The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S9E23

Episode Date: October 15, 2017

It's episode 23 of Season 9. On this week's show we have six tales about vexing visions and vicious visitors. "The Door in The Middle of the Woods"¤ written by L.S. Strange and performed by Atticus Jackson & Alexis Bristowe. (Story starts around 00:07:00) "Vermelda"¤ written by S.H. Cooper and performed by Matthew Bradford & Erika Sanderson & Corinne Sanders & Erin Lillis. (Story starts around 00:19:35) "Mr. Banana"† written by R.K. Gorman and performed by Peter Lewis & Erika Sanderson & Erin Lillis & Eden. (Story starts around 00:37:10) "Pat’s People"† written by Henry Galley and performed by Nichole Goodnight & Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin & Dan Zappulla & Jesse Cornett & Jessica McEvoy & Jeff Clement. (Story starts around 00:55:30) "Have You Seen Aaron Bohl?"‡ written by Sebastian Laqroix and performed by Jesse Cornett & Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 01:18:45) "Resting Lich Face"† written by Olivia White and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Addison Peacock & Elie Hirschman & Jessica McEvoy. (Story starts around 01:57:35) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about AA Peterson's book, "The Family of Fang and Claw"   Click here to learn more about the Lore TV series   Click here to learn more about The World of Lore   Click here to learn more about the Halloween Live in Toronto contest   Click here to learn more about L.S. Strange   Click here to learn more about S.H. Cooper   Click here to learn more about R.K. Gorman   Click here to learn more about Henry Galley   Click here to learn more about Sebastian Laqroix   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "Resting Lich Face" illustration courtesy of Mark Pelham 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

Okay, here we go. Time to promote NatureBox and all their delicious healthy snacks. This is David Cummings of the No Sleep Podcast. If you're like me, you like to snack on tasty treats when hunger attacks you between meals. Well, it's a good thing. There's Nature Box. What the? Hello? Is anybody there? We all know there are thousands of snack choices out there, but with most you're settling for either flavor with a ton of calories or or something healthy, which tastes like bark and grass clippings. It doesn't have to be that way. Up your snack game with NatureBox.

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Nature box. Remember, NatureBox is offering no sleep fans 50% off 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. 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 six tales about vexing visions and vicious visitors. Do you remember the story called The Pancake Family? That crushingly intense tale from author A.A. Peterson?

Well, you'll be thrilled and chilled to know that Mr. Peterson has a new book called The Family of Fang and Claw. It features 13 intense tales of evil and horror. Check the show notes to find out how you can grab your own copy so you can make this Halloween month extra horrifying. That's The Family of Fang and Claw by A.A. Peterson. And if you haven't already heard, the great lore podcast now has its own TV series streaming on Amazon Prime Video. It's a stunning adaptation of tales narrated by Lour's Aaron Mankey. And if you don't have Amazon Prime Video, why not get a 30-day free trial and binge all six episodes and the bonus material? It's very exciting to see podcasting making the leap into TV adaptations.

So treat yourself to this great series and show everyone that podcasts can look good, as well as sound good. And if sight and sound don't give you chills, why not check out theworldoflore.com to find out more about the lore book series based on the podcast tales. Perfect for Halloween. And finally, we have a special contest

starting for people who are or who are hoping to attend our Halloween live in Toronto show. The winner will get two tickets to the show on October 29th. But what if you already have tickets, you ask? Well, the prize also includes a free fancy meal for you and your guest in Toronto on the evening of Friday,

October 27th with the cast of the show. Imagine that, eating, breaking bread, and drinking beside people like Peter Lewis, David Alt, Jessica McAvoy, Brandon Boone, Nicole Goodnight, Jeff Clement, Matthew Bradford, and even me. And after we dine, you'll join us on a special ghostwalk tour of Toronto, where we'll learn about the city's haunted past. So that's tickets to the show and a meal and ghost walk with the No Sleep crew. How do you enter? Well, first and foremost, you have to make sure you'll be in Toronto on the Friday evening and Sunday for the show. Then all you have to do is tweet or post on Instagram with the hashtag No Sleep Halloween, T.O. No sleep Halloween, lowercase, than the capital letters

T.O. We'll randomly select a winner from those entries. Make sure you enter before this Friday the 20th, because that's when we'll choose the winner and inform them of their once in a lifetime no sleep experience. Phew, new books, new TV shows, and a very special contest. And six tales ready to creep you out as we kick off this week's show. In our first tale, we meet a couple going for a walk in the woods. But as we learn from author L.S. Strange, when they encounter a strange entryway in the forest, they can't help but creep inside,

much to their chagrin. Performing this tale are Atticus Jackson and Alexis Bristow. So when you're in the forest, keep your eyes peeled for staircases, but also for the door in the middle of the woods. My wife's voice called out from behind me. It's a door. The pot stash early.

We're in the middle of the woods. Why would there be a... Oh. Huh. Karen stopped as she saw it, and we stood shoulder to shoulder looking at it. An old wooden door built into the side of a hill in the middle of nowhere. It really is crazy what you can find out on these expeditions sometimes, huh, honey?

Should we not? I shook my head. I'm not really sure I want to meet the kind of person that lives inside a hill. Oh, come on. Karen punched my shoulder. Where's your sense of adventure? Karen strode up to the door and gave it a polite knock. Hello?

I'm looking for a Mr. Beard? A Mr. Tree Beard? I chuckled as I shook my head. Karen never let me forget the little wonderful things about her that made me fall in love with her. She turned to me and mock disappointment. I don't think anyone's home, honey. All right, come on. We've got enough shrooms for now.

Let's go find a good good one. place to trip. Are you kidding? God, I married the most boring man in the universe. We've got to go inside. What if someone lives there? What if somebody lives in a hill in the woods? I think the man who built his house underground in a forest will be understanding if we offer to share some of our pot with him. You assume that just because he lives in a hill, he smokes pot. I don't know, Karen, that's pretty racist. Racist? I guess too. Tree people, obviously. What else?

Karen laughed and punched me in the shoulder again. I feigned being hurt, even though I loved it when she did that. All right, all right. If I didn't completely ignore common sense sometimes, I wouldn't be married to you in the first place. You're really funny. After I kick you out of the house, maybe you can live with Mr. Treebeard out here in the woods.

I chuckled and tried the knob. The door was unlocked. As we pushed it open, we were greeted by a damp mossy smell. The room inside was pitch black, but it seemed to be made entirely of rock, not dirt like I had expected. Hold on a second. I slid the pack off onto the ground and fumbled around inside for the flashlight. I flipped it on and scanned the walls. What the?

The walls were all covered in some sort of nonsensical carvings. It reminded me of when we'd seen. studied Egyptian hieroglyphics in school. What is this? Wingdings? I didn't answer. I had gotten a sudden feeling that I was being watched. I swung the flashlight to the back wall, only to discover that there wasn't one.

