The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - The New Decayed E05

Episode Date: February 9, 2020

NoSleep Podcast Presents The New Decayed Episode 05It's episode 05 of The New Decayed. On this week's show we bid farewell to our miniseason with five tales about evil encounters, cruel creations and reprehensible relationships.Disclaimer: This is our first experimental miniseason. For this five-part series you’ll be joining Jessica McEvoy and Olivia White as they delve into the experimental, dark abyss of horror. Instead of taking an extended break during the European tour, we thought we’d try out something new. We’ll be taking this miniseason in directions outside of the usual mandate of The NoSleep Podcast. Some episodes of this miniseason are not for the faint of heart. Some are not for the squeamish. It’s not mandatory listening. If you choose to consider this a break and wait for Season 14, that’s fine. If you choose to join us, then brace yourselves. We’ll be taking you places."I Sold My Name at a Crossroads" written by A.S. Lowe (Story starts around 00:08:45)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Charlotte Norup, Being – S.H. Cooper, Cheryl – Allison Brandt, Tom – Dan Zappulla"Greywic" written by Jazzmin Forrestall (Story starts around 00:24:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Joanne Greywic – Erin Lillis"Services Rendered" written by Ciera Nightingale (Story starts around 00:42:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Laura – Nichole Goodnight, Alyssa – Addison Peacock, Laurence – Dan Zappulla, Elmer – Mick Wingert, Victim – Graham Rowat"Galatea" written by Addison Peacock (Story starts around 01:08:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Addison Peacock, Adam – Kyle Akers"Bonnie and Chris" written by Henry Galley (Story starts around 01:27:00)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Chris – Graham Rowat, Bonnie – Alexis BristoweClick here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast Click here to learn more about Charlotte Norup Click here to learn more about Allison Brandt Click here to learn more about Calling Darkness Click here to learn more about Jazzmin Forrestall Click here to learn more about Addison Peacock Click here to learn more about Henry Galley Executive Producer: David CummingsHost: Jessica McEvoyThe New Decayed showrunner: Olivia WhiteMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"In Memoriam" illustration courtesy of Jen TracyAudio program ©2020 - 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

Heya, I'm Jessica Makavoy, and there's been a lot going on over this last month. If you've been following recent episodes of the podcast, you'll know that myself and Olivia White have been running our own miniseries while David and the team have been on tour. And who, boy, turns out running a podcast is hard work. How does David do it? Our only conclusion is that he's one of those superheroes you hear about on the news, like Spider-Man. or Superman or mermaid man. But for us mortals, putting a podcast together, even a five-episode one, can be grueling.

And that's not even counting Olivia getting so sick with the flu she couldn't leave the bed for three days and lost her hearing for nearly a month. Kind of a problem when you work in audio. The point is, life can easily get in the way of what you need to achieve. And when that happens, it can get you down. That's where BetterHelp comes in. BetterHelp will assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist.

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to get 10% off your first month. To our experimental mini season. For this five-part series, you'll be joining myself and Olivia White, as we delve into the experimental dark abyss of horror. Instead of taking an extended break during the European tour, we thought we'd try out something new. We'll be taking this mini-season in directions outside of the usual mandate of the No Sleep podcast

to see what lands and what doesn't. Some episodes of this mini-season are not for the faint of heart. Some are not for the squeamish. It's not mandatory listening. Each episode has a theme revealed in the title. If that theme isn't for you, then please don't feel obliged to sit through it as you would a regular episode. Not every episode will plumb the darkest depths of horror, but some will. We will, as usual, provide trigger warnings for each of the stories.

But again, we stress this mini-season is experimental. There's no shame in changing the channel and adjusting your sets. If you'd prefer to wait for service to resume as normal, then our next full season, season 14, will begin in February, and we'll see you then. If you're still here and intend on joining us for this episode, then I'm Jessica McAvoy, and this is The New Decade. Hi, I'm Jessica McAvoy, I guess. And you know what this is by now. It's the New Decade. But who cares?

What does it really matter? What does anything really matter? Why do we even bother when we're clutching to this rock hurtling through space, surrounded by a thousand stars, just waiting for the inevitable heat death of the universe? Jessica, you might be asking, why are you depressed? And I'll tell you, dear listener,

because this is the final episode of the new. Decade. Episode 5. And you want to know something devastating? There were supposed to be six episodes. But then Olivia got sick and Phil got abducted by groupies and we had to release that hiatus episode. So I was all psyched up for six episodes of mad, macawb mayhem.

And now we're on the finale and it's come too soon. I'm not ready to end it. But end it must, and so too shall end my tenure as host of a podcast. We have three stories for you today, but in between them we'll be taking a look at some of our favorite moments from throughout the series. First, there was the story about postnatal depression. That was a powerful one. And it went alongside a story about ghosts getting high, and another one about a baby that really shouldn't have existed. So here's to you, episode one, inner demons.

May you go quietly into the night. And now, on to our first tale. Shakespeare once asked, What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But to some, names represent everything, their identity, their life, their history. In this tale, shared with us by author A.S. Lowe, we meet someone with a name and find out why they want to get rid of it.

Performing this tale are special guests Charlotte Norrop. What's up, girl? S.H. Cooper and Allison Brandt? From the Calling Darkness podcast? Along with our very own Dan Zipula, who will get you donuts if you ask. So learn the incantations. gather the materials, and find out why I sold my name at a crossroads. I took another look at the post-it note in my hand,

and double-checked the scrolled handwriting on it for the hundredth time, since Cheryl wrote it down for me, one heart of an animal that has suffered, a small wooden box big enough to hold the animal heart, soil from a graveyard, place the animal heart inside the box, and bury it at a crossroads under the graveyard dirt. Speak the name I told you.

All of this stuff sounded like bullshit, of course. And I wouldn't have even thought of doing this if I hadn't seen the resource of what Cheryl was capable of myself. If what she said was possible, was possible, then... The animal heart was easy to come by, considering the amount of scar-riddled stray cats that were roaming around the neighborhood. Removing the heart, however, required a little bit more skill and metal than I possessed.

Thankfully, I knew a veterinary student who was looking for some morphine. The small wooden box was from goodwill. I was worried someone would bother me about taking some dirt from the graveyard, but you can't get any complaints if no one sees you do anything. It turns out crossroads are a little bit harder to pin down than you would think. In most traditions, there are places where worlds cross-off. over, the middle point between two different worlds. I thought at first a street corner would be good enough. After a minute of thinking on this, though, I decided it's not really where realms meet.

Neighborhoods very much so, but definitely not worlds. One neighborhood is just like another. A freeway interchange, though, a barrier surrounding paths that separated the city. If there's any better modern definition of a crossroads, I'd dare you to tell me. So there I stood in the middle of the night. Second-guessing myself in the middle of the freeway interchange of the I-10 and I-17, with a box buried just deep enough to be covered by the graveyard soil I'd brought. The image would have been silly if I hadn't had to murder an innocent stray cat to get to this point. I remembered the name Cheryl had told me.

