The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 03

Episode Date: March 28, 2021

Welcome to our third thrilling threat of the terror tales we call Sleepless Decompositions. These are one-off, original horror stories which are created or curated in-house. “The Face in the Woods��� written by S.H. Cooper (Story starts around 00:02:40)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Sean – Mike DelGaudio“A Clear Head” written by Lana Walker (Story starts around 00:21:15)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Sarah Thomas, Kieron – Kyle Akers, Mom – Erin Lillis, Dad – Mike DelGaudio This episode is sponsored by:Headspace – Be kind to your mind. Less stressed. More resilient. Happier. It all starts with just a few minutes a day. Wouldn't it be great if there were a pocket-sized guide in an app that helped you sleep/focus/act/be better? There is. And, if you have 10 minutes, Headspace can change your life. Go to headspace.com/nosleep for a FREE ONE-MONTH TRIAL with access to Headspace's full library of meditations for every situation.  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to order Season Pass 16Click here to learn more about the Kickstarter for “Onyx the Fortuitous and the Talisman of Souls”Click here to learn more about Andrew Bowser Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Sleepless Decompositions” illustration courtesy of Kelly Turnbull Audio program ©2021 – 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

Welcome sleepless to our third thrilling threat of the terror tales we call sleepless decompositions. It's those dark hours when you dare not close your eyes, even if it's light out, even if it's the middle of the day. Right now, these are dark hours, because you, sleepless, you are listening to our third horrific science experience. That is, Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 3. This week, we bring you two shorter terror tales that creep under your skin, contort your face, and crawl inside your mind to fester there long after they're over. They stick around like lingering sores. Lingering sores.

Nice. And it may interest you to learn about a friend of the show and talented filmmaker Andrew Bowser. He has a Kickstarter for a feature film. It's about to end and needs a final push to make it over the finish line. It's a glorious homage to 80s splatter movies and gore, entitled Onyx the Fortuitous and the Talisman of Souls. If you recognize the name Onyx the Fortuitous,

You might also know him as weird Satanist guy, weird Arby's guy, and other various weird guys. You can find a link to Andrew's Kickstarter in the show notes, as well as a link to his fantastic YouTube channel. And what does it mean that Andrew is a friend of the show, you ask? Well, you'll have to tune in to season 16, because maybe, just maybe, he might be involved. involved in some upcoming projects. We'll have to see. On to even more terror. These two stories have been commissioned by our in-house creative team to match a certain tone.

What is that tone, you ask? To leave you looking over your shoulder, doubting your own mind, fearing every crack of a twig or fall of a footstep. And speaking of footsteps, the first of our two terror tales, finds us joining a jogger as she takes her daily exercise. She's following her usual route. Nothing should be amiss.

But in this tale, shared with us by author S.H. Cooper, of course, something's gone awry. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy and Mike Delgado. So get those running shoes on. Do your stretches. Make sure you hydrate.

Oh, and of course, keep an eye out for the face in the woods. My favorite time of day was right before dawn, when the world is still quiet with sleep, and the sun hasn't started bleeding into the sky. Ma called people like me the stealth walkers, or if they had dogs, most often without bags, the stealth poopers. The ones who sneak out into the gloaming to go about their business, unnoticed, with little threat of being waylaid by overly friendly neighbors. Really, it was pretty much the only time I had to go jogging.

The whole avoiding people thing was just a bonus. I had my routine down to a science. 5 a.m. alarm. 5.10. Feed cat. Mumble to husband about whatever dream I'd had. 515. Lace up. Wish husband a good day. Head out. 5.25.

cross paths with workbound husband at intersection, wave, let him drive by, then continue on. 545, home, shower, let the day begin. Despite the lack of streetlights and heavy woodland throughout our neighborhood, I never felt unsafe. I still carried my flashlight, wore my reflective vest, kept a small canister of mace on my key ring, but that was just being smart, not scared. I knew every road around.

around my house, the names of each family on my path, all the dead ends and empty areas in between. None of it had ever worried me. Not until that spring morning. It had started off as usual. A quick kiss goodbye at the door from Sean, a warm-up walk up my driveway, the relaxed jogged down Wilding once I hit the road. The call of a few early, early birds and squirrels acted as an accompaniment to my footsteps. It was still cold out, and I'd worn a fleece pull over under my vest. Even with it on, I felt the chill. I'd just turned down Hanover when it began, a creeping tickle up the back of my neck. I shuddered, rubbing at the prickling spot, but it persisted. My pace slowed until I was walking, the beam of my flashlight swinging back and forth

as I tried to put a finger on exactly what that nagging feeling was. Not quite fear, but the sensation that something was out of place. Wrong. It intensified the further I went, and the prickling turned to a swarm of buzzing flies in my stomach. Confused, I hesitated and dragged the light in a large, slow circle around me, shining it on the trees and undergrowth of the empty lots to either side. I almost missed the mask in my first sweep.