The passage continued on and sloped downwards until the flashlight beam ended on the ceiling about 30 feet away. Karen, I think we should... Hold on. What's that? Karen pointed to a dark spot on the floor, and I pointed the flashlight down to illuminate. It was some kind of black liquid. Motor oil?

I was joking, but Karen wasn't joking around. She knelt down to look at the puddle. It's blood, Danny. And look, it's leading down inside. I tilted the flashlight up. She was right. There was a blood trail leading deeper into the cavern. It's probably just an animal.

We should go. But Karen was already tying her hair up the way she did at work. She cupped her hands to her mouth. Hello! I heard the call echoed down the chamber, which must have been much larger than we had originally thought. Is anyone down there? Silence.

But then, a barely audible call answered. The call sounded like it was coming from deep within the cavern. When I heard it, all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and there was a sinking feeling in my chest. My every instinct started telling me to get the fuck out of this place. Karen, it could be some sort of trap. Let's call the Park Rangers and then get the fuck out of here. Somebody's hurt down there, Danny.

But then her expression softened a bit. Sorry, honey. This is what you got yourself into when you decided to marry a nurse. I sighed. I knew there was no stopping Karen once she had set her mind to do this. something, but I kept a tight grip on the heavy mag flashlight as we proceeded down the passageway. The blood trail got thinner as we walked deeper into the cavern. Whoever it was must have lost most of their blood in the antechamber. But if they were hurt out there, why had they retreated

further into the cavern? Why not go outside where they had a chance of being found? It didn't make any since. The air grew hotter and more humid as we went further down the increasingly steep slope, and a pungent smell of mold invaded our nostrils. I coughed as I breathed the horrid air. Where did all this dust come from? The deeper sections of the cavern walls had been cracked open by tree roots that had burrowed their way through the stone. What the fuck is this place? Maybe some sort of makeshift survival bunker? She cupped her hands to her mouth again. Hello!

Her shout echoed down the hallway. If you can hear us, stay calm. We're going to help you get out to safety. The voice was a little louder this time. We must be getting close, I thought. But the sense of revulsion I felt on hearing the voice only got worse. Did she not feel it? As we went deeper inside, we found where the blood trail ended.

There was a long smear of it on the ground. It looked like somebody had been dragged across the floor while bleeding heavily. And then it just stopped. Not even a drop after that. The walls of the cavern had now been almost completely overrun by roots. And breathing was getting difficult as the air had grown hotter and more choked with dust. The voice was very close now. And I could now make it out more clearly.

It sounded strange, all breathy and raspy, like a crude imitation of what a person should sound like. The floor had now become so steep it was impossible to go any further without risking a fall and a God knows what. We've got to get down to him somehow. Karen must have been having even more trouble breathing in the hot, thick dust than me. I've got it. You step back. I pulled out the length of rope we'd brought in our emergency gear and tied it to one of the thick roots springing through the walls of the cave.

I gave it a few firm tugs to make sure it was secure before tying the other end around my waist. I'd never wanted to turn around and go home so badly, but I knew there was no way Karen would leave without seeing this through. I started to climb down carefully, leaning over and moving the flashlight around to try to see what was going on without slipping and falling. I could see the vague outline of a man in the darkness, and I swung the flashlight beam over him. My blood went cold. Karen? Run! My breath was knocked out as the rope yanked back against my waist.

I hoped it was Karen pulling, but I knew it wasn't. She wasn't that strong. I landed on the ground hard, and the rope continued to pull me backwards. Danny, what the fuck is... Run, God damn it! She started to back away as the roots on the walls all started to move, slowly snaking their way towards us. I sawed through the rope with my pocket knife and stumbled forward into a sprint, yanking Karen along with me. She wouldn't have hesitated if she'd seen what I had.

At the bottom of the cavern, a man had been suspended above the ground in a giant web of roots that were riding and sliding through him. The little bulges were moving slowly up the roots that led away from his collapsed and shriveled body, one root jutting into his throat and twisting around every time he called for help. The plant was working his voice box like a puppet. We abandoned our flashlight and gearbag in the cave behind us as we sprinted toward the exit in total darkness, hacking and coughing as the moldy dusty air of the cavern filled our lungs. I could feel myself tripping on roots that had not been there on the way in. I felt a yank on my hand as Karen fell.

We both tumbled down into the writhing roots which circled around our limbs and began to drag us backwards. I started hacking desperately at them with my pocket knife. The roots recoiled as I struck them, and I managed to free my legs. I pulled at Karen's hands, but the roots were stronger. Just leave me! Fuck no! I swung blindly at her legs. and the knife connected with the sick thud.

I swung a dozen more times, slashing her leg once by mistake before she was loose enough to yank free. We kept running towards the door, and I could feel the air getting cooler and fresher, and the floor beginning to level out. We'd almost made it. I could see the outline of light around the door now. We ran full force into it,

ricocheting off and bouncing back onto the ground. I scrambled up. Please be opened. I grabbed the knob and yanked, and the torrent of fresh air and sunlight poured into the cavern. I grabbed Karen's arm and half dragged her through the open door before collapsing, exhausted on the ground. We made it. My chest was heaving up and down as I lay on my back, coughing up all the dust from the cavern air. Yeah.

Karen was bright red with exhaustion, her arms and legs covered in scratch marks. I don't imagine I looked much better What the fuck was that? Karen shook her head as I slowly got to my feet. I don't know, but let's get the fuck out of here. I helped Karen to her feet. We both stood there panting and coughing with our hands on our knees. Karen coughed something up into her hand.

Danny? It was a small leaf. I watched her face as little green hair. Tendrils began to spread out and coil around under her skin. And I realized with horror that it hadn't been dust we were breathing in. It had been spores. When a young man is encouraged to get out of the house and work at a local children's museum, it seems like a boring but harmless job.

But don't tell that to author S.H. Cooper, because this particular museum features an exhibit of antique. puppets, yes, creepy old puppets. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford, Erica Sanderson, Corinne Sanders, and Aaron Lillis. So stick with the Muppets to be safe and try to avoid a puppet called Vermelda. My mom was the one who suggested I volunteer at the Little History Museum in the park. Her idea of suggesting was signing me up and popping her head in my room later on to tell me I was expected to show up the following Saturday at 7 a.m. It'll look good on your college applications.

I grumbled and groaned the whole week, even tried to get Dad to talk her out of making me do it. But nothing would change her mind. Finally, at Friday night, I put my foot down. My back was straight, my chest puffed out, and I was full of pure confidence and bravado. I was a man who would not be swayed. I'm not going, Mom. 7 a.m. the next morning, mom dropped me off at the entrance of the museum.