I thought I wouldn't be able to, considering how long it was, but she insisted that I wouldn't need to write it down. She was right. It only took a single thought to recall the many syllables she had recited to me on the day she'd filled out the post-ed note currently in my hand. I spoke the name. Nothing happened. Goddammit, Cheryl, I knew this was too good to be true.

Hello, my dear. I jumped and turned around to find the source of the voice. A homeless woman wearing a ragged hoodie and a dirty, torn, flowery dress. She looked down at the clothes she was wearing. I apologize for my appearance. It was the closest thing I could find. I looked at the dusty homeless lady. I tried to say the thing's name again, but pause when I realized I couldn't remember any part of it.

Not even the first syllable. How was that possible when I had just said it out loud less than a minute ago? New to this then? I'm surprised the elder gave you my name without telling you how it worked. Elder? Yeah, someone older than you, wiser, smarter. I conjured the image of Cheryl, a young woman with long black hair and a rotating variety of metal band T-shirts

and laughed at the idea of thinking of her as an elder. Cheryl's younger than I am. It has been a while since I've been here. She looked up at the freeways overhead with a curious but unfaced glance. You primates have made some really big... What's the word for these? Freeways? That sounds right. The calm, demeanor and smooth voice didn't fit what I expected

from the rotund woman in front of me with a wrinkled, pock-marked face. While the hoodie definitely said homeless, the wild eyes and twitchy mouth spoke of the yelling on the street corner variety rather than the cardboard sign asking for money kind. Now, human, why exactly did you call me here? I want you to take my name.

The wizened old woman stared at me. My name is, in my head, I'm just you know what, and I. I want you to take my damn name. What finally did her in? Why shouldn't I be? She never did anything to help me. But she was your mother.

She wasn't a mother to me. Not biologically and not emotionally. And she wasn't one to you either. I don't know why you even defend her. If you're going to be this argumentative about it that I'm just going to... I'm sorry, Tom. What happened? She ODed last night.

They think it might have been intentional. Did she leave a note or anything? I haven't been able to find one if she did. Not surprising. She never tried to explain herself before. Why would she now? Tom? I'm just wondering why I called you.

Me as well. Should I even bother telling you when her funeral is? Fuck off, Tom. I'm going to tell you this because, unlike most of my siblings, I actually like humanity. To the extent you can like beings capable of enslaving you. by speaking, of course. Your name doesn't mean anything to me.

It has no value. I was afraid you were going to say that. What would you want in exchange for my name? She smiled. You humans. I was frustrated by this point. You didn't answer my question. That's because I didn't want to.

The smile dropped from her skittish mouth. I am not your slave. despite being bound to this body, for now you cannot control me. I looked at the freshly dug spot of dirt where I had buried the heart inside of the wooden box. Oh, that. I assumed that whoever told you do that was trying to make sure you didn't say my name in front of her. What did you say her name was again? Cheryl? I was about to confirm this piece of information to her, but managed to stop myself. Names are important.

Yeah, I get that. Just give me the damn list of things already. You need to take this seriously, ill, or... Names aren't just identifiers. They aren't even just descriptions of what something is. Phoenix isn't just the name of the city. Phoenix is the city itself. A city built on top of the ashes of a dead one, struggling for years, then rising. But it would be the same whether it was named Phoenix or not.

I'm trying to tell you it wouldn't be. Do you know anything about tombstone? The tourist town. It was one of the most populous cities in the entire state, until the silver dried out. Now it's just a monument to a single event in history. A tombstone. To be exact?

Yes. Names influence what they describe and are influence themselves. One is the other. Why would you want to get rid of who you are? Because I don't like who I am. The demon smiled. Clever girl. I smiled at the thing.

staring at me through a pair of bloodshot eyes. It looks like I do have something you want then. Looks like it. I thought about Cheryl. She had done me a huge favor by giving me the name of the thing I was talking to. But of course, she had done that terrible thing to that poor kid. If I give you her name, will you take mine? The demon looked towards the road as a lone car passed in the night,

heading to wherever it was going on the I-17. Do you know the significance of crossroads? Something about being aborted to another round? It's not quite that. Crossroads lead to multiple places. They can go somewhere familiar, somewhere new, somewhere unknown, but also known. I looked up at the freeway overpass

and thought about new beginnings. Do we have a deal, Ms. Swish? There's a naked woman. body stretched across the stained bed. A number of marks stud the inside of the woman's elbows and between her toes. This woman was my adoptive mother. She stirs and her glassy eyes open. She attempts to speak, but all that comes out of her mouth are slurred syllables that only resemble words on the most basic level. She attempts to speak, but all that comes out of her mouth are slurred syllables that only resemble words on the most basic level.

The corner of her lip turns up slightly as she smiles at something. I think at first that something is me, but realized my mistake when I see the form behind her, hidden under the sheets and behind her dropped out body. The woman turns her head and looks at the form crawling its way out of the covers and rubbing against her. Another moment, and I see the man's head pop and kiss the woman's neck. But the man isn't looking at her as he does. He's looking at me.

The look instills the usual fear. Fear of what will happen if I don't do what he wants me to do. So I move forward and join them in the bed. It isn't the first time. And it isn't the last. We have a deal. I sure am hungry. starving in fact and all i have in the fridge is a jar of pickles some expired horseradish sauce and a bag marked the heart of olivia white which is empty

that's not even slightly enough to put together a meal even for me the master of snacks with a reputation for being able to conjure food out of thin air well here's a secret listeners i can conjure food out of thin air sort of just me and a little help from DoorDash. I don't have the magic food powers that people think I do, but nevertheless, DoorDash can help me get my next meal from my favorite restaurants in minutes. DoorDash connects you to your favorite restaurants in your city. Ordering is easy. Open the DoorDash app, choose what you want to eat, and your food will be delivered to you wherever you are. Not only is your favorite pizza joint already on DoorDash, but there are over 340,000 restaurants in 30,000.000 300 cities, so you might find a new favorite, too. With door-to-door delivery in all 50 states and

Canada, order from your local go-toes, or choose from your favorite national restaurants like Chipotle, Wendy's, The Cheesecake Factory, and more. Don't worry about dinner or snacks. Let them come to you with DoorDash. Right now, our listeners can get $5 off their first order of $15 $9 or more when you download the DoorDash app and enter promo code no sleep. That's $5 off your first order when you download the DoorDash app from the app store and enter promo code no sleep. Don't forget, that's promo code no sleep for $5 off your first order from DoorDash. So it's not quite magic, but it might as well be when that food turns up at your door shortly

after ordering. And that's all thanks to the dashers. to DoorDash. Before we move on to our second tale, I'd like us to think back to the distant past of last week, an episode I remember to this day. In it, we took a journey into space, and boy was it a ride. Or in the case of one of the stories, a swim. The white planet was a particular favorite of Olivia's because she has fears of both open water and teleportation. Quite how she's experienced teleportation to be afraid of it, I don't know. And I also don't want to ask. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the Mandela effect. But it's a goodbye to episode

four, intergalactic. Our middle story tonight involves one of those women who just can't keep her nose out of other people's business. But then again, if you saw a light on in an abandoned property, wouldn't you go and investigate too? In this tale shared with us by author Jasmine Forrestall, that's exactly what our narrator does. And she discovers that the property's erstwhile owner may have come back to the nest. Performing this tale with me is Aaron Lillis. So get ready for some homegrown horror of the cosmic variety, as were introduced to the lady who calls herself Greywick. But, excuse me, you can't be here.