Tacked on a tree set well off the road, its rough wooden face blended well with the trunk it was hanging from. That it was mostly featureless, save for two thin slits for eyes and a third, slightly longer one for a mouth, helped the illusion. Even with its strange placement, there was nothing sinister about it.

It would have been right at home in some amateur woodworking class, an incomplete project waiting to be refined. But as I looked at it, illuminated only in my flashlight against the dark forest backdrop, my heartbeat quickened. I'd never been one to get nervous easily, but I figured between the time of day

and the uncanny valley effect of the poorly carved face, my imagination was starting to kick off. Before it could jump to any particular conclusions, I dismissed the mask as a plaything of some of the neighborhood kids. probably hung as part of a game or to prank passers-by, and moved on. Once off Hanover and in a section of street-lip by tall lamps, the unease had left me completely, and I was still just barely able to make it to the intersection to blow a kiss to Sean as he went by. I finished my run as usual and was greeted at home by the grouchy squawking of Mushmallow,

our two-year-old Tabby who thought of herself as queen. She head-butted my shins, demanding I pay my respects with touch. chin scratches, and then promptly turned tail and sauntered away, having had her fill of contact with the peasants for the time being. For such a small critter, she packed a lot of sass into that strut. I giggled and went for a shower. The mask already filed away in the back of my mind as an almost interesting story to share over dinner that night. By the time evening rolled, however, I'd forgotten my unusual encounter and didn't think of it again until the next. morning as I started to turn onto Hanover when the same sense of disquiet wriggled about in my belly.

I found the mask again with little effort, hanging as it had been the day before, its rough-hewn face staring out from between the trees. Something was different, though, just slightly, just enough to make me stop and study it. The slits that marked its eyes and mouth, were they open wider than when I'd last seen it? No. I scoffed at the idea. I was probably looking at it from a different angle, so my light wasn't hitting it the same way it had previously,

casting shadows in new spots. Still, I got away from it pretty quick. I continued my run and ended a few minutes earlier than usual. Mushmello met me at the door and purred deeply when I swept her up and held her close, until the light and warmth had calmed my jitters and her patience ran out. This time, I did bring it up to Sean when we both got home from work. Ooh, spooky.

It is. It's probably one of Rodgers. Did I tell you he's getting into carpentry? I think he's planning to sell stuff online. If it is one of his, why is he hanging it on a random tree in the woods? And all the way over here, he lives across the neighborhood. Sean shrugged. So the rest of us can have moments just like this one?

How thoughtful. Want me to ask him about it? If you want. Don't be a grump. It's probably nothing. He tapped the tip of my nose until I smacked his hand away with a laugh. I'd have agreed if I hadn't felt it. How off it was.

I couldn't explain how I knew it was coming from the mask, though, and just agreed so we could move on. I had barely made it onto Hanover the next morning when I saw it. My flashlight fell on it without me having looked at all. The mask had been moved from its previous spot to a tree trunk right on the corner alongside the road. It was facing me square on as if it had been placed there just for my benefit. Goose bumps spring up my arms and chest. That's it.

Enough is enough. Clearly, it was all just some big game, and I'd become the plaything. I started to march toward it, hand raised to snatch it down. But the closer I got, the deeper my dread burrowed, and I couldn't tell if it was the cold or fear that was clattering my teeth together. Just as my fingertips touched its splintered surface, I noticed how wide the eyes and mouth had become. They had definitely not been that open before.

I recoiled with a yelp, finally giving into the fear urging me to flee, and abandoned my run to go right back home, leaving the mask to gaze after me from its place upon the new tree. I slammed the door behind me and leaned heavily upon it, my chest heaving. My dramatic entrance startled Mushmillo, who leapt up from her basket and blinked large, owlish eyes at me.

Sorry. I swallowed hard and crouched with my arms outstretched to her. I really could have used some cuddles just then. But Mushmallow took a step forward, sniffed my hand, and reared back. Mush? I waddled closer, still crouched, and she raised her hackles. Then, for the first time in her life, she swatted viciously at me and darted out of the room, ears pinned back against her skull.