She called out of her car window as she drove away. Have a great day, Jason. I'll pick you up at three. I frowned after her until she disappeared around the corner leading back to the exit, and then I turned to frown up at the three-story brick building in front of me. As soon as I did, the door opened, and an older, pudgy woman came bustling out. You must be Jason. Come on in. You open at 7.30, so I'll just show you around a bit, okay? She was far too enthusiastic for such an early hour.

Greta, as I came to find out, was the museum's head volunteer. While she led me from room to room, she gave me a brief overview of the place and what I'd be doing there. The building itself, a classic Victorian with all the shadowy corners and long hallways one might expect, had been built in the late 1800s and been home to a prominent family for over 100 years. After the last living member had died, they left the house and its expansive grounds to the city to be used for preservation and education. We mostly cover local history. That's what the deacons wanted. We passed a quartered-off room decorated as it would have been at the turn of the 20th century.

We have some clothing displays that way. Once a week, we do a culinary demonstration in the kitchen. Some artifacts from around town kept in that room down the hall. I nodded along and offered the occasional... Uh-huh, to show that I was listening. You won't have to worry about remembering too much of this right away, of course. You'll be at the front door selling the tickets.

Miranda and Fay are our tour guides and Herbert on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Okay. I was a bit relieved to hear that, as I hadn't really retained much of what she'd been saying. Once we'd finish the tour of the top three floors, Reda led me to her. back down to the kitchen, where she unlocked the door in the back corner with a sign that said employees only.

Watch you step here, hon. The stairwell's a bit steep. What's down there? The basement. It's where we keep exhibits that aren't currently being used. I may ask you to come down here and get stuff from time to time. I had expected it to be a dimly lit, musty room, but the overhead fluorescent lights that Greta switched on illuminated it brightly.

Well, it was a bit cool. It didn't feel damp, and the only odor was like that of old books. A walkway had been made between rows of neatly organized furniture and display cases covered in tarps and cloth. We switch things out depending on the time of year. We also have a room for visiting exhibit. It's just around the corner there. Other museums will lend us items and will return the favor. They're the exceptions to our local history-only rule.

Have a look around. While she smiled encouragingly, I wandered to her. idly about, half-heartedly lifting up the edges of the covers and peeking at what was underneath. An arrangement of antique knives was kind of cool, and there were a few reassembled small animal skeletons and glass specimen jars, but overall, my interest was mostly just put on for Greta's benefit. She seemed nice, and I didn't want to come across like a jerk on my first day. I rounded the corner to the visiting exhibit storage room, a figure, almost as tall as me with arms outstretched as if it were reaching for something, was blocking the door.

Yosh! I yelped and stumbled backward, unable to look away from the hollow black sockets where the thing's eyes should have been, and I heard Greta shuffling footsteps as she hurried across the basement towards me. Jason? Jason! Greta was beside me, patting my arm with concern, and then she saw what had startled me. Oh, dear.

I was finally able to tear my eyes away to look at her sympathetic, but amused, I see you've met Vermelda. Vermelda. Vermelda. She's one of the puppets on loan for an upcoming exhibit. One of the girls must have left her here as a prank to alarm you. I won't tell him it worked if you won't. Now that I'd had a chance to calm down and start breathing again,

I could see Vermelda for what she was. A giant puppet made from felt over a wooden frame. Standing at almost six feet, she had long yellow yarn for hair. and a tiny mouth painted on and faded red. Where are her eyes? And why are her fingers like that? Greta gently lifted one of Ramelda's hands and gave the limp fingers

little more than curled strips of felt, a small shake. Our girl has seen better days, hasn't she? Yeah. She's very old, you know. Greta winked at me. She sucked in her stomach and inched around the puppet to pull it back into the visiting exhibit room. rumor has it that she's based off of some kind of noble woman from Europe,

Germany or Sweden or something like that. I don't know for sure. Supposedly, the real Vermelda was quite vain and loved to be the center of attention. So she had these larger-than-life puppets made and put them all over her home and lands for people to admire. She wanted her servants and the peasants to pay tribute to her puppets and forced them to leave gifts at their feet, which she would then collect. Anyone who was caught speaking poorly of them, vandalizing them or leaving without an offering, would simply disappear. After a while, the people fought back.

There was an uprising against her family, and as the story goes, she and all of her relatives were killed and hung around the town like her puppets had been. That's a bit dark for a kids' museum, isn't it? My question had a sour tinge to it. Now that I'd recovered from my fright, I was embarrassed Greta had been there. to witness it. A lot of history is a bit dark for children, I suppose. But we'll clean her up a bit, make her backstory a little less brother's grim, and voila, she'll just be another interesting Victorian-era puppet in the crowd. Great. Greta finished getting Vermelda put away and then ushered me out of the room. I was only too happy to put that creepy thing behind me. Working at the museum

wasn't too bad. There was a slow but steady trickle of families with young kids who were wandered in throughout the day, and I'd greet them and sell them tickets, and let them know when the guided tours were if they wanted more in-depth information about our exhibits than what was on the description placards. I met Miranda and Fay, who both swore they'd not touch for Melda since her arrival, and since they were both pretty cute, I decided it didn't matter either way. I was a couple weeks into my weekend volunteering before Greta asked me to go back down to the basement to retrieve something. Without thinking about it, I told her I would,

and left her at the ticket booth while I went to hunt down an engraved letter opener in storage container 2C. The container was not where Greta had said it would be. I searched the surrounding tables and shelves, but there was no sign of it. I stood in the middle of the basement, arms crossed over my chest, and slowly surveyed my surroundings as if the container would magically appear if I was just patient enough. From just around the corner, leading to the visiting exhibit room, something creaked, like old wood straining. I jumped, and goose pimples sprang up along my arms and across the back of my

neck. I remained rooted in place, unable to move except for my eyes, which went immediately to where the sound had come from. Another creek of shifting wood. I managed to take a step back. A wheezing, choke breath was my answer. I abandoned my search and darted back to the steps two at a time. Once I was in the kitchen, I slammed the basement door behind me, startling a nearby small group of museum visitors, and locked the door. Greta had come down to see what all the commotion was about. Something was down there.

Oh, dear. An animal. We have to call someone. It could damage the items. No, I think. I think it was the puppets. Or one puppet in particular. The puppets? It came from the visiting exhibit room, the noise I heard. Oh, hon, I think you just gave yourself a little fright down there. No, I swear.

