't exactly what they expected. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy and Peter Lewis. So whether or not you take it literally, this fact remains. His horoscope said he'd be coming home. My boyfriend and I met in a coffee shop because I was reading the horoscopes in the paper. I know. It sounds dumb.

We were both in a Starbucks one morning, both sitting alone, drinking our morning coffees. I don't even remember what I had that day. Everything was eclipsed by him. He, Antonio, sat across the Starbucks from me, sipping from his steaming coffee, and occasionally our eyes met. Then they kept meeting. He smiled at me. I smiled shyly back. I felt my cheeks burning.

He was stunning. Tanned skin, long, dark hair, bright eyes that twinkled at me as he checked me. me out. Normally, I hate being eyed up by complete strangers, but here there was a chemistry, a magnetism, and we both felt it, even divided as we were by a dozen caffeine-hungry patrons and the bustling of baristas. I didn't notice he'd approached my table until his shadow fell over me. I was reading the paper, trying not to keep staring, willing myself to be. Willing myself to be build up the confidence to strike up a conversation. Hortoscopes, huh?

He gave me a broad smile, brown eyes twinkling. He pulled out a chair and sat down. He was confident. I loved that about Tony. Confident, but not pushy. He could read a social situation just as well as I'd learn later he could read a boardroom. I gave him what I'm sure must have been. a cringy, dreamy look. This wasn't like me, getting nervous around a man. But my last relationship

had been disastrous, although it was six months in the past, and I guess I was out of touch. Yeah, uh, what sign are you? Hmm, Virgo, September 7th, 1985. Oh, shit, no way. September 8th, 1985 here. Clearly fate. His deep voice was relaxing, soothing. I knew. I just knew that this encounter was going to lead to something more, something bigger. Virgo, an opportunity will arise that you shouldn't pass up.

You'll find within yourself a calling to return to a deeply important place. Home. Do not hesitate. Go immediately. You may find you arrive just in time. Well, I had no plans to go back to Italy. It could do with a vacation, though. I'm Tony, by the way. I held out my hand to take his proffered palm. Nikki.

So, how would you feel about going to dinner with an older guy? Three years later, we'd been living together for 12 months in a lovely townhouse in Manhattan. I was pursuing my dream of being an artist and currently had an exhibition going in a downtown gallery. I'd sold a number of paintings, and I was on a buzz from that. Tony, who worked for a large New York architectural firm, was away on business in Phoenix. He went away frequently, traveling the country and even going overseas when work took him.

Oftentimes, I'd go as well, my schedule as an artist, allowing me to take off. and accompany my boyfriend on his tracks. Not this time, however. The exhibition was in full swing, and I had to stick around in the city to field calls from prospective buyers and drop in on the gallery from time to time for meet and greets.

That evening, having returned from the gallery to an empty house, I sat dejectedly on the couch, idly watching the news. I could barely stand it. murders, rapes, violence, all on my doorstep. Tony was an aching hole in my heart. I wanted to feel his arms around me to snuggle up against him, pretend the world was okay if only for a night. Instead of Tony, I was joined on my couch by my surrogate comforter.

Boston, my tabby cat, leaped up onto my lap. I scratched her head as she nuzzled. into me, purring. I sank back into the seat, changing the channel to some cheesy sitcom, and massaged the stress headache from my temples. The exhibition was going great, but I was being messed around by a prospective buyer, and that annoyed me. He'd reserved my most expensive piece, a huge oil portrait of a woman in a doorway, but he hadn't completed the sale. Instead, he'd been calling and emailing, wanting to meet me. At first, I'd arranged to meet him at the gallery, and he'd never shown up. After that, he kept asking me out for dinner. Clearly, I wasn't interested,

and I wanted to tell him to get stuffed, but Natalie, the gallery owner and a dear friend, had convinced me otherwise. This guy was about to drop a lot of money, after all, if he actually bothered to seal the deal. When my phone rang at 10 in the evening, I expected it to be the buyer again. Tony had told me he'd be out with clients until the early hours of the morning, so I shouldn't expect a call until the next day, at least. When I saw Tony's caller ID on the screen, his name plastered over the smiling photo of him that I'd attached to his contact entry, my face lit up. I answered, Hey, baby. Didn't expect you to be calling tonight. On the other end of the phone, I heard whistling, like a strong wind blowing against the handset.

A few clicks, too, like a distant operator trying to make a connection. And was that breathing I could hear over the wind? Babe, had he butt dialed me? On my lap, Boston let out a little mule and jumped to the floor. staring around discontentedly. Tony, you there? When he spoke, his voice sounded distant, muffled. This was news to me.

He was supposed to be there until the weekend. It was only Tuesday. Everything okay? I could barely hear him over the sound of the wind. The call went dead. I looked at the phone in bemusement, shrugged, and smiled at the thought of Tony. Tony being home earlier than expected.

