The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Sleepless Decompositions Vol. 25

Episode Date: August 16, 2026

We have a PhD in horror this week as we present two tales about doomed docs from our Sleepless Decompositions."The Dead Are a River" by Shawn Brooks (Story starts around 00:04:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Jeff ClementCast: Narrator - Ash Millman, Dr. Winston Carlisle - Andy Cresswell, Clifford Walker - Jake Benson, Marcus - James Cleveland, Martha - Erika Sanderson"Camera Obscura" by C. E. Rex (Story starts around 00:30:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by Claudius MooreCast: Dr Mark Royland Jones - David AultThis episode is sponsored by:Weight Loss by Hims - Ready to reach your weight loss goals? Weight Loss by Hims and WegovyÆ. Get a personalized, affordable plan that gets you. Go to Hims.com/nosleep.Indacloud - IndaCloud is a fully legal online cannabis dispensary for gummies, exotic flower, premium prerolls, Zero Sugar THC Sodas, Energy Gummies, and Extra Strength Sleep Gummies. If you're 21 or older, go to indacloud.co/nosleep to get 30% off your first order.Betterhelp - This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Take a step towards a better you. Our listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com/nosleep.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamCheck out our NEW MERCH!Click here to learn more about Shawn Brooks Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Sleepless Decompositions" illustration courtesy of Kelly TurnbullThe NoSleep Podcast is Human-made for Human Minds. No generative AI is used in any aspect of work.Audio program ©2026 - Creative Reason Media - 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. No part of this audio program may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. All rights reserved.

Greetings, sleepless listeners. Thank you for joining us. And welcome to Sleepless Decompositions, Volume 25. I'm your host, David Cummings. With Season 25 launching next week, we're making sure everything is set to go for the new season. And just like all those college students heading to University this time of year, we have to make sure we're physically fit enough to go.

So we're topping up our vaccines and getting our checkups to ensure our bodies can last us another season. And we need to be fit enough to handle the horror we have in store for you. It's a good thing horror and doctors go hand in hand. If I mention names like Jackal, Lecter, or Frankenstein, you'll recognize doctors who have been prescribed to us from the annals of classic horror. It's only fitting that the tales we have for you this week feature doctors who are struggling to deal with the strange, esoteric, and just plain bizarre things they encounter.

And of course, not all doctors are of the medical variety, so whether it's our bodies or our minds, we can only hope to hold on to whatever health we can muster. And we're grateful for the sponsors who keep us in good shape and allow us to give you all these stories absolutely free of charge. And it's appropriate to be talking about our health these days, like me. Many of us are trying to be healthier and leaner. And this summer, you can hit your weight loss goals with weight loss by HIMS.

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So, dear listeners, get those clothes off and put on this gown. Opening to the back, please. The doctor will be in to see you shortly. And don't mind all those long, sharp needles over there. You won't feel a thing. But be certain to brace yourself for our sleepless decompositions. In our first tale, we joined Dr. Carlyle at his new job. Working in a sanatorium means he's dealing with patients whose minds are in dire need of healing.

But in this tale, shared with us by author, Sean Brom. Brooks. There's one patient in particular who has vexed the good doctor, and it might take everything he has to determine how best to help him. Performing this tale are Ash Millman, Andy Cresswell, Jake Benson, James Cleveland, and Erica Sanderson. So while we usually support a person's curse of being unable to sleep, we recognize how awful it must be to know the dead are unlawed River. Dr. Winston Carlisle smoked his pipe as he read the patient's chart. Name, Clifford Walker, age 32, was stationed in Singapore in 1942 when the Japanese took over, spent the next two years in a POW camp in Burma until liberated by an Indian detachment, has been living with

his mother in Bristol since his release in Burma to the autumn of 1949, voluntarily checked himself into the sparrowhead sanatorium due to vivid nightmares most likely attributed to war neurosis. Patient does not sleep, yet it is not a danger to himself or others. Has requested to be lobotomized. Thus ended his predecessor's scrawled notes on the man. Winston puffed smoke to the gloomy ceiling of his office. Watched it descend until it broke on the sickly yellow and flickering light fixture. He could see dead flies entombed in the dirty glass casing.

If he tried hard enough, you could imagine they're buzzing. He had taken up his post at Sparrowhead last week, having transferred from a quite comfortable stint over with his private practice in London. But times were tough, and he soon lost all he had built in the city. He shut his eyes and thought of Martha's smile. So back to a sanatorium it was for him. He detested lobotomies and other barbaric remnants of an older time, felt his stomach twist in on its sense.

upon reading Mr Walker's request. Mr Walker was to be his first patient here, a man who had spent the last three months, on his own volition, locked up in this horrid excuse for a bastion of mental hygiene. And now he was seeing Winston to obtain recommendation

for a most invasive and irreparable procedure. Winston resolved himself, rose, and opened the door. Lucy, bring in Mr. Walker, if you please. He sat back in his tattered leather chair. sighed. It was like he had just given up the ghost just then. The patient entered the room under the watch of a pudgy orderly with a menacing face.