Come on, Jason. I'll go down with you and we'll find the letter opener together, okay? I felt like a small child who'd had a nightmare being talked down to by a parent. But Greta was heading back down to the basement, with or without me. Hesidently, I crept along after her. My eyes darting back and forth for any signs of something unusual. usual. Greta, having noticed, chuckled and boldly strode towards the room where Vermelda was being kept, despite my anxious warnings not to go. I heard the click of the light switch,

and then she called me over. I dragged myself to stand beside her. See? Vermelda was standing in the same corner where we'd left her last time I'd seen her. Her face was turned towards the door, her empty sockets boring into me. Okay, you're right. It was my imagination. I conceded only so I didn't have to stay in the presence of that horrible thing. I know she's kind of an ugly thing, hon, but it's just a puppet. Nothing to be afraid of. I nodded, but as Greta closed the door, I was sure I heard a low, angry hiss coming from the shadows. I wasn't allowed to leave my position. Mom said that scary dolls weren't a good enough excuse and that I needed to get out of the house more anyway. I told her that I'd go elsewhere,

volunteer somewhere new. But she wouldn't hear it. You made a commitment, Jason. Stop trying to get out of it. I almost reminded her that she made the commitment for me, but stopped myself just in time. It would only have gotten me in more trouble. Besides, as a 17-year-old guy, I wasn't exactly wanting to have to keep admitting I'd been scared by a big... it. So the next Saturday, I was right back at the museum. Greta passed by on her way upstairs. Hey, Jess, can you go down to the basement and grab me some of our coupon books? I accidentally brought them down yesterday. If she even remembered what had happened the weekend before, she didn't say anything about it. I hovered at the front desk for a few long minutes, hoping one of the girls

would come by and I could pass the task off to them. When no such opportunity presented itself, I inhaled deeply, squared my shoulders, and told myself it was time to man up. The lights were already on when I opened the basement door. Good, I thought. Someone was down there. I wouldn't be alone. Feeling a bit more confident, I strolled as casually as I could down the steps. Hey, have you seen the coupon books? There was no reply. I glanced around the room. My heartbeat quick and It was empty.

Empty except for the almost six-foot-tall puppet with yellow yarn hair standing in one corner. I froze on the last step. A list of rationalizations ran through my head. She'd just been moved by a staff member. Someone was playing a joke on me. They're getting ready to take her upstairs. But none rang quite so loud or true as the single word that followed each plausible suggestion. Run.

I half turned on the stair and it groaned beneath my feet. The puppet in the corner moved. Vermelda's head snapped towards me, so those black empty holes were fixed on me. One arm was raised and then the other, and they stretched out. The hands with their thin curling fingers opening and closing. Her movements were jerky and slow, like a marionette being controlled by someone new to its strings. Her wooden joints creaked and protested with every motion. I made a small, desperate sound, and she took a lurching step forward, her arms swinging and reaching

and trying to grab. Another step, she was making that same wheezing growl I'd heard before. I fell backwards onto my bottom and scrambled crab-like up a few steps. Overhead, the lights flickered. I clawed my way up the stairs. I could hear her behind me, moving more quickly, getting closer, and I started to scream while I hauled myself towards the door leading to the kitchen. It was yanked open, and I fell into Brett his arms.

Close it, close it, close it. I was shrieking, completely oblivious to the terrified children looking on. I didn't offer an explanation. I knew they wouldn't believe me. I just threw my volunteer badge on the front desk and ran out of the museum. I walked all five miles home. Mom tried to talk me into going back, but something in my face or voice must have told her that wasn't going to have.

happen. I swore to myself I would never set foot in that place again. And at the time, I meant it. I really never wanted to go back. But as the weeks wore on, the nightmares of being chased up endless basement steps started to subside, guilt began to set in. I felt bad for leaving Greta like that. She'd always been very nice, and she deserved to know why I left. I had a feeling she'd Think I was crazy. And that would suck. But I owed her an apology, at least. Mom drove me to the museum and waited outside while I went in.

I smiled at the dark-haired girl behind the ticket counter. Hey, Faye. She couldn't hide her surprise when she saw me. Jason. Wow. Hi. Didn't think we'd see you again after... She trailed off and I tried to shrug.

I had to break the awkward silence that followed. Is Greta here? Oh, you haven't heard. Heard what? Greta, she... Fay swallowed hard. There was an accident. What happened, Faye?

She was cleaning up the basement after hours. She must have bumped a shelf. It fell on her. A tear slid down her cheek, and she was quick to wipe it away. It happened a couple weeks ago. I thought you'd have known. Miranda said she'd call you. I turned numbly away from the counter.

My throat dry and painfully tight. An accident, Fay had called it, but I knew better. If I had just come back sooner, if I had tried harder to make Greta listen to me. I clenched my hands into fists and, without so much as a goodbye, headed to the front door again. As I turned to close it, I caught sight of a new exhibit just off the lobby. One I hadn't noticed when I'd come in. Puppets.

Of all shapes and sizes lined one wall, blocked off by a red velvet rope. And in the very middle, tallest and most eye-catching of all, Vermelda smiled out at me. Being a great school teacher can be a thankless job. Trying to keep the student's attention isn't easy. But author R.K. Gorman tells us about one teacher who comes up with a very inventive persona for his class, one which he really commits to.

Performing this tale are Peter Lewis, Erica Sanderson, Aaron Lillis, and Eden. So gather the kiddies, or better yet, don't, because we're about to meet Mr. Banana. We'd been doing civics for the past month. I was teaching second grade. at Witherspoon Elementary, struggling to teach the meaning of Gettysburg and the Battle of Princeton to a bunch of eight-year-olds, especially without giving a diatribe about the evils of slavery and making them bring that shit home to their parents. One day, I was stuttering through a lesson on a state's rights speech by Jefferson Davis when suddenly Jimmy blurted out. Mr. Johnson, you look like a banana.

The other kids laughed their asses off, latching onto the joke immediately. Yeah, a big fat banana. A big, fat, stinky banana. All right, all right, I know my clothes are a little funny. I was wearing a yellow Ralph Lauren button down and some bright mustard khakis. Brown shoes, too, the stem, I guess. Just for today. you can call me Mr. Banana.

The kids exploded after that. We didn't accomplish much for the rest of the day, but I wondered if this whole Mr. Banana business might actually be good for them. On the way home, I decided to buy some stuff from Green Street, a couple of yellow button downs, some yellow ties, a few pairs of pants. I signed the receipt, Mr. Banana.

The cashier didn't notice, but I tried. suckled as I walked out the door. Walking down Nassau, I had the sudden craving for banana bread, so I went to Wawa and bought some ingredients. Figured I would bake one for myself and one for the kids. When I got home, I mixed up the ingredients and put two loaves in the oven. Then I pulled up an old episode of Sesame Street on YouTube. I was thinking a lot about yellow, I guess, but it had never occurred to me how magnetic big bird was. That lovable behemoth, always brightening everyone's mood.