I didn't see her again until I got home from work, when she eyed me suspiciously from Sean's lap, before leaping away to crawl under the couch. What's with Miss Mush? I scared her this morning. Someone moved that damn mask and it got to me, so I kind of ran home. His laugh, benign as it was,

put me a bit on the defensive. It wasn't just that it was moved. The eyes were open more. The mouth, too. It's creepy. Someone's definitely fucking with you and probably a few others. Why don't you stay home for the next few days?

and let them get bored. That's kind of letting them win, though, isn't it? Then change your round. Go of dandelion instead. It's just one more street up. It'll hardly add any time. That's not a bad idea. Magic happens when my two brain cells collide.

Lucky for me. It took a lot of sweet talking and even more treats, but eventually we were able to coax mushroom out, and after a cursory sniff of my hand, all seemed to be well. 5.15 the next morning, I set out, but this time bypassed Hanover and instead followed the beam of my flashlight onto Dandelion. The mask had been removed, I noticed with more relief than I cared to admit as I went by. Tension I hadn't been aware I was carrying started to ease in the normalcy of the morning,

and my strides became looser, more relaxed. I got halfway up the street before it occurred to me how quiet it was. No bird songs, no chattering squirrels, only the slap of my sneakers against the ground, and the rustling of underbrush behind me. I spun flashlight arc toward the woods. It pierced through the trees, flicking rapidly back and forth. I snapped the light toward the sound, backing away as I hunted for the source. From the pit of my stomach, wrongness gnawed at my insides.

My light crawled over brush and tangled bushes, and then came to rest on the mask. Instead of being on a tree, it had been suspended in the air, and at first I thought it must be on fishing wire or something because I couldn't see the strings holding it up. Now, the eyes and mouth were carved in wide, black circles. Terror beaded down my forehead in icy droplets of sweat, and my ears filled with the pounding of my heart. It was subtle but undeniable. It had come closer. The flashlight trembled, sending the shadows dancing across its face.

I turned and bolted, the flashlight tumbling from my shaking fingers. There was a scrambling behind me, then a terrible skittering of nails or claws, something moving fast across the pavement. I craned my neck around, a scream building in my throat. The mask was floating through the air at wisconsin. waste height after me. Nobody, nothing visible behind it to make that crab-like scampering sound. I wrenched around with a strangled cry and pushed myself to go harder, faster, to escape.

I skid onto the next street with its row of tall lights and sprinted with everything I had. And the light cast by the lamps, I saw my shadow running alongside me. And behind it, growing ever closer was the shadow of a creature, arched, back, skeletally thin, crawling on long, curved limbs. Another look over my shoulder showed only the mask. Eyes and empty black, mouth curved into a hungry snarl. My shriek was long and loud that time. I flew past Hanover, the skittering close at my heels.

Like a sick slideshow, each streetlight revealed the shadow of the monster behind the mask, chasing, chasing, gaining. I burst into the intersection with another scream. I didn't see the headlights. There were no screeching tires. I rolled onto the hood, hit the windshield, bounced, and was thrown hard to the ground. I landed face down, my cheek cracking against the pavement.

Stars filled my vision. A car door opened. His voice echoed even though he was kneeling right over me. Oh, God, Emmy! Sean started to turn me, thought better of it, and simply hovered over me, panicked, unable to think straight, not knowing what to do. But I wasn't looking at him. Through the haze, I saw it coming.

My warning was a sobbing gurgle. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. His entire body sagged and sank to the ground beside me, his head rolling at a unnatural angle. But he was beyond hearing me. The last thing I saw before I slipped into merciful black

was my husband's body being dragged towards the woods beneath the visage of a rough-hewn, grinning mask. See, this is why I don't run. They say it's good for you. Builds cardio, helps clear your mind. Heed the lesson of that story. But David, that was just fiction. Running can be healthy and clearing our minds can be especially beneficial.

That's right, Jessica. Our heads are bombarded in this always-connected world. Wouldn't it be great if there were a pocket-sized guide that helped you sleep, focus, be better? There is. And if you have 10 minutes, Headspace can change your life. Headspace is your daily dose of mindfulness in the form of guided meditations in an easy-to-use app. Headspace is one of the only meditation apps advancing the field of mindfulness and meditation

and meditation through clinically validated research. So, whatever the situation, Headspace can really help you feel better. Overwhelmed, Headspace has a three-minute S-OS meditation for you. Need some help falling asleep? Headspace has... Calling asleep! Jessica, we do not encourage our listeners to fall asleep. This is the No Sleep podcast.