Winston was sure he was abusing the patients, especially over at the women's ward. That will be all. The orderly scowled, yet his eyes were vacant as he left. Winston made a note to keep watch on the man. Please, take a seat. Mr Walker stood behind a plastic chair, his skeletal fingers grazing the headrest. His eyes were a stark red. A slight tremor ran through his frame like wind through paper.

Winston was at once reminded of opium users in the Orient and how their bodies fell into disrepair due to that accursed drug. Mr. Walker glanced at Winston. Eyes then darted to the corners of the room as of expecting something to lunge out at him. Mr Walker, we cannot present. proceed until you take a seat, if you please. Winston waved his wrinkled hand at the chair. The patient finally sat down, yet his body was tense, as if he might spring up at any moment.

How's that? He names Cliff. Very well, then. Cliff. What would you like to discuss today? Winston was not one of those psychiatrists of days gone by, the ones to introduce their patients to the blade and to barrels of chemicals at first glance. He believed in the power of talking things out, much to the shaking of of his colleague's heads. Cliff's lower lip twitched. His head jerked slightly upwards. Winston noted

that the man hadn't blinked yet. Hey, I want you to lobotomize me. Winston swallowed his spit. A most unusual request, Mr. Cliff. Why may I ask, would you want to me to do that. Don't matter why, I just wants it, mind. Needs it, more like, yeah, needs it, mind. He spoke in sputtering jerks and stops. A bit of drool coalesced around his lips like froth. No, I don't think I shall entertain this, Cliff.

Not unless you talk to me. Does this have to do with the nightmares? Cliff laid his dried scarlet eyes on the doctors. Winston felt his shoulders tense. He thought he could hear a buzzing. Yes, I want him to end. His voice broke out into a strangled sob. I empathise with you, Cliff.

I really do. I will do all in my power to help you through these maladies. But lobotomies are really a last resort. The last doc promised me. Ah, yes, Dr. Maxwell. He is no longer with us, I'm afraid. Cliff's eyes stretched even wider, if that were possible. Winston thought about pursuing the man's obvious shock at the news,

but he really needed to get back to Martha. All this talk of lobotomies was upsetting his mood. What kind of nightmares are you having? Can't tell you. May I ask, why not? Cliff looked at the wall to his right, as if he could see through the grandfather clock into the cafeteria next door.

Cliff, if you won't speak with me, I will just have to send you back to your room. No, I will talk. But not about them dreams. I told Maxwell and he's gone now, ain't he? Just like my mum. Winston arched an eyebrow at this. I'm terribly sorry.

I was not informed about your mother's passing. I came to see me last month, told about the dreams. And the error was gone. A single tear sparkled to life in the sea of red that was Cliff's right eye. It looked like the wetness stung him. His eye warbled and flinched. Winston, despite his impatience, was growing sorry for the man.

I'll talk. Say what I can, but not everything. For your protection, mind. Winston nodded and readied his pen. And if I talk, you can promise to scoop out my brain, so in vision don't come back no more. Winston swallowed the stomach acid rising in his throat, prepared for the lie.

Sure. Cliff nodded and wrung his hands. It happened back in the war, meaning the boys got taken prisoner by them japs. You wouldn't believe the evil things them animals done to us. My mate Richard had bamboo shoved right under his fingernails. Proper popped each of him right off.

You ever seen violence like that? Not quite. I was stationed as a soldier in Palestine for a year when I was a younger man. Saw quite a few riots, but nothing like what you saw. Right, right. That's good. The Jabs weren't always so bad. Sometimes they would give us extra rice,

and if it was real good like, they'd even let some of us out at work duties for a day. So poor sods like Richard. ones who couldn't keep her mouth shut. Cliff showed Winston his dirty nails, mimed pulling them out one by one with a sadistic grin. He still hadn't blinked yet. Anyway, one day we was out digging trenches for him around the camp

in case our blokes were to come and spring us one day, filled them up with these little bamboo sticks. We sharpened into spikes. Did this for a good two weeks, digging and filling, and our skin getting sliced up by all manner of crazy bugs. Cliff blinked. In a moment he went from gleefully,

if not morbidly recounting his story, to full-on panic. He leapt out of his chair and kicked it over, flattened his back to the wall. Eyes open again, body shaking like that paper in a hurricane now. Winston was used to outbursts like this. Even so, this one unnerved him,

seemingly out of nowhere. All the man did was close his eyes. I'm sorry. I'm open. Okay. Cliff picked up his chair and sat back down. If you would like, we can always reconvene tomorrow. No, today. This has to end today. Very well. Would you care to explain what just happened?

I will, mind. Let me tell the story first. There we was, digging him trenches of sticks. One day the good old blocs did come. Gunfire exploding all rounders like Jesus were coming back in the sky with all his I thought this was it. God had come to save us. He crossed himself. Then I heard the screaming. Not the Japs, they were quiet, though, like they was listening to those screams and reverence. Me and we made Bob dug out a hole in our hut

to see what was happening. And there they were. Our blokes, good old British boys. Impaled like sausages on those sticks we had been whittling for the Japs. But I'm sure this one boy No older than me A stick poking right out through his chest He was still alive

And looking at me Tame my eyes Until he was dead I think it was my stick that killed him Don't ask how I know I just do Dear God That is awful

No wonder your mind suffers Cliff smiled tightly So tightly it seemed his teeth would crack apart What did it, Doc? And I can't tell you what did Unless you want what I got That boy, I think he had it And passed it to me

He saw it and that's why I saw it then too Like the clap, mine Passing it along like some fucking disease And now I sees it Every time I close me eyes. Winston leaned forward. See what, man?