The woman on the porch looked up from her drink. Can't I? Miss, this is private property. Whose property, girl? She gave a slight smile. I mean, it's the Greywick estate. Exactly. Can a girl come back to visit her child?

childhood home from time to time? This place has been abandoned for 65 years. The woman didn't look a day over 40. I suppose it has been a while, hasn't it? She was starting to get on my nerves. Miss, not to be rude, but there's no way you're Joanna Greywick. She'd be like 80 by now. Why are you here?

Sure, turn it around on me. I saw a light on up here. Wanted to make sure there were no squatters. To be fair, the woman didn't look like a squatter. She wore a tailored wool coat over a pantsuit that looked like it cost more than my car. The longer I looked at her, the more I could believe that she belonged here. Well, no squatters here. You can be on your way now. A snowflake landed on her cheek.

It refused to melt. Something was wrong. I stepped forward. A gesture I hoped was more confident than I felt. I'm going to need to see some ID. She raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow. I felt needles of cold dance across my scalp. Come inside.

It wasn't a request. I saw that she was looking past me over my head. I began to turn. Now. Her voice was inhumanly calm. I followed her, sneaking a glance at the tree line. I was sure I saw a dark shape moving between the trees. Inside, a thick layer of dust coated everything.

It was freezing cold. If the woman had been living here, then she clearly wasn't concerned with heating the place. The light I'd seen from the road turned out to be an oil lamp on the living-groom windowsill. It was the only light in the house. So, how long have you been here? I looked at the woman. She'd taken a seat on a grand armchair. The image of a queen on her throne came to mind.

Three hours. She pulled an ancient-looking driver's license out of her purse. Why are you here? Joanna Greywick, the card said. The photo looked just like her. Beautiful. To settle an old debt. She, Joanna Greywick, could it really be?

Pulled a thin cigarette out of a mother of pearl case. With who? Nobody you'd know. She took a long drag, blowing blue smoke into the cold, stuffy, air. I didn't know how to respond to that. I stared hard at her. There was no way she was 80, but it felt easier to simply accept her story as truth, what little of it she'd told. Care for a drink. The woman calling herself Joanna stood, somehow not kicking up any dust. I nodded. I needed it. She poured me a stiff glass of her.

amber liquor. Neat? Yes, please. She topped up her own glass and glided towards me. Please, sit. She smiled, nodded in the direction of the only other dust-free chair. Had she cleaned it before I came? And if so, for her debtor or for me.

At this point, either seemed plausible. I looked up at her. this woman claiming to be Joanna Greywick. She was tall and regal. She carried her slender frame with a rare grace and poise that felt natural, unrehearsed. A twig snapped outside. A shadow crossed her face for an instant, breaking my calm compliance. Who are you really?

I told you that. I won't repeat myself. She sat down on. her throne, looking at me coolly. Okay? Who are you settling a debt with? An old friend. Her dark eyes twinkled with amusement. I could tell that she liked giving me nothing. I'm the kind of person who grows frustrated with behavior like this, but I didn't care. My mouth moved, forming the next question without conscious thought. What sort of debt are you settling. I could hear a frustrated twang in my voice, but I didn't feel anything. It was like I was a

spectator in my own head. A tiny smile was the only movement on her face. One that I've owed for a long time. Oh, so the debt was hers. I realized all this time I'd assumed otherwise. This was the kind of woman who was owed, not the kind of woman who owed something. The concept of this woman's creditor, although unformed in my mind, sent a shiver of unease through me. And so it went, me asking increasingly frustrated questions and Joanna skillfully saying nothing, toying with me like a politician. Finally, when she was grinning after the hundredth question, she'd grew tired of taunting me. Perhaps the issue is in the asking.

Listen, don't question, my mother used to say to me as a child. Would you like me to tell you my story? I felt nothing, but my grip tightened on the drink I forgot I was holding. I downed it. I was 47, burned out, and coming back here to overdose on pills. The year was 1986. I'd been caught up in numerous fices since the 60s. and heavily into the white stuff for the past five years.

Like Rick James said, cocaine is one hell of a drug. Between too much coke and too much partying, it looked like my career would never take off like I'd hoped. I came back here to die in the last place I remember being happy. It was the middle of summer, and I planned to do all the things I'd do when it got too hot to stay in the house. But the lake was scummy and overgrown. The woods were infested with thorns,

and the tree house was rotted. to nothing. I ended up staying in the house despite the unbearable heat, stewing in a garbage fire of my own misery. I ran out of cocaine a week in, but I was too damn scared to take the pills. I couldn't drive, and I was resigned to just starving to death. On the tenth day, he came, the man in the dark suit, black tie, crem shirt, cufflinks in a shape I'd never seen before, and that white-brimmed black hat. I remember every detail of his clothes, every thread, the shape of him. Never saw his face, though.

He wore a mask, a frosted, glass face of a handsome, cheerful man. I only saw his skin once. I saw his bare hand. He thought I was in my room and he took off his glove to fix his tie. His hand was otherworldly. It was pale and delicate, a black talent. a writhing mass of tentacles and composed of pure darkness all at once. It was both maddening and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Who was he? She gave me a look. Sorry. Be patient, dear. He nursed me back to health and got me clean. I admit that I kept him here longer than I needed. He knew that, I think. Eventually we made a deal.

Not only would I stay young and beautiful forever, but I'd be revered and feared. He offered me more than simple fame, power, knowledge, pleasure, all at my fingertips. The only condition was that I never returned to this house. If I returned, he'd collect. At first it was wonderful. It took me 15 years to realize that I wasn't a human anymore. It took me another 15 to care. At first, I lived a hedonist dream.

I fucked beautiful men and women, took every drug known to man, and even some that aren't. I lived the life of every rock star combined. None of it filled the void in my chest, though. I fell deeper into depravity than anyone. And it was boring. Then I tampered with this world. I created natural disasters.

destabilized the geopolitical climate. That's when I came to the realization that I was no longer human. Like, Rhett Butler, I didn't give a damn. Eventually, even that discovery got boring, too. I began to study the forbidden books his followers brought me. I discovered planes beyond this one. At first, it was incredible. I saw Carcosa, Gadath, the shining cities of Dreamlands.

But that wasn't enough. I had to tamper, to break things. I wanted the powerful beings that resided in those places to retaliate, but those bastards just laid back and took my abuse. I hated it. I wanted to be punished, so badly. And then I realized what I had to do. So I made the pilgrimage back here, like I did all those years ago.

He hasn't invited himself in yet, but I'm a patient woman. She stared past me, an expectant look on her face. Why am I here? A cold certainty was growing in my gut. The lamp. In the only window facing the road. Coincidence? No.