Yes, yes, I know. But come on, we all need to sleep. And Headspace has wind-down sessions their members swear by. And for parents, Headspace even has morning meditations you can do with your kids. I've used Headspace and have definitely found that it helps settle my mind. There's just so much to process during the day. Work, family, stresses of this crazy, mixed-up world we're dealing with this past year. But Headspace easily guides me with steps to focus my thoughts, calm the noise,

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If mental health is part of your self-care plan this year, you owe it to yourself to try Headspace. You deserve to feel happier, and Headspace is meditation made simple. Go to headspace.com slash no sleep. That's headspace.com slash no sleep for a free one-month trial, with access to Headspace's full library of meditations for every situation. This is the best deal offered right now. So head to headspace.com slash no sleep today. Well, this has been nice, but I got to run.

Watch out for cars. So funny, it's scary. Speaking of scary fun, let's get back to our sleepless decompositions. Masks are always terrifying, aren't they? Who knows what grim visage they hide? But what about people who don't wear masks? Well, you know exactly what to expect, don't you? But what if, suddenly, you don't?

What if those you trust are lying to you without realizing you know they're lying? And in this tale, shared with us by author Lana Walker, that's exactly what happens when a girl successfully fakes amnesia to flee her responsibilities. What might those you love tell you if they think you don't remember anything? Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Kyle Acres, Aaron Lillis, and Mike Delgado. So don't let the mask slip. Keep the performance going. Stay alert.

Stay sharp. Keep a clear head. Hasn't even graduated high school and she's already off the rails. used to be such a nice girl. She came from a good family. What changed? Underage drinking, smoking, shoplifting, dressing provocatively, sleeping around,

slutty. She became a slut. Christ, don't you know the risks? Think about how you'd screw up your life if you got pregnant at 18. Your body is a temple. You polluted with intoxicants and those piercings and boys. Your grades are slipping. You used to be a straight-A student. Now your GPA's in the toilet. She's probably in the bathroom with it, snorting coke off the sink. Look how short her skirt is. You can practically see her butt cheeks, practically see her panties. I heard she has a nipple piercing now. What kind of girl gets a nipple piercing? Aren't her parents Christians? Yes, her father's in politics. Imagine the shame. The shame. The shame. What a disappointment. Can't be saved. No turning back now. Girls like that rarely change. She just needs a second chance. Redemption. She's her own worst enemy. She won't allow herself to change. Won't stop. And that music she listens to. That music. I found a pack of cigarettes in her room today.

Oh my God, Aaron. There's $100 missing from my purse. I'm so ashamed, Diane. I'll go after her. Underage drinking, smoking, shoplifting, dressing provocatively, sleeping around, slutty. She became a slut. I am not a fucking slut! I scream this at the voices in my head,

at the cacophony of memories that batter my already damaged brain. I've slept with two guys. I dress the way I want to dress. I have never taken drugs in my life. Okay, the underage drinking, smoking and shoplifting, yeah, okay, that's true. But I've only smoked a few times. I don't even like it all that much. Yeah, I have a nipple piercing.

So what? Yeah, I stole money from your purse, mom. So what? Okay, no, that one was bad. How fuck it! I'm not happy with where my life is gone. Where it went. Right here at the end, I'm not happy.

I am deeply unhappy. I think I have depression. I know I act out. I regret my dropping grades. I regret it so much. It all felt like a spiral, quicksand, like I was being sucked down, and every time I got challenged on something I knew to be true,

I'd just get angrier and do it more, and why, why, why couldn't my brain stop me from acting this way? I never want it to be a bad girl. I don't regret some of the things, but I regret most of it. But I don't know how to change. I don't know how to have a second chance. The music I listen to, that music, is playing from the earbuds lying just beside me on the asphalt.

Tenny, distant. I try to focus on that, on the guitar licks and the beautiful boy's beautiful voice, singing about loss and beauty. But there's another voice, closer and more real. A woman, screaming and asking if I'm okay, begging me to wake up. I'm not okay. Then the sound of a car pulling up and footsteps and a second voice, Aaron, my father.

He's screaming too, at the first voice, asking what she's done to his daughter. That's me. His daughter is me. And I'm lying broken in the middle of the street. My own fault. I stole that money. Dad came cruising around looking for me.

I saw him. I ran. I didn't see the car. The driver didn't see me. Neither did Dad. Now they both see me, lying here, dying. Have you heard the news that you're dead? I guess I am.

Goodbye. Asked this, even though it's perfectly clear, I'm in a hospital. I'm in a hospital because I survived the car accident I had... When? Whenever it was. And I'm in nowhere near as much pain. as I remember being in the last time I was conscious. Mom is beside my bed with my brother Paul.