I fired off a text. Can't wait to see you tomorrow. Have a good night. Love you. And decided to take an early night. When I awoke the next morning, I saw I had four missed calls from Tony. Sometimes when he was away,

he'd get a little tipsy and call me in the early hours of the morning. I always pretended to be exasperated by it, but in truth, I was happy just to hear. his voice, even if it was at one in the morning. I regretted sleeping through my phone going off. It would have been nice to speak to him, hopefully with a better connection. I checked the time. Eight in the morning. Too early to call Tony. If he'd been out with clients all night, he'd be

sleeping in. He never got hangovers, something I deeply envied him for. Forgetting about the calls, I went about my day, working on a couple new paintings I wanted to hang in the gallery before the exhibition ended. Progress went well, and mid-afternoon, I took a break and called Tony. No answer. I waited a bit and tried again. Nothing. Didn't go to voicemail either, which was odd. Although I assumed that was a byproduct of the poor cell reception he clearly had where he was.

Around 6 p.m., just as it was getting dark, Tony called me. I answered, pleased to hear from him. The same strange line disturbance was still there. If anything, it was worse now. It sounded like he was standing on a cliff top, the wind snatching his words from his lips so they only echoed into the handset. Are you at the airport? If he was getting in tonight from Phoenix,

He should be leaving any time now. No reply. Just the same strange line disturbance whistling in my ear. I waited, repeating his name, trying to reach him. If he heard me, if he was replying, then I wasn't hearing it. In the end, I hung up, the sound from the phone starting to give me a headache. I'd see him soon, I figured. No sense in trying to battle with a poor connection.

At 7 p.m., he rang again. Same disturbance, same distant voice. Same thing at 8 p.m. For a moment, I wondered if it was some kind of recorded message. Was there such a thing that allowed you to record a message and have it sent to someone else's phone as a phone call? Could be Tony tried using a service like that and it had gone awry, repeating the message.

It explained the dreadful connection. anyway. But the calls were coming from his phone. An app, maybe? I googled, trying to see if something like that existed. I couldn't find anything, but it had to be that. He'd be on the plane now. At 9 p.m., the phone rang again. Tony, I picked it up. This time I didn't bother speaking. I wanted to see if he said the same things. to try and discern whether his tone and inflections were the same. Prove to myself it was a recorded message. A different message.

The same line false, the same whistling, but clearly a different message. Tony, can you hear me? I was getting a little freaked out now. What was he playing at? Had he rented a car or something instead of taking his flight back? I had no idea. When he hung up that time, I tried calling back. It rang and rang and rang.

I tried a few more times. Nothing. Boston rubbed up against my legs and yowled. I went into the kitchen and fed her, then returned to the couch, one eye on the phone and the other on the TV. More bad news. A severe-looking police chiefs. sitting behind a row of microphones, talking gravely as a picture of a smiling couple floated in

the right-hand corner. This is not what I need right now. I changed the channel. Boston looked up at me quizzically. Mama can't deal with the world at the moment. As it got closer to 10 p.m., I braced myself for Tony's next phone call. I hoped I'd hear his voice, close and clear, saying he'd just like him. landed. The conversation even played itself out in my head. The pair of us laughing about the

poor reception, Tony explaining what had happened in his deep, comforting voice. Then I'd wait for him to get home, take him in my arms, listen to him talk about his business trip. We'd watch the news together. I could handle it when Tony was there. The horrors and the evils of the world seemed a little less dark when we were together. At 10 to 10, the doorbell went, startling me and causing Boston to flee from the room. I stood up, muting the TV, leaving my phone on the arm of the couch, excited about seeing Tony. I walked into the hallway and saw a figure outside through the frosted glass. I couldn't make out any details, but from the build it looked like my boyfriend. My mouth parted in an impromptu smile, and I rushed to open the door, ready to jokingly admonish

Tony for making me get up and let him in instead of using his keys, even though he always rang the doorbell when he'd been away. Just one of our rituals. I threw the door open, and the smile froze on my lips. A police officer stood there, glancing around awkwardly. His build matched Tony's, but his skin was pale, clean-shaven. He wasn't Tony. This wasn't Tony. Why wasn't this, Tony? Why was there a cop on my doorstep? I took the cop a second to notice I'd open the door. His eyes met mine, and I felt something inside me drop away. His mouth twitched in sympathy, and I could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed dryly. clearly looking for the words.

Ma'am, Miss Nicola Goldfarb, may I come in. I'm afraid I have some bad news. I nodded, numbly, turning without a word and heading into the living room. I heard the front door close and the cop's heavy footfalls following me. I collapsed onto the couch. My head felt like a veil had been draped over it. No tears? No breakdown. Not yet. Just a dark, doomed sense of inevitability. The cop took a seat on the armchair. I heard a hiss and saw Boston crouched under the coffee table. Her back arched, mouth open at the cop. I knew how she felt. I wanted nothing more than to scream at the cop too, to tell him to get out, to never darken my door again.

If I could do that, if I could stop him from telling me what I now knew he was going to say, maybe it wouldn't be true. Everything could go back to how it should be. Mr. Antonio Rousseau is your partner, correct? His voice sounded reedy, nasal, and instantly annoyed me. Everything about the officer, his appearance, his sound, his presence in my house, was a cancer suddenly growing unbidden in my life. I hated him more than I'd ever hated anyone.