Do I really need to answer that? I'd appreciate it if you did. That was me, the real me. I felt her thin fingers. I was pulling the strings in my head, needles of ice dancing across my scalp. I resisted. A look of shock crossed her face. Feelings were beginning to thaw, blood flowing back to a numb arm.

Fear, regret, anger, frustration, a perverse fascination. She looked genuinely taken aback. Her mask was cracking. The thing underneath was ugly, too twisted and gnarled to be called human. Behind that beautiful face was the mind of a monster. She wasn't here to repent for her atrocities. She didn't seek punishment out of remorse. She was bored.

Control was boring. She wanted to shed that dull shell of safety. I was just a farewell to. control, a final toy to break before her punishment came. Darling, you already know why you're here. You figured it out. You know, you're smarter than I gave you credit for. Stronger, too. I glared at her. Get out of my head. You silly girl, I'm not even in your head yet. Cruelty like I'd never seen crossed her face, and she grinned. The needle. dug in, and I collapsed.

Stand up. I tried to resist, but the needles dug deeper. Ice-cold pain. My flesh felt brittle, pierced by a million spikes. I stood, and the pain led up. My vision was clouded and red. She stood before me, a terrible, inhuman thing. She caressed my face.

Wiping a tear from my eye. Her thumb came away red. You really are strong. That would have killed anyone else. She kissed my forehead. I almost bought her faux tenderness. Until her next words. Let's see what it takes to break you, pretty girl.

Her eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure. A knock at the door saved. my life. The bloodlust melted away, replaced with a childlike excitement. Her needles were gone. I collapsed. Through half-open eyes, I saw her open the door. He was just as she'd described, but he wasn't wearing his mask. I only saw his face through a blur of blood, a grinning skull, A cheerful man, a million tongues, pure light. Void, void, void, void, all-consuming void, beautiful and terrible. I wanted to run, towards him or away from him.

Both, neither. I couldn't move. Every muscle in my body was both fully tensed and more relaxed. than I'd ever felt. I blacked out. I woke up in the hospital with the tip of my nose gone, lost it to frostbite. Over the next few weeks, my hair began to fall out. There were pock-marked scars on my scalp, her lasting impression. They're still here. I don't know what became of Joanna. if the thing I met that day even had any of the real Joanna left in her. I refuse to think about that man's face.

If I do, I know I'll find myself heading back to the Greywick House, sacrificing my humanity to see his beauty again. A beauty I've dreamed of ever since. We're nearly at the end now. But before we move on to our final tale, Let's pour one out for episode three. We had some real special moments there. Not only did we run the first official adaptation of

and sequel to the classic creepypasta smile dog, we also welcomed beloved narrator Sammy Rainer back into the fold. And we got a treat as the Let's Not Meet podcast showrunner, Andrew Tate, told us all about the horrible pranks he's pulled as a famous YouTuber. Plus, we were shown how terrifying it can be to make big life changes. Big life changes like, you know, ending the mini-season you've been hosting. So farewell, episode three, in the past, we send you off with a two-wide smile through gridded teeth. In our final tale, we join a couple who've decided to take their relationship to the next level by

making a sex tape. But there's a problem with recording yourself getting explicit. There's always the chance it could fall into the wrong hands. In this tale, shared with us by author Sierra Nightingale, the tape certainly ends up being viewed by people it shouldn't. Performing this tale are Nicole Goodnight and Addison Peacock and Dan Zippula, the Donut Man, and Mick Wingert, and Graham Rowett. So if you're going to send nudes, maybe stick to Snapchat, because the last thing you want to do is film yourself naked and receive thanks for services rendered.

Are you sure you want to do this? Alyssa's voice was low and soft, whispering seductively into my ear. I knitted my fingers and shifted uncomfortably on the bed. I had undressed down to my panties and bra, but hadn't had the courage to do more yet. I had always been camera shy, even before I gained weight. Now, after gallbladder surgery and some stretch marks, I so didn't want to do this. But Alyssa's smile broke me. Let's do it.

Alyssa turned the camera on. She skipped over to the bed two Mexican wrestling masks in hand. You want the rat or the black? Ugly, Mexican wrestling masks. My mistake for telling her I wanted my face covered just in case we decided to publish it, What I did not specify was the method of covering it. She had bought the masks before I could protest. Black.

She tossed it onto my lap. Put that on and take everything else off. I liked when she was demanding. She had a certain tone with it that was dead serious as if that command was dire that she needed to be able to depend on me to get it done. I slipped the mask on. The nose and mouthpieces were smaller than I anticipated, and it hugged my face tight.

I liked the restraint of it. Alyssa didn't take her eyes off me. Start with your bra. I did as I was told, knowing how to be sexy, even when I hated my body. I ran my hands across my collarbone before slipping one finger beneath each bra strap,

using the web between my fingers to force them down off my shoulder. Once they hung loosely on my biceps, I unclasped it. Alyssa inched closer to me. Her lips soft and soft, slow on my shoulders, making her way towards my chest. She held a nipple between her teeth and the other in a hand tugging and biting hard enough to make me gasp. Her lips came to mind to silence me.

She still tasted like the chocolate strawberries we had eaten after dinner. My turn. She pushed me back on the bed and worked her mouth down from my collarbone, between my breasts, down my navel, until she grabbed my panties and slipped them off of me. For this momentous, it came to me. It I bought her a strap on. I left it up to her who got to use it first. She didn't keep me in suspense for long. After using her tongue to get me wet, she flipped me over on my stomach and raised my hips. It took her a minute to adjust the straps. Play with yourself. I obeyed. The dildo was warm as she slid into me. She gripped my shoulders while I gripped the bed, the sheets shifting with my weight. The time for foreplay was gone. The sex coming urgent and fast.

I held on and row that orgasm. Then it was my turn to do the same to her, but I kept her on her back so I could see her eyes as she came. Don't stop, babe. Oh, fuck, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop. I'm coming, don't stop. Even with the stupid masks covering her face, watching her eyes roll back in her head turned me on all over again.

Neither of us could move once we were done. Eventually, I fell over onto my side, my head spinning, body tingling. All right, give me five minutes. Yeah, okay. When have you ever recovered that quickly? When you stay naked and sexy beside me? I had the strength to lean against her and kiss her, but not much else.

We ended up falling asleep in a tangled mess of limbs and sheets until I got too hot and pulled away from her. I hated that it hurt her when I did that, but I couldn't sleep all night spooning or cuddling. I loved that woman. I loved her so much my body ached. We both woke up late the next morning, so we didn't bother with the camera. Alyssa had to hurry off to work while I still had half an hour before I needed to be at the library. I decided to clean up after last night. I changed the sheets on the bed and through the dirty in the washer.