Tell me. Cliff smiled, but the gesture only served to sadden the air itself. The dead or a river. And he's all around us, dark, all the time. That's all I got to say on the matter. Now, if you please, do about my brain now. He sat back in the chair, and somehow it seems, seemed his skeleton had vacated and left his body a loose rag of flesh draped over the seat.

Mr. Cliff, I cannot lobotomize you. You are unwell and do not deserve the life. The lack of life that procedure would leave you to. Meet with me every day at this time and let's talk you through this. I can help you. Winston thought of Martha at home, laid up in bed and paralyzed. waiting for him to relieve the nurse and wash her body and keep her company. He would help her too.

He had to. Cliff said nothing. His sunken cheeks fell further into his skull. The only sound was the buzzing. Yes, the distinct buzzing now, from the flies in the light. Winston jerked his head to the light and saw nothing. Looked back at the patient and he was now mere inches from Winston's face. He grabbed on to the doctor and spit in his face.

You lie to me. They'll get me, mind? When I shut my eyes, I see him crawling in the walls, getting closer to me. Winston pried the man's hands off his jacket. Cliff was a very weak man and couldn't hold on. Get a hold of yourself, man. Cliff broke down into sobs. Shut his eyes as the tears streamed down.

Then he was screaming. in the wall he kept his eyes shut he was pushing through you know it the orderly burst into the room and laid his hands on cliff shoulders he kept his eyes shut

you make mont and slithering burned on stil the orderly pulled cliff out of the office and back to his cell Winston could hear him screaming all the way until his voice dimmed to a muffled groan behind

many padded walls his heart rammed into his sternum and he felt light-headed. Too much excitement for one day. Winston jotted down his final thoughts on his notepad, smoked his pipe until he calmed down, thinking of that poor soul and how he could be of assistance to him, stood and put on his winter coat. As he was leaving the office, about to shut the door, he heard buzzing. Winston lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Martha was down the hall in a specially made bed. Tonight had been a row. one. She hardly recognised him, had soiled herself immediately after the nurse had left,

spent the last hour screaming for her mother until she finally calmed down and went to sleep. It was some time after midnight now, and Winston was utterly exhausted, yet he couldn't sleep. In the walls under the floor, rat teeth. The ravings of a lunatic, to be sure, though even a full-grown man, one educated in the scientific regards of reason at that, can be susceptible to bumps in the night. And there was that buzzing. Winston's search for its source, but couldn't find it. There must have been a fly, or two, maybe even three of them, hiding in the corner of his room and out of sight. The phone out in the main hall rang. Oh, for God's sake. Oh! Winston cursed and groaned and got out of bed.

He never received calls at this hour unless it was some dire news. He answered it. Speaking, I'm afraid you'll have to explain yourself fully first. I cannot leave my wife unattended at this hour. The words struck like a gong in a hollow night, as if they were being spoken by a ghost and received by someone who was not him. I'm sorry? Nothing.

Why did the police wish to speak with me? Winston agreed and ended the call. got dressed in his room and snuck in a peek on Martha. She was there in her custom-made bed, not making a sound. But something else was, scratching from the corner near the window. Winston stepped into the room, not turning on the lights to disturb Martha. It was like mice scratching at wood. In the walls.

Rat teeth. Despite his winter coat, Winston shivered at the thought. grew colder still thinking that Cliff had been inches from his throat holding a secret knife on his person the whole time. The scratching stopped. Maybe it had never been there. Winston turned to leave, looking at his wife one last time. Noticed her chest wasn't rising as it should have been.

Martha? He rushed over and flipped on the lamp by her bed. The light cast its pale blue glow on her face, making it appear corpse-like. Appear. Yes, only appear. He shook her shoulders. Martha. She didn't wake.

Winston checked for her pulse but felt none. Only the powdery coolness of her skin. Martha! He applied the Sylvester method and moved her arms up and down to restart her heart. But she did not move, did not breathe, buzzing from the lamp, scratching from under the floorboards. It was Martha's voice, cold and distant, but she did not move her lips. The lights went out.

Winston squeezed her lifeless hands and let a prayer out to a God he hadn't spoken to in decades. He shut his tear-filled eyes and saw it what poor Cliff must have seen. With his eyes shut, he saw Martha's bed, yet she was not on it. Something underneath the bed pressed itself into the mattress like a man straining again. against latex. He saw a bulge that could have been a malformed head pushing its way through, could hear the gnawing of teeth on wood and the moaning of a heartbroken woman. Then he opened his eyes and there was nothing, nothing save for the dead body of his wife. He shut his eyes again. There were everywhere, the pressing things. There was one under the mattress, several under the

floor, in the walls, even one in the ceiling. The sound came as if she was. at the bottom of a mine shaft. The pressing things moaned and shuffled under the surfaces. Floed on by like there were a... like there were a river just under the material world. Hundreds of souls screaming, crying out for their loved ones. He couldn't hear Martha anymore.