I knew he didn't deserve it. I knew he was just doing his job. I nodded silently. I couldn't even look at him. I'm afraid your boyfriend was found on the bank of the Hudson earlier this afternoon. I knew what he meant. Not my boyfriend. Not Tony.

Tony's body. Here in Manhattan, not in Phoenix, Arizona. I didn't know what this meant. I didn't know what any of it meant, save for the fact that Tony was dead. But he called you, a voice in my head said. He's been calling you all night. Are you sure?

There must have been some mistake. Tony wasn't even in New York right now. We're absolutely certain, ma'am. We're treating the death is suspicious. We believe Mr. Rousseau was murdered. I could barely take in what he was saying. My ears were ringing, as if a wind had risen up, drowning out the cop's words,

perforating my eardrums with a rumbling that threatened to muffle my world. I'm going to need you to come with me down to, devastation in this gold barb as is next of kin we need you to identify the body the whistling in my ears died as suddenly as it had begun the cop's final sentence echoed in my head i frowned next of kin tony's mother was his next of kin we'd even joked about this recently in fact she'd kill me if i changed it to you Italian moms, you'll understand when you get to know her better. Yes, you're down as his next of kin.

I really need you to come with me, ma'am. I looked at the cop. Was it just me? Or did his uniform look cheap, ill-fitting? Was it just me? Or did his cap perch on his head just too high, like it wasn't for him? Was it just me? Or had he failed to show him?

Show me his badge when I'd answered the door. I'm going to need to see some ID. I steled myself on the couch, not wanting to make any sudden movements. Either I was in danger or I was mistaken. I had to play it cool. The cop stared at me for a moment, silently. I thought I saw a look of anger flash across his face. My breath hitched in my throat.

I started to rise and the cop rose too. Of course, ma'am. Let me just... We were both standing now as he reached into his breast pocket, the two of us locking eyes across the room. The tension was palpable. When the cop removed his hand from his pocket, he wasn't clutching an officer's batch.

Instead, he held a small taser. adrenaline coursed through my body. This was no cop. The story from the news flashed through my head. A husband murdered. A wife missing. The husband found in a landfill. No sign of forced entry at their home from which the wife had been taken.

Theories that the killer slash kidnapper had either known the victim or otherwise tricked her into letting him in. At that moment, I knew precisely two things as absolute truths. One, Tony really was dead. Two, I would not allow his killer to make me his fourth victim. The cop, the fake cop, pointed his taser at me. We could have done this easy, lady. His voice was deeper now. less affected, violent. I froze, waiting for the taser to fire, bracing my body for the joltz of electricity that would render me immobile. My eyes darted back and forth,

looking for the best direction to run, a weapon, anything. On the arm of the couch, my cell phone began to ring. From where I stood, I could see the display, see the smiling face that appeared in conjunction with the name. Tony. The cop saw it too. His eyes flicked down to the phone, then back at me, too quick for me to make my escape. He opened his mouth to speak, a frown creasing his brow.

Then the color began to drain from his face. His jaw dropped open. I could see the hand that held the taser beginning to shake. He stumbled back. The backs of his legs knocked against the couch. He was trembling openly now, his mouth opening and closing. I saw the dark spread of urine blossoming at his crotch. I stared, confused and terrified, still petrified of the taser pointing in my direction. The cop wasn't looking at me. He wasn't looking at me at all. He was looking over my shoulder.

The hair prickled on the back of my neck. I couldn't turn around. I didn't dare. I knew I couldn't risk turning my back on the cop in case this was some kind of ruse. But I could feel someone there, a presence behind me. And suddenly, all the fear drained from my body, replaced by a feeling of perfect, total, calm. The cop wasn't calm. Tears were running down his face. The taser fell from his hand and dropped soundlessly to the carpeted floor. He reached to his belt for the gun holster hooked there. I should have flinched.

I should have moved, should have ran. But the calm held me completely, absolutely, and I stood there watching as the cop stared over my shoulder, hands trembling so hard it was all he could do to unholster his gun and raise it. The barrel clicked metallic against his teeth as he inserted it into his mouth. His finger twitched over the trigger. The cop's brain splattered the clean white wall, the bullet punching plaster in a puff of debris. His eyes shifted from over. my shoulder to gaze upon me now. Then he collapsed backwards into the chair, his ruined head bouncing off the back of the headrest. Everything was still. As I stood there, staring, the sensation of calm drained away. I whirled around suddenly, desperately needing to see what

the cop had seen. The room was empty, of course. I reached down for my heart. I reached down for my phone, unlocking it, preparing to dial 911. How I would explain it, I had no idea. But I knew, as much as I knew that I myself was alive, that Tony was dead. Whether they'd find his body or not, I had no idea. But they would find it, and the other missing woman. They'd look into this guy, this fake cup, and justice would be done. His victims laid to rest. Like a voice whispering these truths into my ear, I simply knew this to be true. Before I could dial 911, my phone rang. It didn't surprise me to see Tony's smiling face on the display. I answered it and held the cell to my ear. Hey, baby. On the other end of the line,

The wind whistled and static crackled. Tony's voice sounded even further away now. I could barely hear him, but I could still make out his final words. 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 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 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.