There's this one episode where he goes to school for the first time, and he tries to take his desk from the classroom because the teacher said it was his. I laughed thinking about having a giant bird in my classroom. Everything would probably go to shit. Anyway, once the banana bread was done, I sliced myself a big piece, squirting the little whipped cream on top. It was good, but tasted a little strange. I figured I would change up the recipe if I made another batch. The next day, I came into school in full yellow garb, a pineapple tie, some pastel pants, even an old pair of shoes that I spray painted yellow.

Once the kids sat down, we went through our daily salutation with a slight twist. Good morning, class. Good morning, Mr. Banana. Every kid got a piece of banana bread wrapped in plastic. Between the gluten and walnuts and eggs, I probably would have been sued if a crumb fell on the floor. Somehow, we made some headway on the Civil War that day. I showed them segments from a documentary about Abraham Lincoln,

and they actually sat still, fumbling the moment. banana bread in their hands. I started getting emails from parents a few days later. Mr. Johnson, Alice absolutely loves your class. She said you're the funniest teacher she's ever had. Keep up the good work, Mrs. Goldman. It was nice to get that approval, like I was actually doing something important. Hell, maybe these kids would even remember some of the stuff I taught them.

So, I started to go all out, bringing in yellow streamers to hang across the classroom, typing up the weekly newsletter with a banana-themed border, taking showers with L'Oreal Banana Blast shampoo. I spent hours on Google just so I could do a banana fact of the day for the kids. Turns out the scientific name for banana is Musa Sapientum, which means fruit of the wise men. Then, go figure. I decided I would bring in banana bread every Monday, something for the kids to look forward to at the beginning of the week.

I added a few sprinkles of cinnamon to the second batch, but the batter still didn't taste right to me. I figured a few strands of my banana-infused hair might do the trick, so I chopped off a few stragglers from the back of my neck and sauteed them in some olive oil. The batter had a slight punch after that, definitely an improvement. I met with Principal Dole the next morning. Felt a little ridiculous going to a meeting and a neon yellow Jerry Garcia, but he didn't seem to mind. You know, Mr. Johnson, I've received a lot of positive feedback about your whole fruit-themed initiative.

Seems to really keep the kids focused. Anything to improve those test scores, right? Hey, if it works, it works. Keep it up, and you might find yourself tenured in a few years. I'm just happy to get through to these kids, sir. It was almost June, and the mosquitoes were starting to come out. Turns out banana peels are a good cure for the bites. I asked anyone in class if they wanted to volunteer.

Jimmy had a big, nasty bite on his arm, and he wiped the peel all over his arms in front of the class on his face, too. How does that feel, Jimmy? Really cool, Mr. Banana. Anyone else want to give it a try? Everyone in the class raised their hand. When I got home, I turned on a documentary about corruption in Shakita Brands International. Apparently, they brought cocaine to Borneo on some of their ships,

treated the plantation workers like shit, too. I thought it would be nice to write a letter to the company about my initiative, figured they might like to know that their product was more than just a topping for oatmeal. I spent the whole night writing, and it turned into a few thousand words about my theories on elementary education. I didn't really think much of it, but I sent it with the subject, Bananas are more than just food to info at jacita international.com. It would probably be lost among all the shit from angry customers. anyway. It didn't cross my mind again until that weekend when I got a phone call on the treadmill

at Planet Fitness. Uh, yes, Mr. Johnson. This is Sophie from the Star Ledger. I just received an email from someone over at Chiquita. Do you have a few minutes for an interview? Um, yeah, of course. I was on the cover that week. It was a photo of me dressed in full yellow, pointing above the camera. in the foreground with all the gape-mouthed students behind me. Mr. Banana peels away the doubters. The local CBS station stopped by the school for a segment, too. I watched my segment that Sunday. A few minutes of my awkward teaching voice interspersed with interviews from me,

Principal Dole, and a few parents. Apparently some other elementary school teachers were starting to do it too. Mrs. Strawberry, Mr. Blueberry. I wondered if anyone else was doing the banana, too. Once the special was over, I went to work on my third batch of banana bread. I sprinkled the cinnamon, sauteed some of my neck hair, but the batter still tasted a little flat to me. I looked down at my hands. It occurred to me that my skin was starting to turn a little yellow, probably from all the bananas I'd been eating. I wondered if my skin had any of that flavor, too. I grabbed the tweezers and plucked a thin piece from the tip of my thumb. It was a little

salty, but it definitely had a fruity taste to it. I figured I'd try it out in the batter, so I took a bowl and plucked some skin off all ten of my fingers, and then I mixed it in. It tasted great. That morning, people actually recognized me in the streets. All those Princeton kids must watch the news. I couldn't make it more than a few steps down Washington without being stopped for a selfie or a congratulatory handshake. It was nice, actually. I never thought that wearing silly clothes would make people like me so much. I threw up in the trash can when I walked in the classroom, figured I'd been eating too much potassium.

It was pure yellow, of course. That bright bile and banana mixture must have been churning in my stomach for days. I was there early, just so I wouldn't have to engage in that jealous, snarky small talk with the other teachers. So, oh, so here's some sort of teaching genius, huh? I wrote the banana fact of the day on the blackboard, then rubbed out a quick one in the bathroom across the hall. I handed out the rations of banana bread after the pledge of allegiance. I wondered if the kids would still eat it if they knew they were eating a piece of me. Figured I should keep it a secret for the time being. A plus It was my best batch yet.

They didn't need to know how it was made. That night, I got another email from Mrs. Goldman. Good evening, Mr. Johnson. Congrats on your 15 minutes. Alice just loves the idea that her teacher is famous. We really appreciate all of your effort, especially baking for the kids every week. Just a heads up.

Alice found a hair in her banana bread this evening. Make sure you're keeping things clean at home. We don't want her to get sick and miss out on class. Mrs. Goldman. I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Still dressed in my work clothes, it occurred to me that I was really starting to look like a banana. I gelled the top of my hair into a curved, pointed stem, and turned sideways, arching my back. For a second there, my face in the mirror disappeared.

I was perfectly smooth, perfectly curved, perfectly ripe. I almost cried, thinking about changing into my pajamas. Instead of a delicious yellowish pulp, I was just a freckled, overweight sack of blood and bones. I peeled off my clothes and walked into the kitchen. Just to make sure I took a kitchen knife and I made a small incision on my arm. Blood immediately oozed out and dark purple sludge began to drip onto the floor. I sliced to the other arm to the same result and then sat down watching the blood sputter angrily onto my thighs. I woke up a few hours later, shivering, caked in a brown metallic rust.

I ate some breakfast, took a shower, and then put on my full yellow outfit. Figured I should wear long sleeves for the next few days. On Friday, the students performed a little play about Appomattox Courthouse. Sitting in the back of the classroom, I wiped my eyes and typed an inquiry into Google. Did the Confederate soldiers eat bananas? I spent the weekend at home, lights off, watching the same episode of Sesame Street on repeat. Big Bird yanking, yanking on the desk, the nails screeching from the force. You said it was mine. You said it was mine.