She had flowed on down that river out to a dark sea. To me. Winston couldn't open his eyes. He was morbidly glued to the experience. experience. Something clawed at the wall. He saw dark hands scrape through wallpaper and rip it open. Saw two tiny red eyes peering out from the infinite dark. He saw teeth glint in that red light of the eyes. Rat teeth. Winston opened his eyes. The room was as it always had been. No more than an ordinary room. Quiet. Martha, dead on the bed.

and two tears in the wallpaper. No darkness beyond, just would. Nevertheless, it was torn. Winston almost blinked but forced himself not to. Now he understood. The dead are a river. Around us all the time. And there was no comfort in that thought.

He went straight into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. Let's take a short break for our sponsors who help us keep our heads above water. For waves of ad-free horror content, join our sleepless universe by going to sleepless. The nosleeppodcast.com. I can sort of relate to that, doctor. As the summer comes to an end, I'm starting to feel like I might never sleep again. The season of fun in the sun and relaxation doesn't quite feel like that, does it? That's why a lot of people are looking for small ways to make the summer season feel easier to move through.

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For 30% off, shipped routinely and discreetly to your door, plus free gifts on qualifying orders. And don't forget to fill out the quick survey when you order to support this show. As always, please enjoy responsibly, and a huge thanks to Indicloud for helping everybody enjoy the last stretch of the season with a little more ease, a little more presence,

and a little more time for the moments that matter. And it's rather appropriate for an episode about struggles with mental health being sponsored by BetterHelp. You've heard me talk about BetterHelp for a long time, but I don't know that we've ever actually talked about how much people love this service when they use it. One of the reasons BetterHelp keeps supporting us is because many sleepless listeners have reached out to BetterHelp for therapy, and they've discovered how effective it can be. You can check it out yourself at BetterHelp.com slash reviews to see amazing customer reviews in real time. The reviews are updated every day with hundreds of people saying how much they love BetterHelp and how helpful it's been to them. Please visit BetterHelp.com slash reviews to see for yourself. BetterHelp has an average live therapy session rating of 4.9 out of 5 based on over 1.7 million client's session reviews.

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Yes, maths, plural. That might give you a hint about which country this takes place in. Because in Britain, maths is short for mathematics. Hear that S on the end? So with that cleared up, let's experience this tale. Shared with us by author C.E. Rex. We shall hear extracts from the diary of Dr. Mark Royland Jones, late professor of mathematics at University College, Bristol, England.

Dr. Jones has moved into the house of his predecessor, and he finds therein a library containing the history of the region, a history best described as esoteric. Performing this tale is David Alt. So make your observations, advises. it's not easy to focus when you use a camera obscure. Sunday 6th of October 1878. Evening.

Oh, how I have longed to be home. It was with a gladdened heart that I stepped three days ago from the train to see the rooftops of my beloved Bristol, and, looming beyond them, the new suspension bridge that is my city's dearest pride. How happy I am to be here once again, back in the life of my dearest wife Lucy and in the employ of the new college

which has been established in the city of my birth. The principal of the college has been most kind in lending me his trust after that unfortunate business last year, which is upon my word over and forgotten forever. If only I could persuade my sweet wife to see things the same way. The house which we now call our home is fine and large enough that, as a child in the workhouse, I would have thought it a palace.

Now I am returned to the city as a wealthy man. I am determined to partake of its pleasures which were always denied to me during my upbringing. My childhood was beset by a poverty which I have, with the Lord's good grace, be moving steadily away from in the 20 years since I won that most coveted scholarship. Oh, but when I look back on the young boy I was, clothed in rags, and see how far I have come. That young lad could certainly not have attended the theatre, or taken his wife to marvel at the tigers in the zoological gardens, much less sampled tea and fine cakes in Bath's grand pump room. Classes do not begin at the college until next week, and so I have decided to spend this time reacquainting myself with my city.

Yesterday I took myself up alone to the observatory, which sits proud on the hill immediately behind the majestic suspension bridge, and higher even, as if watching over the population with a singular beady eye. And what an eye! I was not aware until now that the observatory is home to a camera obscura, which was of course the subject of many a frustrating exercise completed during my undergraduate study. An exercise is one thing, however, but to actually see one in operation is quite another. This dark box, with its pinhole mechanism, gives one a clear view over the rooftops and spires of the city, as well as into the murky waters of the Avon River far below.