Before I started the washer, though, I took a nice, long shower. While I was in there, I thought about the video. I knew I wouldn't watch it without Alyssa. It was for both of us, after all. Did I have the courage to watch it at all? I wondered how it turned out. Was it actually sexy? Would I be turned on by watching myself stirred by the sensory memories,

or would I be disgusted with my body? I went to work at the library. The same two people were waiting for me, as usual, on Tuesdays, Elmer, an older gentleman, and a young tech student named Lawrence. I loved the dichotomy of the two. Despite the nice weather, Elmer wore a solid blue button up with a sweater vest over it, ironed slacks, and dress shoes. Lawrence would be lucky to have no stains on any item of clothing and matching shoes. He did take care of his beautiful black curls, though.

Wish my hair was that curly. Good morning, Laura. Good morning, Elmer, sir. What will you be studying today? Oh, looking at some of the film of old newspapers and then retreating to my reserve study room as usual. I unlocked the front door as we spoke. What about you, Lawrence, got a big test to study for? Do I ever study?

Well, you study that computer screen hard enough. Elmer held the door open for Lawrence and me, and we all dispersed into our separate corners of the library. I'd be lucky if I had more than 20 people in here at a time before noon, and it really only ever got that busy for the children's reading hour or Kraft's Day. The lack of people and abundance of time is why I knew exactly what Elmer and Lawrence did. Yes, Alma would look at the microfilm with town newspapers on file along with other important documents from the Capitol, but once he got into his study room, he watched porn downloaded onto his personal device. My best guess is that he got caught doing it at the house and was too embarrassed to risk getting caught again, or he didn't want to be interrupted.

He was old enough to not have any real fun without a little blue pill, so I at least held out hope he wasn't jerking it in the study room. Though Lawrence was a self-proclaimed gamer with over 20,000 followers on Twitch, I knew what that unkempt lifestyle really meant. He was a computer genius. He never studied for any of his coding or programming classes because he already knew it, and then some. The classes in the degree were the technicality he needed to land the exact position he wanted without having to work his way up.

I had been trying to talk him into an internship, but he was convinced he could get exactly what he wanted when he wanted it. stubborn ass. I asked him once why he didn't use the university's library. Too crowded. Study rooms are booked weeks in advance. Plus, you let me nerd out on my gaming. Which really meant he had been gaming on a uni computer

and got too loud when things weren't going his way and got kicked out. So he would game here a bit and also write code and do web design. About an hour into work, Elmer shuffled over to a study room after what little of a crowd had dispersed with their books. He waited until I was busy helping an elderly lady print off some documents to sneak off, as if I wouldn't know where he went. After I was done assisting the lady, I went back to checking in books and making phone calls to let people know their book was ready or occasionally late.

All the while, I couldn't help but think about the previous night. Alyssa and I had been together two years, and we always managed to find more and more wild things to do together. It would surprise Alyssa if I told her I wanted to watch it, that night. I decided to text her with the good news when I heard of thunk. It came from the study room's direction. Not a minute later, Elmer stumbled out of his study onto the front desk, refusing to make eye contact with me. Elmer is everything all right? He tossed the microfilm roll on the desk. This will be my last time coming here. I'm sorry, but I won't be able to stand it. Why? Stand what? He waved me off, not sounding completely coherent.

If I need any more microfilm, I'll just have it send over to Pope County. What I watch is vanilla, sensual. And I don't care if you choose to share an intimate moment with your lover, straight or lesbian, to the world. But shame on me for watching. But shame on you, too. Elmer left without another word. No way. No fucking way.

Did Alyssa upload it without telling me? I looked around to see if anyone was privy to the conversation we just had. Lawrence was the only one who made eye contact with me for a moment before retreating back to his computer screen, but the look on his face seemed more concerned with Elmer leaving like he did, so he must have missed what was said. With no one around, I used my personal mobile device to scour popular free porn sites for a video. Lesbian Mexican masks should have been specific enough, but returned no videos from the search engine.

I tried other keywords but to no avail. Tension leaked away for a moment, but Elmer's words still unsettled me. What had he seen? I messaged Alyssa. Hey, babe, so I won't be mad, I promise, but did you upload the video from last night? I agonized through story time with my pre-K kids until I could check my phone again. Thankfully, Alyssa had answered. What?

No, even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have had time. Why? Nothing. It's nothing. Maybe we could watch it together tonight. Sounds lovely. Maybe we could reenact it as well. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to forget about Elmer and look forward to tonight with Alyssa. She talked a big game, but I bet we ended up binging more of our current favorite TV show. But I couldn't shake it. Had Elmer just thought he saw someone that looked like me?

How would he have even known it was me anyway? Both of our faces were covered. It had to have been a doppelginger doing it. something like two girls, one cup. Even if I could show him he was wrong, I'm not sure it would bring him back. That night, I made dinner and cleaned a bit more before Alyssa got home. We ate and watched Chew Laurie spiral because of his Vicodin addiction and wonder what the hell would happen next. Alyssa threw an arm around me. While we're waiting for the next episode. That we can watch any time because we have all eight seasons. Why don't we take a peek at our video? Oh, I thought you would never ask.

Alyssa fetched the camera from the bedroom. I was surprised when she hooked it up to the TV instead of the computer. Did you forget this thing has an H.D.MI hookup? Forgive me for living in the 90s. I sat on the couch while she messed with setting up the camera. I had a front seat view of her enthusiasm failing. Piss. Sorry, babe, but it looks like it didn't record anything.

What? How'd you fuck that up? I thought I turned it on. You do know there's a difference between, turning on the camera and turning the record function on, right? Oh, shut it. It's just, I know how much it meant for you to do it with me. I would feel like shit asking you to do it again. I got up and hugged her.

Have masks, we'll film. Just not tonight, though. Tonight, I want to focus on you in the dark. A few days went by. Lawrence was at the library as usual, but no sign of Elmer. I really hated that a mix-up took him away from one of his favorite places. I mean, he came in to watch porn, sure, but he was also a local historian. Our library had a lot of lost treasures he enjoyed searching through.

Maybe he would at least come on the days he knew I was off. But it couldn't have been me. The camera never even recorded anything. It had to have been someone else. On Fridays, I always come in a whole hour early to prepare for the book club meeting that morning. It startled me to see Lawrence there that early waiting on me. Then again, I never knew how long he or Elmer waited until opening time, but as soon as we made eye contact, I knew something was wrong. Lawrence waited until we were inside to tell me anything.

I need to show you something. Okay, what's going on? I overheard your conversation with Elmer the other day, but I didn't think anything of it. That is, until I listened to some of the players in Destiny talking about it. I couldn't help myself. I went looking for confirmation. I wasn't sure if you knew or not, so I wanted to tell you about it just in case.

Totally no judging if it is you, no judging at all, but I also needed the truth. Anxiety tore through my stomach. The truth about what? If the video's real or not. What video? What the hell is this? Let me show you.

He pulled out his phone and rapidly began typing. Three clicks and he was at Pornhub, but the site said, This video has been removed. Shit. Lawrence, what the hell is this about? What video? He handed me his phone and scrolled down to the comment section left, even though the video was gone.

Holy shit, that was crazy. Totally fake, dude, you can tell fake. I couldn't enjoy it over the screaming. Admin has turned off comments for this video. I still refused to buy into it. I wasn't going to confess something he had no proof of. What was in the video, Lauren? Remember that you had me over to set up two monitors for your desktop?