Mom takes my hand and her skin is clammy. Baby, you're in hospital. You've had, you've had, you've had an accident. I don't grip mom's hand. Thoughts barrage my brain like pistons. Who are you? Mom frowns. It's mom, baby.

Dad's just out in life. a hall with the doctor. I don't, I don't know you. Who are you? Who are you? I know full well who she is. She's my mom, Diane Randall. So why am I pretending that I don't? Here's a thing. My brain's always worked too fast. Probably why my mouth does too. My thoughts come in like constant punches to my cerebral cortex, vast and often. I think quickly. I've learned to live with it and to hide it. Almost nobody knows what it's like inside my head. Frantic, scary, overwhelming. But thinking quickly sometimes means being able to act quickly. And that's what I'm doing here. I'm pretending to have amnesia from the accident in order to have a fresh start, to reboot my life. Fuck knows if it'll

work. If it doesn't, I can pretend my memory came back. It'll be hard. I'll have to be careful. I can't let it slip, even once. All these thoughts hit me in the second it takes me to respond to mom's panic. I can't remember anything. I can't remember anything at all. It turned out I'd been in a coma for two weeks. It also turned out I'd gotten really lucky. Broken ribs, but no limbs, a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain, but no significant damage. But, but there was enough damage to back up the possibility of amnesia. My memory might come back, or it might not. I had a slew of tests. I had a three-week hospital stay. I played my part well. Perfectly, I'd say. And no, I don't regret it. I don't feel guilty. I'm going to become a better person. This is for the

good of everyone. It's six weeks since my accident now. I've kept the facade going flawlessly. I've bombarded my parents and my brother with questions about my life. I think it scares Paul a little. He's only 14, but I have to keep it up, even if I regret that part. They've been cagey about telling me what kind of person I was, kept some of the more wayward behavior to themselves. But they were upfront enough to tell me I was troubled, and they agreed. They agreed. this could be a fresh start. I wonder if they know, and they're going along with it

because they can see what I'm doing. I don't think so, but it's a possibility. I almost want to believe that's true, because that would be a really sweet and loving thing to do. So right now, I am Melissa Randall, amnesiac and invalid. They call me Melissa, not Lisa as I'd insisted upon since I was 14.

First time I almost fucked, slipped up, and corrected them. That was a heart stopper. Oh, that's another thing. I'm trying not to curse, even internally. Good, clean living from here on in. The doctor's advised that I don't worry about high school and retake senior year. That means I have the next six months or more to recover. I'm fine with that.

My grades, as mentioned, are shit. If I restart the year, I can work on improvements. my GPA. Sure, all my friends will graduate before me, but I'd be doing my best to isolate myself from them anyway, intentional or not. And going back in the fall with amnesia will be like being the new girl anyway. I can meet new friends as a new person. The idea's really appealing. I'm really grateful that I've been given a lot of time to myself after getting home. My parents wanted to spend as much time with me as possible to help me remember. but I told them I wanted some time to think, go through my old things, and hopefully having the

clear head space would bring the memories flooding back. The doctors even agreed with this. Let me dictate my recovery. Don't try and push things onto me that might scare or alarm me. It'll be disconcerting like they're living with a stranger, but they need to let me set the pace. Blah, blah, blah. What this really meant was I had a heck of a lot of time to research how people with amnesia behave. It's a weird thing to think about. How much should I remember and how much should I forget? So I went with, I know how to function as a human being, but can't remember who I am, and everyone seems like a stranger. Seems like that's right. So I've had the days to myself and the evenings with my parents, talking about happy memories and major events in my life. I can tell they're

trying to bring me back, but not the fool me. There are things they're not bringing up, the extent of my wayward behavior for one, because I guess they don't want me to become who I used to be. Can I blame them? No. I want a fresh start. It's only fair they want the same for me. So I try not to let it sting when they slip a few white lies in there, make me out to be better than I was. It's out of kindness. Tomorrow, they say they have a surprise for me. I'm half expecting a trip to Disney World. We went there when I was 11, and it was the last time I remember being truly happy.