That deep vein of dark blood flowing through the valley looks deceptively peaceful when viewed through a camera, although I know too well what subtle violence it hides beneath the surface. I watched as young couples strolled upon nearby Brandon Hill, as a lady with a perambulator wrestled with the unruly baby within, and as an old man, gnarled and withered as I one day shall be, made his painful way along the Cobbles Street. It occurs to me that what this mechanism really shows is the truth, made small and secret glimpsed greedily from within a darkened room. Whilst I was there, I decided I would

also venture into Geistons Cave, or what we would have called in my youth the Giant's Cave. This is a small, claustrophobic cavern which can be accessed via a steep passage through an unassuming door within the observatory itself. It is a tight squeeze and a deeply unpleasant journey down through the rocks of the cliffs, but if one can stomach the climb, one will emerge at a point hundreds of feet below the cliff top, a sanctuary which has been used for many different purposes over the years. It has a haunting quality, unlike most caves I have been inside, almost as if the very rock walls contain the memories of those long-ago ancestors, the sounds of their voices locked into the stone. In the daylight it is hard to believe such fanciful ideas. In the gloom of the cavern, however,

it is easy to believe one hears the whispers of those long dead. In fact, this impression rather accords with intelligence I was given by a fellow I got talking to when I re-emerged, who informed me that in the years before the Romans came to these shores, the cave was used as a kind of pagan chapel. A subterranean church, ghastly indeed. The chap who had engaged me in conversation seemed to imply, with a dark look, that the worship they got up to may have been of the wickedest kind. mind. The cave does, upon reflection, have the air of a church. Quiet and still and almost holy, if holiness is conferred by the sense of an omnipotent presence, a breath close to your ear.

I was the only visitor on this occasion, which was just as well as the space in that cave is quite cramped and the ground very uneven. However, whilst I stood marvelling at the beauty of nature, I had caused to startle momentarily at what I thought was a movement behind me in the gloom. It looked from the corner of my vision like a person in a long robe of dirty white cloth. Silly of me, I turned and, of course, found myself alone. One other odd thing, though, once down there in the damp, chill silence, a thought came unbidden to my mind quite out of nowhere. It was as clear as if someone were speaking directly into my ear, so exact and urgent was this strange phrase in my mind, and it was as follows.

What worship does continue here? Monday, 7th of October, morning. Lucy was in low spirits last night. I had finished writing my entry shortly before dinner, and had thought to sit with her for some time, reading together and discussing the activities of our day, as we were wont to do before my sojourn, but she would not speak to me. She looks thinner and paler every day. I considered calling the doctor, but decided against it, for now, as she bid me leave her be. I dare not incur her bad humour, especially after she has so graciously forgiven me my her previous indiscretions. I left her sitting upright at her dressing table in the new lavish bedroom which I do not use,

staring into a dark corner. In place of conversation with my love, I instead turned to the library. Until now, I had not explored the many books which my predecessor, Professor Montague, left behind when he vacated this house, which is now our home. There are some real treasures. amongst the dusty tomes. A surprise struck me when I was pulling down some books from a particularly high shelf. Hidden amongst them was a slim box cast in dark wood, the size and shape of a small ledger. When I snapped the clasp open, I found within several items which looked as if they had been

hidden and disturbed for a great many years. One was a daguerre type of a young woman, yellowed and delicate with age, which I put aside after a few moments' cursory glance. To my delight, the second item I found was a small, green and leather-bound history of our fair city, right from the year 1200 to the present day. It is a terrific good read, but mostly focuses on the mystic. The cave I have previously mentioned, for example, is described here as a place not of work, ship, but of connection with the dead, a place where the supposed veil between our life and the next is worn ragged and thin as an old coat. This rather made me chuckle. The book also discusses in detail the mythology of the two giants, Geistin and Gorham, who are fabled to have created

many of the features of the surrounding landscape through their mountainous struggles. Gorham's dead body lying prone in the nearby estuary, is said to have become the islands which are viewable above the waters. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but I do appreciate the color in folk tales. Geistin is the namesake of that cave I visited yesterday, and although it shames me to say so, I felt quite a shiver as I flicked through the book to see a drawing of this supposed giant. The lines were crude and ugly as if rendered with charcoal and dirt, and the face of the giant was half in shadow. He was portrayed standing at the mouth of the Avon Gorge,

with the cliffs on either side reaching to his shoulders and his immense claw-like feet braced on either side of the river. In one hand he held what looked like the limp body of a ram, and in the other hand, was that a minute? minuscule dangling arm, a woman's hair falling over his massive fingers like a shift. His countenance was one of malevolent glee, and I thought to myself that I didn't much like whatever author had conjured such an image. With a snap, I closed the book and pushed it back onto the shelf. No such disturbing thoughts will trouble my mind, not any longer.

Tuesday, 8th of October. Evening. Lucy is speaking to me only sparsely. This old house is a fine and grand one, but it is empty, with no sounds of children in it. In the absence of meaningful pursuits, my thoughts turn once more to that small dark box and its strange book of horrors. I must admit that having banished it unceremoniously from my life, it seemed to call to me. with a kind of sick allure. Once at Cambridge, I accompanied my friend who studied medicine to an open operating theatre

at which all his fellow students were to attend and observe. The subject was the amputation of a gangrenous finger. At the time, being sneaked into such a serious event seemed a bit of a jabe. Once the procedure was begun, a change came over me. As I watched the surgeon apply a tourniquet and begin to work, I felt a powerful pull, a fascination, and I couldn't look away for love or for money. The sight both repulsed and thrilled me, and I left the theatre with a flush in my cheeks and a nausea in my throat.