So on Sunday night, I chocked off my left pinky and fried it in the skillet. I sliced it into tiny pieces and mixed it into the batter. The banana bread came out darker than usual, a little savory but still delicious. I wrapped my left hand in gauze and went to bed. I woke up late the next morning. Only had a few minutes to get ready. I slid into an average Joe's t-shirt and a pair of yellow khakis, stuffed the banana bread into my backpack, and walked out the door. The kids stared at me warily as they walked into the classroom.

Once they sat down, Jimmy raised his hand. Yes? Mr. Banana, what happened to your hand? Oh, this, just a little accident. Nothing to worry about. I held up my hand for the whole class to see. Were you climbing a tree? No, Jimmy, just an accident in the kitchen.

What are those scratches on your arms? I looked down. My forearms were crusty with blood. Must have opened up the cuts again somehow. I hadn't showered in days. Uh, don't worry, kids. Let me run to the bathroom and clean up. I rushed out of the classroom into the bathroom across the hall.

I took the gauze off of my left hand, and then I pounded my fist against the hand dryer until every bone shattered. I woke up to the sound of a faint whisper behind me. I stood up and turned around. It was a banana. A slightly bruised, but a beautiful shade of yellow, with sharp lines protruding from the stem. He turned sideways, revealing his perfect curvature and flashed me a big smile. I walked toward him closer and closer until my nose was inches from the glass.

And then he reached up and grabbed the top of his... stem, stretching it sharply to one side, and slowly he pulled it apart, revealing that incredible white flesh inside, radiating, breathing, beautiful. So I did the same, dragging my fingernails down my scalp, carving into my bones, the fresh, airy pulp. coated my forearms and clumps of yellow shrapnel fluttered to my feet. And then I was naked for the first time, staring into my own eyes, my own flesh, panting, finally believing that I was something more. I pressed my lips against the glass, a cool breeze,

rushed to my core. And then I was gone. Podcasting is brought about a resurgence in radio shows these days. And as author Henry Galley shares, one talk radio host interviews a guest who she just can't seem to stop thinking about. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight, Mike Delgado, Nicole Doolin, Dan Zepula,

Jesse Cornett, Jessica McAvoy, and Jeff Clement. So let's tune in and listen to the show known as Pat's People. They used to say that video killed the radio star, and maybe at the time they were right. But as network television gets more vapid and flavorless by the day, things have mercifully started heading in reverse. Audio isn't just in right now. It's well on its way to being bigger, better, and more ambitious than ever before. All thanks to spending a little time on the backbench, dusting itself off and pulling itself back together. It's a true Lazarus story, if there ever was one.

Back from the dead and living large once more. That's how I make my living, radio, on a little indie station in Rochester, New York. We go out to a few hundred thousand listeners every day and make a modest taking from sponsors and advertising, as well as what little extra we can scrape from our listeners. In the morning, I read the Daily News Report, and in the evening I DJ 80s classics well into the cold, firm embrace of the night. That's fun and all, and it keeps the lights on, but my real passion is the show I posted every Saturday without fail for the last eight years. It's called Pat's People. Every week, we have a different guest in from the local area, someone with an interesting story that only they could tell.

Most important of all is that they're all real people. I won't say average, because if I've learned anything from my years of hosting the show, it's that average doesn't exist. Can't exist. Perhaps a better way of putting it is that you wouldn't find anybody with any hint of celebrity on pets people, just folks who you might meet on the street and not even look twice at. Tones and topics could change on a dime. Some Saturdays, it was human interest and innocent fluff.

Others, it was appeals from cancer patients or tragic stories of loss from grieving parents and weeping siblings. It ran the gamut of human experience, a whole palette of the weird, melancholy, or wonderful. When you turned on the radio where downloaded our podcasts from the archive, you never fully knew what to expect. But as I've been told in the collection of fan mail I accrued over the years, that sense of mystery was part of the appeal. My producer Carly arranged the meetings so I could share the listener's sense of genuine surprise. The perfect interview is a discourse.

It's organic, unplanned, and spontaneous, a connection between two people playing out live for the audience. If you try to structure it too much, you'll strangle it. and you can't expect the listener to be interested in the verbal equivalent of a corpse. Over time, though, I'd gotten better at predicting what my guests were here for at just a glance. I could tell the ones who were the eccentrics with tales of strange encounters, wild exploits, and rambling yet interesting anecdotes, and the ones who were being weighed down by a tragedy. But as I sat in the cramped, overheated recording booth, the team had taken to calling the sweat locker and stared out through the plexiglass at my latest guest waiting for his cue,

I didn't know what to think. Though it sounds like a contradiction in terms, the man sitting in the waiting area was freakishly normal. He could have been anywhere between 20 and 40, with neat hair swept sideways on top and cropped close to his skull on the sides. His features somewhere between smooth and angular, his expression somewhere between joy and despair.

His clothes were modest, even by a Mormon standards, a plain white button-down shirt and black slacks. He looked like he'd just walked off some assembly line before they had a chance to add the detail. That little extra something that would make him seem more human. I spoke clearly into the mic, swallowing my misgivings about the guest. Hello, everyone, and welcome to another installment of Pat's people with me, Patricia Lee. It's great to have you all back, and I hope everyone's having a good week. We've got another interesting guest for you folks today.

I nodded at the man through the glass, and he got up. walking carefully over to the door and entering the room. He sat on the stool across from me with his hands on his knees, smiling. Would you like to introduce yourself to the listeners? I gestured towards his mic. He leaned forward, leaving a long, uncomfortable pause. I'm Bill. Bill Hensley. Shaken, not stirred.

He didn't seem to get the joke. Great to have you with us, Bill. Tell us a little about yourself. He looked very very. vaguely uncomfortable, like he hadn't expected to have to answer anything about himself. Despite the fact he wasn't wearing any kind of tie, his shirt was buttoned all the way up to the throat. I briefly considered whether it was cutting off some of the oxygen to his brain. I'm a Rochester native, born and bred, and I work as a computer technician.

But today's story isn't about me, Pat. Truth be told, I'm not all that interesting. Bill, for his overall awkward and uncomfortable demeanor, had a beautiful, clear speaking voice. He sounded like he'd had allocution lessons at some point in his life, maybe recovering from a speech impediment. It was one of the few guests I'd had who sounded almost made for radio. I'll be the judge of that, Bill. So what's the story about today, then? It's about my dear wife, Jillian.

He spoke with a voice that seemed to work. walk up to sorrow, knock on its door before turning around and walking off. She went missing a few weeks ago and hasn't been found. Police don't know what to do anymore and neither do I. So I felt coming here and sharing my story might be the last chance I have to find her again. God, that's terrible. What happened? He sighed in that same tone of almost sadness and continued.