We were a real family back then. All five of us. I'm sitting on the couch when he walks in. My parents directed me to sit there, big, beaming smiles on their faces. They were so excited they were practically trembling. I genuinely had no one. idea what to expect. I did not expect it to be Kieran Jennings. Why would I ever have expected it to be

Kieran Jennings? But it is. Kieran Jennings is here, and he's my big surprise. An old friend, a dear friend, my parents present him as, someone I was very close to, someone who, allegedly, will help me remember. I can't tell if this is some kind of test, an attempt to catch me how. out. But would Kieran agree to such a thing? And why, why, why would they even bring him here? That would be cruel, even for them. Kieran walks over to me and I stand. He hugs me. I have to hug him back. How can I not without blowing my cover? The hesitancy I feel is real, not part of my act, but even touching that boy makes my skin crawl. I can't let it show. Can't let it show. What the fuck is going on?

Kieran Jennings was my sister's stalker. Kieran Jennings is the reason we're not a family anymore. If I'm honest, Kieran Jennings is the reason I went off the rails. No, that's not fair. I'm the reason I went off the rails. Have to take responsibility. But Kieran didn't help. Kieran certainly didn't help.

And yes, Kieran wasn't responsible for what my sister did. He loved her. He wanted her to love him, but she didn't love him. And it turned out, my sister had something festering deep inside her brain that caused a devastating effect upon her psyche when someone obsessed over her that deeply, that intensely, that relentlessly, to the point he would not take no for an answer. Something that caused her to take her own life. I found her when I was 13, found her hanging in the barn at the back of our property. I found the note that I showed to mom and dad, the ink already running from the wetness of my tears.

I cannot do this anymore. He won't leave me alone. His love is suffocating me. Goodbye. Of course, we didn't know she meant Kieran Jennings at the time. That came to light after they searched her laptop, her social media, the letters she kept in her drawer.

He left her notes, pages and pages of notes confessing his love. He sent her messages, confessing his love, nothing sexual, nothing rapy, just a passionate, intense, burning love that was not reciprocated and scared her and would have scared me too, but she never confided in me. And then she killed herself. Alana, I can say her name. Alana Randall, my twin sister. driven to death by a love-sick 13-year-old boy who couldn't take no for an answer,

but also could have had no idea that being loved, even in so toxic a way, could cut Alana's so deep. So Kieran Jennings has never been my close friend. Even back then, he was never my friend. He was Alanas. He is certainly not my best friend. He is certainly not someone my parents should be reintroducing me to as if they're reconnecting me with the love of my life. I hated him for what he did to Alana,

in a disassociated, I don't know much about it, way. But my parents hated him more. I hated him vicariously through them. I overheard them talking about it, overheard mom talking dad down from going and breaking that kid's scrawny neck. And then he drifted out of our lives, and they stopped mentioning him, at least in front of me. Karing Jennings has had no place in my life.

in the five years since my sister Alana died. So why is he back now? Why are my parents saying they'll leave us alone to get reacquainted? Why is Kieran now sitting here across from me in the living room, pointedly holding my gaze, telling me about times we've spent together in the last five years that never happened? I want to scream at him. I want to call Mom and Dad for help and tell them all the madness he's telling me.

But why did they bring him here? It makes no sense. It makes no sense at all. It's like they lost their memories, not me. Kieran is talking about a time last summer when we did a tour of all the art galleries and museums in Phoenix. This never happened. I did do that tour, but I did it alone. A break from the maelstrom that was my life. At the end of the second day, we got tacos at this one tiny taco stand. And they were the best gosh darn tacos you ever had. Oh my God. You said you'd never forget the taste as long as you live. Do you remember that?

Do you remember the taste? I don't even like tacos. I haven't eaten one since I was a preteen. I, I think, maybe I do. They were, they were real spicy, right? Kieran nods emphatically. Yes, so spicy you said your tongue felt like it was burning off, but you loved it. And ever since then, you've been a big fan of spicy food.

Remember? I do not remember. I hate spicy food. I remembered that I hate spicy food. I lie anyway. I think I remember. After Alana hanged herself, Mom and Dad took all the pictures of her down.

They said it was to help me heal. But then I went off the rails, and I guess they thought I was past healing. so a few of the framed photos had gone back up over the years. I didn't notice at first, and I feel like a terrible sister. But since I got out of the hospital, they're all gone again. I bring up our family over dinner. I haven't been asking questions.

Apparently most amnesiacs don't. They wait for information to be volunteered. So mom and dad jumped at the chance to respond to me. I asked questions about our family. birthdays, holidays, extended family. I was trying to strike a balance between not giving anything away and getting them to confirm the existence of Alana to me. Not once did they ever mention that I used to have a twin sister.

I've gone through my room, looking for the few traces of Alana I'd kept, a shoebox under my bed with a couple Polaroids of she and I together. It's gone. I look up old online blogs of mine which would mention her that I show, shouldn't be able to remember and access. They've all been deleted, like someone got there before me.