This box then had the same effect on me as the surgeon's knife. I had to see more. I could not look away. I once again took down that black box from its place on the shelf and opened it up with a delicious shiver. I took out the little green book and weighed it in my palm. It felt hefty, satisfying in the hand. I was just about to cast the box aside, my quarry claimed. When I paused at the sight of the daguerreotype I had so thoughtlessly passed over before,

It was an odd thing. It was dated, perhaps by 30 years or more, but the young woman represented in its faded image had the look of someone from a much older period even than that. Her clothes were simple and ugly in the peasant style and of the purest white, almost like a burial shroud. Her expression was shrewd and somehow wicked, as if aware of some harm which was soon.

to come to another person and reveling in that knowledge. This woman liked to watch, I thought, and then wondered where the thought had come from. I took up the picture, meaning in a sudden inexplicable frenzy of mind to burn it, and it was at that moment I realized that there was another portrait underneath. I had at first overlooked it, stuck as it was to the first with the gum of age and grime. This was a photograph in the modern style, and the sight of it made me pause for a moment perturbed. It was almost wholly dark, but for faint shadows in the foreground, as if there had not been sufficient light for the photographer to successfully capture the image.

The shadows, thin and ghost-like, looked to be several people grouped around a large, rough stone. If I squinted my eyes and brought the photograph so close to my face that my nose brushed the surface, I could imagine that the stone was in the shape of a huge human heart, a clenched fist, wrenched harshly from some gigantic chest, still beating and bloody. Wednesday, 9th of October, morning. A disturbing thing happened last night. As has become my custom, I went to bed at 10 or 11 o'clock, in the room beside the master bedroom, pausing briefly at the door to listen for Lucy's heavy sleeping breaths. I soon fell asleep. This house is drafty, but I have thick curtains around the bed, and a fire was burning lowly in the grate. The window was, of course,

firmly shut. This may seem an unnecessary detail, but without knowing this, nothing to follow may seem extraordinary. I was woken in the early hours. and it must have been very early, for the night sky outside was still as dark as pitch, by a sound close beside me. I started awake and lay still, listening. I began to shake violently from cold, as the air was as chill as if I were laying outside on the lawn. With a huff of frosted breath I pushed the curtain back and jumped almost clear out of my wits. The window was flung wide open against the wall and had seemingly been slammed with such force that the hinge was dangling broken and useless. I stood in my nightclothes for some minutes staring at the scene before me

until the cold became too much to bear. My first thought was to rush to Lucy's room and vouched that she was sleeping undisturbed, and this task completed, I returned to my icebox of a room. For the life of me I could not imagine what could have opened the window. There was no wind that I could detect. I supposed that the window bursting open must have been the sound that had awakened me and I resolved to close it as best I could, then attempt to return to sleep. I tried to push away the thought that truly the sound I had heard was not at all like that of a banging window, but was more like a kind of quiet whisper.

or a sigh. Also came the disquieting idea that it had seemed to come from a point a lot closer to me than the window, which was on the other side of the room. It had been right inside the drawn curtains of my bed, inside with me. I woke once again from uneasy dreams and found the house empty. My wife was gone out for the day. I breakfasted late, and I intended. to set out myself very shortly. Before I leave, however, I think I may stop by the library and collect that little green book, in order that I might carry it with me throughout the day to read if the fancy takes me. Evening. I have had a capital day about the town. It was a brisk and chill day, unseasonably so for autumn, which suited me well, as I was for the most part inside.

I spent most of my afternoon in the library. I began with works on the history of the area, and I took out the little book from my pocket, attempting to compare the information contained within with that which I found in my research. This task proved surprisingly difficult, however. I realised to my chagrin that the intelligence in at least one of these sources must be faulty, as the little green book spoke of events and places which the several learned tones in the library simply did not acknowledge. For example, there was no mention of mysticism connected to Geistons' cave anywhere in the histories,

less still of devilry or evil acts done down in the dark. I found some references to a small Christian chapel which had been connected to the cave at one time and had sadly been lost in a rock fall, but nothing at all of the occult or of the worship of lesser gods. Disappointed, I put these books aside and turned on to a new part. I began to devour every page I could find relating to the pagan belief in spirits or fiends. And this was simply academic curiosity, I hope you understand. I am certainly not the type of gentleman to allow an incident such as that last night to trouble my mind with thoughts of ghouls.

I am interested deeply, however, in the ways in which the simple peasant population of this land has expressed their fears about life, death and sin in their inclination to see dark fairies and malevolent forces in the very ordinary world. The majority of this material was diverting enough, but the most significant to my purposes were a few pages about witchcraft in the southwest and their sizes in Exeter, where the last witch was hanged some two centuries ago. Here, a mention was made of a coven at work in Bristol, which, had been admitted by some poor soul under torture.

What caught my attention was the illustration of the coven at their dreadful worship, clothed in long, pale robes, and gathered around a fearful idol. It was, I realized, an altar of sorts. But what kind of altar was this? It was shaped like none I have seen before, lumpen and squat, at least four feet high and just as many across. its surface pitted and not flat as an altar should be, it was more like a hunk of unpolished marble on a consecrated table and looked disquietingly organic, like a living, breathing creature which had

laid down one day and been turned to stone. Nothing in that vision looked to be consecrated, in fact, or to have ever known the Christian God. I shut the book, disturbed, and returned home, mind alive with a thousand thoughts. Night has fallen whilst I have been recording this entry. I can see from the window that they are lighting the gas lamps. Lucy has still not returned home. Thursday, 10th of October. Day.