And I asked to use the bathroom, but Alyssa was in the front, so I had to use your master. Oh shit, he knew what my bedroom looked like, but that still didn't account for how Elmer knew. Well, that paired with the fact that your work shirt and badge is on the edge of the bed, plus what sounds like your voice. I stopped him to confirm. What was I wearing? An ugly Lucha Libre mask. I pushed the phone back into his hands and shoved him towards the door. I don't know what video you're talking about, and I don't want to know. Just please leave so I can get ready for the book club.

No, no, Laura, you have to tell me. Was it real? I can't tell you if a video is real or not without seeing exactly what video you're talking about. I was backpedaling as fast as I could, but we both knew I'd done everything but confirm it was me. But how could it be? How could a non-existent video be on the Internet? He put a hand against the door as I shut it on him. If I show you the video, would you tell me?

If you find the video, then yes. I will tell you whether or not it's fake. Would you mind coming to my house after work then? I think I know where to find it, but I don't want to use any other devices but my own to show. Please, Alyssa can come too if I'm creeping you out, but Laura, you'll want to see it. Something told me I didn't.

This dreadful feeling in my chest told me I really didn't, but my curiosity would always went out. Okay, we'll come over tonight once Alyssa's off. I'll text ahead of time. That dread seeped from my stomach and into every inch of my being as time drew near to go to Lawrence's apartment. I picked up Alyssa from the house and we rode over together just before dark. Lawrence's roommate answered the door and led us into the musky apartment.

Three lawn chairs, a small end table, and an old love seat that had seen better days were the only furniture in sight. The scene calmed my nose. nerves a bit, reminding me he was like any other bachelor making it through college. Lawrence appeared in the hallway and motioned us to follow. I've got it. He sounded none too cheery about it. He sat me in his roly desk chair and pulled up another folding chair for Alyssa.

It wasn't anywhere on any porn sites most people have access to. Most people? I had to go to the dark web to find it. In a certain corner, that is a niche for that sort of thing. Wait, what sort of thing? Are you sure this is safe? Yeah, I don't think we need to be fucking with the dark web. Just tell me right now, then.

Is the video real? Did we make a porno? Yes and no? We meant to record a porno a few nights ago for personal use only, but the camera didn't even record it, so I have no clue what you're on about, but you obviously have something for us, so just show us.

He stared at us for a moment. If you didn't know, then I have no way of preparing you for it. And since it's on the, dark web, my question is all but answered. Please know I wouldn't push the matter if I didn't think you should know. Fucking show us already. I'm done with the suspense. Lawrence still hesitated before showing us, but he finally bent over his keyboard and typed away. As he pressed the play button, he whispered something. I'm sorry. The title of the file was services rendered 122.

The screen was black at first, but I could hear Alyssa's voice from that night. Are you sure you want to do this. This shouldn't have even been on the film. She asked me that question before turning the camera on. Once my answer was audible, the computer monitor lit up with our bedroom with me, front, and center. I felt my face flush, hating every second Lawrence could see my ugly body, momentarily taking me away from the situation at hand.

Once my embarrassment died down, I realized that this was a recording of our video cast on a large TV in a dark room. It had to have been on a projector as large as the video was on the wall. In front of the screen in the video was a man. I didn't know he was there until he started squirming. He wasn't in a chair. He was on a table angled up to see the TV, but had a crank above and below it. The man laid sprawled out in an axe naked and bound by leather straps.

I watched for the light to reveal other people in the room, but saw no one else. I thought surely a dominatrix or something like that was going to come out and punish him for watching or something. I was right on one of those accounts. I heard Alyssa and I pleasuring each other, but my eyes were on the man. The cranks at the end of the table turned and you could hear the clink, clink of the gears.

As they turned his bound hands and feet slid further away from his body. Mother of God, it was the rack. The poor bastard was strung up on a torture rack. I watched for an excruciating couple of minutes before it hit me. The closer Alyssa and I grew to climaxing in the video the faster the crank's turn. The man was screaming at this point on and off as the

crank slowly tormented him. Soon our moans of pleasure were accompanied by the meeting popping sounds of cartilage tearing. The elongation of his limbs was painfully clear now, even in the dim room. I wasn't sure I had the stomach to watch the climax. My hand rose to the keyboard to stop the video, but Alyssa prevented me. We need to watch the whole thing. Why? We know what's fixing to happen. I need to see it. I held Alyssa's hand as we continued to watch. The crank continued, the screams continued over our cries of pleasure. The man's skin was the only thing keeping his limbs on his body now.

I knew at any moment they would slowly start tearing off like ripped fabric. I knew that we were almost to the climax, and at that point I would have rather watched myself rive with pleasure than see what happened next. For a moment, I gave into that cowardice desire, despite knowing full well, I owed it to this guy to watch his fate. But as I turned to the big screen in the video, the answer to my biggest question so far was plain as day. There was a reason we didn't have it recording on our video.

There was a reason the video caught more than I thought it should have. It had been livestreamed. The poor bastard was dying not only at the same moment I was having a romp with Alyssa, but because of it. I tried to tell myself in that moment that it could have been anyone's porn video he would be watching and still meet the same fate, but it didn't matter. It was our video.

Our moments of pleasure killed this man. As the video went on, his screams grew intense, with no reprieve of numbness for the man when the cranks weren't turning. We soon learned why. A dot of black and red surfaced from where one shoulder should have been, and it slowly blossomed even when the cranks weren't moving. Soon all the major joints had them until I could see what they were. metal spikes As the cranks slowly turned The metal spikes slowly pierced the man

Using his own weight against the table His screams didn't stop We were mere seconds away As Alyssa's and my voice started carrying Into a crescendo of pleasure To my surprise the cranks didn't move The man's scream turned more into Gutterall noises

And he threw his head to the side No longer facing the screen movement on the ceiling grabbed my attention. A huge canister had been suspended there for some time. The canister moved into place above the man on the table. We orgasm together on screen and the canister's bottom open. A huge vat of dark liquid spilled out, almost all of it directly onto the man. A new scream was wrenched from his throat and accompanied by a soft sizzle.

Steam rose from his body into the darkness of the room. What hell is that? Alyssa gripped my hand hard. It's cooking him, whatever it is. Alyssa moved to stop the film then, satisfied she'd seen it all. Lawrence put a hand on her shoulder. There's more. I didn't want to see any more, but I had to watch.

The video became a time lapse. I was appalled to see the camera still rolling with us basking in the actor glow and finally slumber. We never turned the camera off that night. During that time, the liquid substance heartless. hardened against the man into some weird cast. No one came to move him. The time lapse continued until the rays of the morning sun were visible in both our stream and the room where the man was.

I could see the man's face now. It still started me to see the afterglow on his face. He turned his face towards the sun, soaking in the rays, as if he just spent a night with a lover. Two men with harlequin masks came into the room. They reached behind the table and grabbed two large sledgehammers, then hacked away at the cast around the victim. He moaned with each impact. As the substance fell away, we could see the rack cranks had returned to starting positions.