Things were going so well. We were on our honeymoon, having the time of our lives still madly in love. We'd bought a house together and had just moved in. She seemed so happy, so content with the arrangement. But I think, looking back, she was how, acting a little strange towards the end. The end, said with depressing finality. Like what?

Jillian Wood often seem frightened, even skittish. Really, it was all in her head, I'm sure. But she got this crazy idea in her head that there were people plotting against her. She must have had problems, I think. Sickness of the mind. What else would make her think up a fantasy like that? Perhaps she was unhappy.

I felt the need to defend the character of a woman I'd never met, just because she wasn't here to defend it herself. No, she was very happy. We all knew that. And if she wasn't, she was hiding it extremely well. We, Bill? Who's we? Myself and the kids.

If she was unhappy, her own husband and kids would know about it. Surely, there had to have been something deeper. Some delusion. Some secret madness. Bill was going off on a tangent, descending further down the rabbit hole of a subject he only seemed to have minimal understanding of. I had to wrench him back into the story. So what happened next then?

After you noticed she was paranoid, did you go to get help? He shook his head, looking not quite ashamed, but somewhere in the neighborhood of it. Bill never seemed to fully express a single emotion. His face couldn't quite manage it like he was badly designed. No, I only realized all this in hindsight. I thought she was just being strange. You can't trust a person in the grip of some grand delusion, but we were carrying on as normal.

I went to work. She stayed home doing the things that she did, housework mostly, I presume. I was so wrapped up in my work that I didn't notice she was teetering on the edge. One night I came back from work. I was installing security software for a small accounting company in town. when I saw that she was nowhere to be seen. The front and bag door were locked, as usual. But she opened a window. Must have climbed out and just run off. On paper, I should have been filled with sympathy for him.

He was a local family man whose wife had disappeared without a trace, desperate on the edge of his working-class tether, but I didn't like Bill Hensley. Maybe it was the strange, jilted sentences he spoke in, like it was all rehearsed, a ploy for the misplaced compassion of the naive. Maybe the problem was on my end. I didn't like the way he looked, the half-finished shop window mannequin vibe he had going. I had just bit my bottom lip and let him continue. The police looked into it.

I filed a missing person's report, but nothing came of it. This was weeks ago now when I'm getting worried that I might not. never see our Jillian again. That frightens me, Pat. It really does. But I'm a long-time listener of your show and I knew if anyone could help drum up public support for a search, it'd be you. Well, I'm flattered, Bill, and we'll do everything we can to make sure Jillian gets home safely. I can talk to my producer and get a photo of Jillian and some of your contact details in the show notes. Bill smiled. A broad, real smile.

First I'd seen from him all day. I think that will help tremendously, Pat. It's such a relief to have you on our side. Please, tell us a little about Jillian as a person, about some of the time you spent together. The rest of the interview panned out as you'd expect. The romance bill painted between himself and Jillian didn't sound unique in any regard.

Think movie nights, fancy dinners, trip to romantic hotspots, but it made for easy, inoffensive listening to fill out the rest of my time slot. I couldn't imagine what Jillian or anyone else would see in Bill, other than maybe that calm, soft-spoken voice. When the interview was up, Bill left the studio without saying so much as a word to me, rude bastard. I wrote it off as just a man under an immense amount of stress and tried to push the whole experience from my mind. I hoped that Jillian would be found, alive and well, but I wouldn't envy her for having to go back to Bill.

When you host a show like Pat's people, some of the guests are going to stay with you, almost inevitably. Kids dying from incurable diseases, soldiers who lost everything, even most of their bodies in the midst of war, and even sometimes a personality so vibrant it buys them a ticket to a permanent residence in some locker in the back of your brain. Bill was none of those things. He'd left my mind the second I drove away from the studio, and I didn't think a thing about it until that night when I was sitting in bed and watching TV.

My cell phone rattled on the bedside table. I wasn't used to getting calls at this hour from anyone, so it startled me. I paused the Netflix series I was about halfway through binging and answered the phone. Hello? Who is this? Suddenly my mind flashed back to the interview with Bill. My body gave an involuntary shudder as I considered the possibility it'd be him on the other line, breathing into the receiver. Deep, husky. You Patricia Lee?

First relief and confusion. Yeah, who is this? I'm Julian Hensley. Her voice was hard as granite and as rough as sandpaper. My mind erupted into a miasma of questions, the most prescient being where she was, what she was doing, and how the hell she got my number. A supposedly missing person was, as far as I knew,

calling me out of the blue. It had to mean something, and in the moment I definitely didn't make them mistake of assuming it was going to be something good. Your husband. Yeah, he was on the show. Two things. First, that freak is not my husband.

And second, you're in a lot of danger right now, pets. You better listen closely to me. I can't imagine we'll ever meet, so just consider this a personal courtesy. This probably should have shaken me more than it did. But years on the job had rendered my bullshit detector overactive. This could have been anyone on the other end of the phone, some crank who'd heard the broadcast and felt like having a bit of fun with me, it'd probably surface on YouTube within a week.

Sure, whatever. Give Bill my best when you see him. My thumb was en route to terminate the call, but Gillian cut in. Listen, you can believe whatever you want to believe. But if you hang up on me right now, mine might be the last voice you ever hear. Is that a threat? No, it's a warning. Whatever room you're in locked the door, they're probably on their way already.

I'm not going to lie. I was spooked. Jillian didn't sound like some teenager or stupid internet prankster on the precipice of a giggle fit. Even if she was totally delusional, like Bill said, her conviction in that delusion was steely and absolute. I slowly got up from my bed, prepped over to the bedroom door, and locked myself in. All this time, the phone never left my ear. What the hell's happening, Jillian?

If I tell you, you're going to think I'm crazy unless I show you something first. I'm going to need you to search for the following archived audio files. Mid-morning meetup with Joe Buliosi, episode 386. New York Living with Marco Sanchez, episode 432. Words on the Street with Zoe Linwood, episode 185. You got all that? The names were all vaguely familiar to me. They were other radio chat shows like mine scattered across the general New York area.

Gillian spoke so authoritatively I almost felt powerless to resist her orders. So I searched up those three episodes on iTunes and downloaded them. I didn't know what to expect until I hit play on mid-morning meetup. Welcome, guys. This is mid-morning meetup, and I'm your host, Joe Bulliosi. Hey, what a beautiful morning it is here in Brooklyn. Sunny with clear skies as far as the eye can see. All inane banter and banal chit-chat.

A morning radio staple. What is this shit? Are you just screwing me around here, Jillian, if that is your real name? Keep listening. I sighed and turned my attention back to the tablet, now spitting mid-morning meetup in the dead of night. Now, before we move on with the show, we've got kind of a public service announcement here from a local man in a pretty dire situation. Could you please tell me your name, sir? Dexter Hensley.