Last night, I heard the sound again in my bedroom. It was a low sigh. I know that now. There could be no mistake. Somebody was in the room with me. I threw the curtain back, thinking for a moment it would be my dear wife returned to me. But I could see nothing in the gloom. No, that is a lie. I believed I saw something, but I know I must never admit to it,

lest I be accused of slipping once again from the here and now. I thought I saw a hand, a hand. on the hearthrug, a brilliantly white claw-like thing with a long arm trailing behind it into the darkness. There must have been a body attached to that terrible limb, but mercifully the shadows swallowed it up, so all I could see was this awful, scratching thing. It was crawling towards me. I know that in my bones, dragging itself low on the floor. But, it was crawling towards me. I know that in my bones, dragging itself low on the floor. But it cannot have been so.

I blinked and it was gone, do you see? So it was never really there. A trick of the light, perhaps, or a symptom of uneasy digestion. Yes, that's it. It is raining heavily today, as if the sky is whipping the earth and the winds have risen in the south over the hills.

When dawn broke this morning, and I was finally free from the paralysis of my nightmare, for nightmare it was, I know it must be so. I went to enter the room in which my wife was sleeping, and then paused and knocked in a cautious manner. I did not wish to wake her too harshly. I could hear her breathing lowly from the other side of the door, and remembered with a melancholy delight,

the nights which I had felt that breath on my door. my shoulder as I slept. We have been estranged in the bedroom for so long. I can barely remember what it felt like to have her warm body resting next to mine, her soft sighs, her caress. Lucy, I called out, voice quiet and trembling. My love, may I join you? At the time I believed I heard a whispered reply, but I know I must have been dreaming again, dreaming in the day, because the voice I heard was not my sweet Lucy's. It was harsh and mocking, an old Crohn's bleat, and I felt I had heard it before. My love, it said. My love, my love. I briskly returned to my own room. I shall stay home today and look over that.

green book once again. Night. I have been sitting with my pen in my hand, shaking and staring at the blank page before me. The house is silent. Lucy is once again sleeping, and the night is full of the absence of her. I am glad she is not suffering as I am, seeing the things I have seen. I could not have believed what I witnessed today had I not been able to read back through my writings from the past few days to make certain that I had not imagined it. But no, my judgment is true. At least now, it is true. Yesterday, when I glanced at that daguerreotype, it depicted a young woman, plain-faced, but very real.

Today, however, there is no woman. When I took the box down from the shelf and lifted out the photographs, I saw that the picture of the gloomy scene of worship was unchanged. But the other, I seemed to see before me a photograph of myself, as I was as a child in the workhouse, standing alone and clad in rags in that hateful, draughty room in which all the boys slept. But what was this devilry? I certainly had never had a photograph taken of me at that age, least of all posed on my knees as if in prayer as I was in that image.

But it was certainly me, unquestionably. The haunted look in my own childhood eyes hurt my heart to see. As I studied the impossible thing, I felt a breath on the back of my neck. Not a gust of wind, as you may be thinking, a breath. hot and quick, and accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a sigh. I whirled round faster than a dervish, and cried out, alarmed, but there was, of course, nobody there. I resolved there and then to put an end to this ludicrous parlour game.

I grabbed up the two photographs and a little green book, throwing the dark box to the ground in my disgust, and bundled them straight into the fire which was roaring in the grate. I watched as the face of the child which had been me begin to curl and melt and then to burn. This seemed to warm me immeasurably. I came here to write in my journal, and from here I will go to where this may all be ended. If I write again, it is because I have succeeded. If I do not, I have failed.

Adieu, Lucy. Friday. I did not succeed in my task. I set out from the house yesterday, desperate to return to the giant's cave, for I had grown sure that this was where I would find my answers. I fear that something followed me when I left that unholy chasm in the earth, something which has haunted me in the nights since, and I am afraid that if I do not see it through,

then I will never lay in peace again. I was thwarted, however, as a thick bank of fog had risen up overnight and surrounded the house in which I slept so uneasily. It was the most bizarre and unearthly fog I have ever experienced. It seemed to envelop me like I had been dropped into a pool of mercury, making me blind even to the fingers in front of my face. There was no way at all I would be able to find my way to the gateposts, let alone the long war. up to the observatory. I struggled inside the house once more and felt more lost than I ever have, even more so than I did last year, a time I thought could never be bested in its misery. I had no idea for the longest time what would be the best next move to make.

The fog could not have been in any way natural. I felt sure it had been conjured up in order to prevent me from leaving the house and confronting the source of the misfortunes which had befallen me, the source which flowed like a blood-red river of evil from that cave. As I stood in the hall, panting from my exertions outside, I had a sudden moment of perfect clarity. I would go to my dear wife Lucy and explain the situation to her. Lucy would know what to do. Like a man in a sweet dream, I moved up the stairs towards our bedroom, the room I had never slept in, but where I knew I could find my wife. I gained the top step lightly, and when I pushed against the bedroom door, it opened with no protest. I stepped into the room and stopped, a choked cry dying in my throat.