Someone, mom and dad presumably, has scrubbed all trace of Alana from my life in any possible way I could discover. Okay, sure, I initially think. They're trying to erase my trauma and give me a real fresh start. Excessive, gross, but well-meaning. And then it strikes me. What if I get my memories back? How are they going to explain that a way? None of this adds up. None of this makes sense. Do they know? Are they testing me in the cruelest way?

I know. I know that my parents had grown to hate me before my accident. They loved me, but they hated me. But this would be a malevolent and vicious way to expose my lie, even for the contempt they have for me. Wouldn't it? They're not wicked people. They wouldn't torture me. So what's going on? They invite Kieran Jennings over again. This time they encourage us to go to the nearby park. We spent a lot of time there together in the last few years, they claim. Kieran is more than happy to chaperone me. All the while, he asks me about memories that never happened, people I know of but never hung out with, his friends, Alana's old friends. I notice he never suggests we should meet up with any of them. Maybe because they'd mention Alana? I don't know. I'm incredibly confused and scared, but I can't

break my cover, partially because I don't think I could face the betrayal my parents would no doubt feel, and partially because I need to see where this is going. Why this is going? I'm the one with the fake amnesia, and yet it feels like everyone else's memories have been altered to create a new reality. But that's not possible. So the only remaining explanation is that Kieran and my parents are in on this together. But what is this? What is the point? How can it be sustained? None of it makes sense. I'm starting to wonder if I did lose my memory in the accident, or change it, at least. I can find no trace that Alana existed. But all my old things were still here when I got out of the hospital.

Things I remember. Just nothing with any trace of Alana. Although maybe it does make sense. The music I liked, the things I owned, why would they have to be wrong? Maybe only some of it changed. I don't know. I don't know.

My parents are suddenly observing me all the time now. They won't let me see anyone other than Kieran. Not aggressively, not in such a way I'd notice if I wasn't looking out for it, but they make sure my time is spent between them, Kieran, and being made to take it easy. Maybe when the car hit me, it hit me sideways into a parallel reality. There are theories about things like that, right? A reality where Alana never existed and Kieran and I were friends and my parents love him. I pretended to lose my memory and now I'm losing my mind.

Kieran is dropping by later on. We're going to the movies. Today, the bombshell happened. Mom, dad, and Kieran gathered together in our living room and called me in. They told me they had something important to tell me, something they'd been waiting to share until I was strong enough to hear it. They told me that Kieran was my boyfriend, that we'd been dating for two years before me.

my accident. They told me I didn't need to act on it now, that I could take my time. But they all looked at me expectantly as they told me they hoped that one day the love I used to feel for him would come back, that I should try to make it come back. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to scream. Instead, I nodded and told them all I needed time to digest this. Now I'm here once again trying to find clues. Where is Alana's obituary? I've had it bookmarked for years. Ever since I got out of hospital, it's been 404 not found. And she was a 13-year-old girl when she died. She had no social media presence back then anyway. Mom and dad wouldn't allow it. No online footprint, no achievements that made the local paper, nothing. One day, when mom and dad were out, I found our old

family photo albums. No Alana, of course, but there were many blank pages. You can't tell if something used to be there. But I remember there used to be a lot more pictures. They used to be full. Someone's removed them. I know I'm not going crazy, which means mom and dad are, and somehow Kieran is at the center of it. He thinks I don't know, but I do. I have the El element of surprise. I'm going to confront him. We sit at the top of the hill overlooking town. A picnic basket spread out between us. So, how do you feel after what we told you yesterday? My hand rests on my purse, in which I've stashed away a kitchen knife and a small can of mace I ordered online. I know he weren't. I know everything. The flicker in his eyes makes me wonder

for a moment if he doesn't know. And then his expression changes. He knows. He knows everything. How the fuck did you convince mom and dad to be in on it? Kieran laughs. I've always kept an eye on you, Lisa. Ever since Alana died.

Why would I not? You're the spitting image of her. But you were nothing like her. Surly, sullen, bitchy. And then, well, you went, off the rails. Underage drinking, smoking, shoplifting, dressing provocatively sleeping around. Slutty.

He became a slut. You weren't good enough for me, not like that. But you looked so much like her. It was so hard. If only there was some way to make you her. And then it happened. You lost your goddamn memory. Holy crap.

I knew if I could get access to you, I could feed you whatever I wanted. Turn you to the girl I needed you to be. But the problem was how. Your parents still despised me, blamed me for Alana's death. That wasn't my fault, by the way. All I did was love her. All I did was send her notes. Messages asked her out a few times.