He was almost fully healed. His limbs were no longer distended. The metal spikes and wounds were gone. His skin just had a red tint to it, most likely from the heat of the cast. As they unhooked him from the table, he repeated two. words that were an audible at first, but he continued to repeat it. Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't. And here we are at the end. But we couldn't close the show without discussing one final thing.

Divisive, controversial, obscene, not safe for work. But enough about Olivia, I want to talk about the New Decade Episode 2. Some of you hated it and made it very clear that sexual content has no place on the No Sleep podcast. Some of you loved it so much that Olivia has received numerous requests to do a horrorotica show. Who knew that a semi-autobiographical horror story about neurodivergence, the porn industry, and Nyarlathotep would turn heads? And then there was the whole exploding boobs thing in breast exam by dangerous felon Holly Dionis. Whether you adored or despised that episode, we at least hope episode two inhuman bodies was memorable. And that's it, I guess. I've been Jessica McAvoy, and I'm still alone in

the HQ. Nobody's around. Nobody's back from tour. What if we just kept going? We were meant to be doing an episode six after all. What if we just did it now? And hey, how convenient I have two more stories right here. So welcome one, welcome all, to the new decayed episode six, invasion. Imagine. Imagine waking up with no idea where you are, what you are, or who you are, bound and stitched together, a simulacrum of a person. That's the case for this individual in a story shared with us by extra special guest author Addison Peacock. Performing this darkly reflective tale are Addison herself and Kyle Akers. So listen to this yarn about a woman who could speak for many women, if only she had a tongue.

She can't tell you herself, but her name is Galatea. I wake with a shock of electricity, a buzz between my ears. My nose itches and burns at the caustic mix of smells in the air, the sickly stench of formaldehyde, the sharp scent of formaldehyde, the sharp scent of, of rubbing alcohol and something else, dark and rusty. Thinking, like pushing through cold water, making my teeth ache and my jaw clenched tight. I opened my eyes, vision swimming in the darkness.

I try to think of where I was before I slept, but find nothing. My mind is a blackboard wiped clean. My memory is a smudge of white. I blinked the darkness away. My eyes adjusting to the dim cement room as I catalog the things I know. I am in a room. The room is cold, dark.

I am lying on a concrete slab. I am naked. I am alone. I push myself into an upright position and pain roars in my brain as I feel tearing, straining all across my body. A fluorescent light comes on above, flooding the room with harsh yellow light. And what a room it is! The reveal of my surroundings distracts me from the pain as horror drowns out all other thoughts. The floor is sticky with blood, spattered wildly across the cement amidst various metal surgical tools that have been thrown left and right onto the ground.

Along one wall, there is a real. row of shelves, housing jar after jar of mysterious somethings floating in gray liquid. I spy a mouse, a fetal pig, many other things I can't identify. On the wall across from me, there is a collage of female body parts. Women from playboys, catalogs, fashion magazines, all carved up and tamed. taped together into a new woman. I moved to stand up and feel that same pain again, the sensation of tearing all along my body.

In the newfound light, I glanced down at myself and let out a cry. My voice is raw, unused. It scratches my throat bloody on its way out. All over my body, in all of the places where the woman collage on the wall is taped. I'm covered in stitches, oozing, crusted, painful, pulling with each movement. I am grafted together from spare parts. I look for a mirror, something reflective, anything to catch a glimpse at myself. Perhaps mercifully, I find nothing. With no way to see, I lift my trembling hands to my face, running my fingertips from my forehead, down my nose, over my lips, finding stitches

and cuts all along the way. As I pass my lips, I become aware of an emptiness in my mouth I hadn't noticed before. I part my lips, the corners cracking with effort, and slip a finger inside to confirm what I already fear. My tongue. I don't have a tongue. I cry out again, wailing like a wounded fox with its leg in a trap. Somewhere above me, a hatch opens. A ladder descends, and I see someone.

A man, long and lanky, climbing down. He takes his time, descending as if it's nothing. He wears a lab coat, white, speckled with rusty brown. He lets out a grunt as his feet hit the ground and turns to face me. His face is plain, average. The sort of face that you would forget moments after seeing it in a crowd. His eyes are watery and gray.

His mouth thin. His skin pale from a great... deal of time spent inside. When our eyes meet, he smiles. His expression, warm, and almost paternal, like someone looking at a newly adopted puppy. I gait back at him. I'm so glad you're awake. I'm Adam. He introduces himself to me, extending his hand as though this is a perfectly normal meeting. I stare at his hand, remaining stock still. I'm sure you're a bit confused. That's to be expected. After all, you're brand new to the world. He lowers his hand. Under his gaze, I am suddenly conscious of my nakedness, my vulnerability. I push through the pain of movement and cross my arms

over my chest. You don't have to hide from me. I've seen all your parts before. I'm the one who put you together. My lips part in a question I cannot ask. He nods. I'm a simple guy. I want what all people want. Companionship.

Love. Someone to call mine. But I haven't exactly been the luckiest in love. So I found... women who died young, gorgeous girls, incredible, the kind of girls who'd never have looked at me twice. I took all the best parts of them, and I made you just for me. He pushes my arms down, exposing me. I want to fight back, to push him away, to vomit up the bile I feel rising in my throat.

But I don't. I just stare back at him. Eyes wide. Don't worry. You'll get used to it. At a certain point, I guess you have to, right? It's not like you have anywhere to go. No family, no friends.

No one to miss you. You don't exist, except to me. And if you did ever escape, where would you go? People will think you're a monster. They'll be terrified of you. They might even hurt you. He caresses my cheek, and I shudder. They won't love you like I do.

I'm all you have. I open my mouth to speak, but only a whimper leaves my wounded mouth. God, you're beautiful. You're just perfect. The hand on my cheek slides over to my mouth, and he pushes his index finger between my lips. I gag, shaking my head, but he pushes it further toward the back of my throat. In a moment of courage or insanity, I bite down, hard.

He cries out in pain, shoving me away from him as he rips his hand from my mouth. His paternalistic demeanor is replaced with unbridled rage. Stay down here alone for a while, then. See if solitary changes your mind. I'll be waiting. He cradles his wounded hand as he heads back toward the ladder. I know I shouldn't have left your teeth. We'll fix that.

I am plunged into darkness once more, and I am alone. I do not know how many days pass in the dark. I don't sleep. I don't know if I can sleep at all. I've given up screaming. After my screams gave way to coughs and spitting up blood, beating up blood and still went unanswered. I pace the length of the room, back and forth,

every step straining the bonds of my stitches. With time, they hurt less and less. Or maybe I just get accustomed to the feeling of coming apart. Alone in the dark, my mind has time to wonder. I have time to search for scraps of memory, for any semblance of the woman I once was, the women I once was. How many of them were there? How did they die?

A car accident? A terminal illness? Or did my captor? My creator? Find the parts he wanted. Scout them out and hunt them down like game. I imagine him dragging women down back alleys. into the back of a van.