It was dark, too dark, so dark that it could surely have no window, even one way. with curtains drawn. It was cold, too, as chill as the tomb. My breath curdled in the air. I reached out my fingers and touched the wall that should have been smooth brown wood, but which felt like slimy, damp rock. A thin, hollow silence surrounded me, not the quiet of an empty room, but the void of noise which you find in dank holes under the ground. I knew instinctively that I was in Geistons' cave. I staggered backwards, my feet sliding on what should have been the soft carpet of the landing outside, but which was replaced with a hard, slippery floor of stone.

I spun around and saw, in place of the door, I had come through nothing but chill darkness, empty under my outstretched hands. I shouted then, a long, strong, strangled yell, which I heard echo back to me as loud as the mocking of jackdaws. Somewhere in the sound of my own repeated cry was another sound, under the first, but as piercing to me as the howl of the wolf to its prey. I heard the sound of my Lucy, calling out to me as if from across a great distance, a distance such as that which parts the two sides of a veil or two opposite ends of a bridge.

Mark, she called, and in her voice I heard my own terror. Mark, my love, what have you done? I flailed my arms desperately reaching out for any purchase, and my fingertips brushed against something large before me which was suddenly blocking my path. With trembling hands I felt all around its chilly features and leapt back as if stung. It was the altar from the drawing,

that depiction of bestial worship I had puzzled over in the library. And I knew now, with my hands having touched the rich thing, what shape that strange altar took. It was no table, and it was a natural rock or stone. It was a tooth, a huge, ancient mola, such as would come from a man whose face could blot out the sun. The thought came once again, bitten in my mind as the sound of Lucy's cries grew and grew in the cavernous space.

What worship does continue? All of a sudden, a shimmering light seemed to grow before me, rising in the darkness of the cave. I blinked and looked away from its shrill brilliance, but I could not keep my eyes from it for long. Within the pearly glow, I could see shapes moving, whirling into being like paint swirling on a palette in order to create a dreadful picture. The images before me were fearful to me, as I had already lived them once before. I saw myself standing on the suspension bridge, one foot on land and the other on high, cold metal. Its great iron posts and chains soared above me,

and over the short rail, the roaring waters of the River Avon fell far below. I was standing over the gorge and the void was calling to me. But it wasn't only I who heard its call. Looking up, I saw a figure in a pale dress balancing on the rail, one hand clinging onto it and the other clutching up her brilliant white petticoats. She seemed to ebb and flow in the wind like a feather caught in a draught, and her face was cast down towards the terrible drop before her. If she were to slip even for an instant,

she would tumble over the edge to her death, hundreds of feet below. I saw myself call out to the woman and start to run towards her, and as I watched I felt the bridge shudder beneath my feet, felt the damp of the morning mist on my face and the chill of the wind. I was gaining on where the woman stood, but I was still too far from her, too far to grasp her and pull her to safety as I so desperately wanted to. The woman looked up at my cry and regarded me just for a moment with a look of serene distaste. And she swayed forward and was gone.

I did not need to watch the images of myself running to where the woman had been, did not need to see once again the horrifying vision of the white, falling bodies slipping beneath the waters below without even a sound. I had seen this before. I had lived it once and relived it many more times than that in the dead of night when sleep eluded me. My Lucy, dead for love of me, dead for despair at my unfaithfulness. As the vision dissipated, I fell to my knees on the harsh, cold floor of the cave, and, and, you were a and howled like a child. The tears came fast and hot,

and I felt I would never raise myself up again. It had been more than a year since her death, but the memory of it so long oppressed felt like a knife to my spleen. It was only after many minutes, or perhaps hours had passed, that I became aware that I was no longer alone in this dark chamber. I could see a shape on the edge of my vision, a pale shape which may have been the hem of a white robe, or perhaps the skirts of a dress. I became cognizant of a low, humming sound like that of the buzzing of many hundreds of bees.

I felt a pressure in my head, and my thoughts began to swim. With great effort I looked up and around at the figure which had joined me in the gloom. I recognized her with a sigh of relief. I saw that she was not alone, but accompanied by many others moving towards me out of the darkness, shapes on the very edges of my perception which drew closer to me with every moment. The great stone tooth shook and rumbled, vibrating with the mountainous laugh of the giant who had shed it.

It was Geistin's tooth I knew at once, That cave had been his mouth, that rock, was once his flesh. I looked into my wife's face, and she smiled, reaching out to me. Gratefully, I took hold of her, barely noticing how cold and thin and claw-like her hands had grown since I last had had her in my arms. My vision darkened as the others crowded in on me, and I felt no more fear. I believe this may be the last entry in this diary. Tonight, my wife and I will rest together.

Oh, how I have longed to be home. And now, dear, good, healthy, sleepless people, we bid you farewell until next time. Thank you for being with us. Join us for the premiere of our 25th season next week. And remember to always stay sleepless. The No Sleep podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

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