And what would you like to tell the folks out there in Radio Land, Dex? It's about my dear wife, Gillian. Dred, suddenly laid across me like a weight blanket, heavy, suffocating. She went missing a few weeks ago and hasn't been found. Police don't know what to do anymore and neither do I. So I felt coming here and sharing my story might be the last chance I have to find her again. His voice was so calm, so perfectly rehearsed. It wasn't Bill, that much was clear.

He may have been calm and soft-spoken, but I could say without an iota of doubt that Bill and Dexter Hensley were totally different people who were somehow saying the exact same thing. What the fuck? And why living with Marco Sanchez? I sat through the dull, formulaic intro, peppered with the same niceties about the weather

until the interview began. Marco was speaking to a woman who gave her name as Sophie Hensley. It's about my dear wife Jillian. Her voice was different, but the timing and cadence were identical to the word she was parroting. She went missing a few weeks ago and hasn't been found. Police don't know what to do anymore, and neither do I. So I felt coming here and sharing my story might be the last chance I have to find her again.

Words on the street with Zoe Linwood. Another man this time. Marcus Hensley, supposedly. It's about my dear wife, Jillian. I closed the case on the tablet, realizing now that my skin was drenched in sweat. It felt like reality was collapsing around me. The tale of Bill and Jillian Hensley was a horror story in a romance novel's dust jacket. And I was caught in the middle of it.

The epicenter of the earthquake in the middle of shit city. Children of the abyss or some crazy shit like that. For a goddamn doomsday cult. They had me all cooped up in their compound. Thought I was going to help them, I sure aren't something. But they... Don't talk, just listen. Chances are they might not want to hurt you.

They'll only do it if they think it'll get to me, which is why. For your sake, I'm about to hang up. Freep with one eye open, Patricia. They're everywhere. Jillian, please. True to her word, she hung up on me, leaving me feeling like a scorned date that she'd abandoned the jaws of a doomsday cult. I was left with a few seconds of tense, uncomfortable silence.

Sadly, that didn't last for long either. Patricia? The voice was sickeningly familiar, but where it was coming from was a mystery. My soul almost left my body with the scream when I saw a pair of long, pale hands emerging from underneath my bed. You should have kept her on the line, Patricia. knowing is half the battle. Bill had been hiding underneath my bed, for God knows how long.

He contorted his way out from below, brushing dust bunnies from his hair and cracking his neck back into place. Only now did I realize just how tall he was. He didn't just stoop, he towered, and my fear made him even bigger than he was. Oh, my God. I was barely able to breathe as I backed away from him.

My God, eight. your god. All that's left is us. Tell me everything that Gillian told you, Patricia, and we can keep it clean. He was edging closer and closer until my back was up against the door. Before I even had time to react, one of his hands was around my throat, squeezing. It'll snap like a twig if I wanted to, Patricia. If you don't play fairly, then I'll take off your head like a doll's. I lashed out, punching him in the face. I felt his nose crunch under my knuckles as twin sprays of blood flowed off of his top lip and down his formerly white shirt.

He didn't move, just let it happen, and gripped my throat even tighter. He didn't seem to even feel the pain. I see. So you've made your choice. You're about to go missing, too, Patricia. My vision started to go foggy. I knew that if he kept this up any longer, I'd go unconscious and be dead a few minutes afterwards. Fueled by adrenaline and mortal terror, I rocked my body in a final spasming convulsion, and Bill's grip loosened from around my throat.

I seized my chance, throwing my weight into him and knocking him off his feet. He toppled backwards onto my bedroom floor, perhaps still in shock from my sudden show of strength. While he collected himself, I unlocked my bedroom door and made a run for it into the hallway. When I saw the two people standing there waiting for me, I stopped in my tracks. One was a man, tall and broad with a bald snake-like head. The other was a woman with short blonde hair and a face like a plectrum. They both grinned, wide-eyed with anticipation for violence. They wore the same black slacks and white shirt combo as Bill.

This, I assumed, was Dexter and Sophie. It's futile. Joe tried to run. And Marco and Zoe, they're not with us anymore. Just behave, Patricia. Bill's pretty voice rose like a specter behind me. I was on the second floor with Bill behind me and Dexter and Sophie blocking up the stairway.

If any of them got their hands on me, it was game over, kaput. So if I wanted to survive, that left me with one option. Before any of the cultists could grab for me, I lunged forward and vaulted over the banister. The trio on the second floor seemed almost too surprised to do anything as I hit the bottom flight of stairs with an uncomfortable tumble. I winced in pain, spraining one of my ankles and limped towards the front door as my pursuers came rumbling down the stairs towards me. I grabbed my car keys from the hook near the entrance and sprinted out into the night with Bill, Sophie, and Dexter hot on my heels. Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit!

The cold night air stole my breath from me on the final mad dash towards the car. If they caught me before I got there, I was a goner, no doubt about it. Patricia, you can't run from us, Patricia. We've got a god on our side. But I had a distance advantage on mine. As they were clearing the threshold, I was jumping into the driver's seat and stabbing the keys frantically into the ignition. When I pulled away and started driving, the bastards were practically on top of me, banging for my blood. I laughed in sick, nervous relief as they faded into nothing in my rearview mirror,

and I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. The plan was to drive to the local police precinct and just spill it all. I was already going over my statement in my head, performing mental rehearsals when I felt a hand grip my shoulder from the back seat. You can't escape from us that easily, Patricia. You belong to us. Marcus. I panicked and shrieked in fear, throwing off the steering.

I slammed down the brakes and braced for impact as the hook curled around the base of a street lamp, and Marcus was flung forward into the wind. windshield. There was a loud cracking sound that was either the glass, his head, or both, and his body went limp. I'd never been so glad in my life that I practiced proper seatbelt safety. I didn't have the time or the focus to check if Marcus was dead. I just opened the door and bolted off into the night, screaming and crying, racked by fear, and yet still very much alive. That was something I could still be thankful for. That night, I never did make it to the police station. Instead, I found the nearest best western and hunkered down for the night, hoping everything would

make more sense in the morning. Truth is, as much as I willed it to be a dream, the reality was that I'd been attacked by those freaks in my own home. When I woke up, I at least had the solace of knowing it was finally over. When I went to check out in the morning, someone in the lobby had the radio on, turned to a station I wasn't familiar with. It was another morning chat show, full of the same anodyne babble about the weather and local traffic.

I was approaching the counter when the show was introducing a guest. He gave the name Bill Lee, and I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck, as my skin broke out into masses of goose flesh. Why are you here, Bill? It's about my dear wife, Patricia. 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 version

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. 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.