How did I know she was so broken inside? Fuck you! You should have stopped the first time she asked you to. Yes, you didn't mean for her to die, but maybe she asked you to stop for a reason. Ever think of that? Or maybe you should just respect people. Kieran handwaves this away. I was looking up shit about amnesia when I found it, purely by chance.

You're going to scoff when I tell you. It's going to sound stupidly Hollywood, but I promise you, it's not. So there's this ritual. This ritual you can do to rewrite. someone's memories. Proper grim, dark magic from the most esoteric realms of the occult and it's not like sacrifice

a chicken and a pentagram, summon a snarling demon crap. The ritual was revolting, vile, the ways I had to debase myself. I can understand why there are no reports of anyone trying it. And the results,

it's not spooky, scary magic, it's disgusting. There are actual, spiritual parasites living in your parents' brains, eating their memories and shitting out new ones, the ones I dictated. The thing is, they only work at a very specific time. When the subject has experienced abject, hopeless grief, and then a sudden joy. The sudden ricochet of emotions makes a person's mind most vulnerable. It makes sense when you think about it. So your parents went from having lost one daughter and possibly about to lose a second to having you back.

And you'd lost your memory, so you'd returned as a much better person. Imagine the relief, knowing their awful daughter had overnight become someone to be proud of. I really should thank you. Fuck you. Fuck you. My hand is in my purse now. I move past the mace and grip the knife. So I rewrote things and inserted myself into your life. I sacrificed a lot to do it.

But it was worth it. I thought it was all worth it. And all this time you've been fucking faking it? And what about Alana's obituary? How did you remove that? That was the least exciting part of the whole thing. It's our local damn paper. So easy to hack.

What was harder was breaking into your parents' house to remove all the photos of Alana. They wouldn't have made sense to your parents, but who knows what confusion they might have caused. So, the day after the ritual, I made sure they had memories of needing to be out for a day. And I'd have trawl through your whole damn house, getting rid of any trace.

So boring. I shudder. Thinking of Kieran pawing through my things. Undo it. Undo what you've done. Can't. It's literally impossible. Like I said, this isn't some bewildering.

some Hollywood magic. This is parasites literally eating the memories from their brain. They're gone. They can't be returned. And now what do I do? I can't do the same to you because how am I going to make you experience intense grief followed by intense joy? It's not something you can just manufacture.

I remove my hand from the knife. Maybe we can work this out. Maybe we can make it work. Can you give me some time to think, Kieran? Can you do that for me? He looks momentarily skeptical. Then he smiles. Then we eat our picnic.

I'm glad my brain works as fast as it does. That night, I find the brain parasite ritual he was talking about. Sure enough, it exists. When I read the instructions of how to perform the ritual, I have to stifle vomiting. Then I imagine Kieran doing it and feel better. Then I remember I need to do it, and I do run to the bathroom and vomit. It takes me three days to do everything I need to do,

three days of doing unspeakable, vile things to myself. Some will leave scars physically, all will leave scars emotionally. And I think, I think, yes, I'm doing this for me. but mostly I'm doing it for them. And finally, it is done, and I feel like my body isn't my own anymore. And I hope that gets better in time. I don't think it will, but I hope it does.

I dispose of the excess maggots and flies. I dispose of the remaining rotten meat. I dispose of the razor blades, the needles, the roadkill. I keep my four-backed teeth in a pouch in a drawer, but I dispose of the pliers I use to remove them. I burn the leeches and the bloody sheets in an oil drum in the woods, and into that burning barrel I dropped three sheets of paper, three sheets of paper with three rewritten mines.

I think about adding my own, but the sight against it. Who knows what might happen? When I go downstairs today, Mom hugs me. You know, we're real proud of you, honey, right? I hug her back. I know, Mom. You've done so well since your accident. Thanks, Dad.

You've always been such a perfect daughter. I don't know about that, Dad. But I try. Nobody knows what drove Kieran Jennings to start slicing off pieces of his flesh and eating them. He locked himself away in his room over the course of a week while his dad was away and literally ate himself to death, raw. It was talked about a little in the local paper. He was over 18, after all, an adult.

One psychologist said it was a little. Like he suddenly developed a mental illness that compelled him to do it. Like something in his mind kept telling him this is what he had to do. So he did. Almost like the thought had been put into his mind. This episode was produced by Phil Mikulski. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. No masks were harmed in the creation of these works.

Whatever lies behind those masks, though, who can say, and say, This audio production is copyright 2021 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved. The copyrights for the stories 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.