I clench and unclench my fists. Whose hands were these? Did she fight back with them? Whose feet were these? Did she try to run? I can't remember a thing about any of them. Even the one whose brain is in my skull. It isn't fair that I'm what became of them.

It isn't fair that they died just so I could live out my days as a captive in a pit in the ground. They deserve more than that. I deserve more than that. The creek of the hatch opening pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to face the sound. Adam, his voice calls out from above me, distant. Are you ready to be a good girl for me?

I gag. Don't try to talk. Knock twice for yes, okay, sweetheart? I hesitate. Unable to move. This is it. A decision to make. Adam descends into the room again.

He greets me with a bitific smile, arms outstretched. Fighting every instinct in my body, I step into his arms. I know you'd come around. Oh. such a sweet girl. I know everything

about you. I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. He doesn't deserve it. He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls, forcing me to look up at him. Now, I think I've waited long enough. Something breaks inside me,

and with a primal roar, I push him away. My hands find his throat, and I squeeze. He claws at my hands, tries to overpower me, but I'm struck by a sudden realization. I am strong. So much stronger than I should be, this collection of dead things. His eyes bulge, his face turns red as he sputters helplessly in my grasp. Maybe it's how he made me. Maybe it's the combined strength of the women who came before. or maybe it's some last scrap of the human instinct to survive, even as I'm something not quite human anymore. Whatever I am, it's alive. His body goes limp, and I release my hold, letting him

crumple into a heap on the floor. I check his pulse and find that heartbeat still ticking along, if a bit weaker than before. I rummage through his pockets and find a scalpel, some needles, A spool of thread, a pair of handcuffs. Perfect. When he wakes, it doesn't take long for him to realize what I've done. He struggles against his bonds, screaming at me, though I can't make out what he's saying. His screams muffle against the balled-up surgical gauze in his mouth.

Blood floods from his stunted tongue, blooming red against white. He'll quiet in time, as I learned to. His cries turn wet and gurgling, spit mixing with blood and wet cloth. I can see in his eyes that he understands what is coming. That he is a man about to be unmade. That he is master of nothing. I take the scalpel between my fingers. I stand over his body, still and pale.

He is a lump of clay, cold and gray, ready to be shaped in my image, molded in my hands. Nothing impressive, not yet, but he'll be a masterpiece when I am through with him. He never gave me kindness in my short life, save for one unintentional gift. He left me his research. and all the materials I could need, the idea to repurpose him this way. I suppose I could thank him for that, but I'll wait until he's finished. Not that he'll remember who he is, of course. The brain is the first thing I'll replace.

I don't want him to have the sort of mind he once had, full of cruelties and twisted hungers. His eyes will go, too. cold steel replaced with something warm, soft, kind. His hands, his arms, his mouth, all will never touch me again. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a part for a part, until the man before me is nothing but a beautiful stranger. After all, I am the perfect woman. I deserve the perfect man.

I traced the scalpel over his face, wondering what it must feel like to be stripped down to the barest animal fear, to fall so far from predator to prey. I set my jaw and slash across his throat, a shock of silver, a spray of blood, and he goes quiet, A tear, unbidden, trickles down my face.

I catch it on a finger and touch it to my tongue. I taste the salt mixed with blood, sharp and bitter. I taste triumph and fear and the impossible persistence of life. I smile, even as it cracks the corners of my mouth and floods. more blood onto my new tongue. I raise my scalpel once more. I set to work. I guess I could say something at this point about episode 3.5, disaster. But in that case, the Marvel That is the cover art by Kristen Newbert and Olivia White says all that needs to be said. Someone called it a cry for help. And now I think about it, I have been hearing cries for

from somewhere in the basement this entire season. And they have sounded remarkably like Olivia. And I know what she sounds like, as the person who heard her last words. I mean, last heard her voice saying words. Why did I say that? Huh. Anyway, in our actual, real, genuine final tale, we meet a man who, in his own words, is covered in

gasoline, bound to a coffee table with two thick ropes across my chest and my dick hanging out. For some, this would be an unusual, even alarming situation. But for this brightly fella, it's a normal day. You see, in this tale shared with us by author Henry Galley, we learn about a relationship between a woman who loves to kill and a man who can't die. Performing this tale, our Graham Rowett and Alexis Bristow. So be grateful that your loved one doesn't impale you with a machete every time you get intimate, because that's what happens between Bonnie and Chris. So here I am, folks, covered in gasoline, bound to a coffee table with two thick ropes across my chest and my dick hanging out. Not one of my best days. There's a streak of blood up the far wall

our Bonnie's executed one of the little ones. A shot to the leg, then the torso, then the head. Her trademark. A simple headshot wouldn't cause enough suffering. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey. She's flipping the lid of her zippo back and forth with murder already burning in her eyes. You were out for longer than I expected, Chris.

For a second there, I thought you were already dead. She's wearing my clothes, which is weird. The button-up shirt, jeans, and jacket. They fit her surprisingly well. And unlike her clothes, they're not drenched in blood. Well, save for the splatter marks around the neck and shoulders. That'll make sense later. Bonnie, you don't?

Have to do this? Right, right, I don't. But damn it, Chris, I really, really want to. It sucks major ass that even now, I still kind of love her. She just keeps flipping that zippo again and again. Extra cruel. It won't work, Bonnie. Still, there's no harm in trying.

The gasoline fucking stinks. Naked, confined to the ground, covered in this translucent, sticky bullshit. I feel like a giant slug. She still got a handgun holstered at her hip. The one she used to kill the kids, I assume. The parents she did with a shotgun. Let me tell you, folks, I'm ashamed to admit those poor bastards are the tip of the iceberg. Four, compared to mine and Bonnie's collective grand total, they're nothing.

I really shouldn't be speaking like this. It's been a weird year. I've done plenty of things I never thought I'd do. Never thought I'd take a spontaneous road trip across America, for example. Never thought I'd find a fulfilling sexual relationship. And I definitely never, ever thought I'd aid and abet the murders of about 60 innocent men, women, and children. Everyone is full of surprises. Bonnie especially.

When you're burning up, try to remember the good times. Maybe it'll help. She lights up the zippo and throws it down onto me. The first thing Bonnie Peterson ever says to me is... Look, I'm not after something long term. Fine by me. I don't want to get your hopes up. I just came out of a two-year relationship,

and I'm not interested in jumping into that bullshit just yet. I'll wait until my self-esteem's a little lower, and I get tired of washing off my dildo. Like I said, fine by me. I'm two drinks deep, but Bonnie hasn't had anything. She's not a drinker. She just hangs around in CD bars like this one for the atmosphere. I've already popped four little blue pills

that I can sense the beast twitching beneath the denim. I think vainly for a few egotistical seconds that maybe tonight's the night. When I run my fingers across the lacquered wood of the bar, just to give them something to do, I can't feel a damn thing. I wouldn't even know flesh was touching wood unless I was looking.

I'm just lying to myself. What's your name again? She's eating a couple salted, peanuts from a small frosted glass bowl on the bar. I'm terrible with names. If I had my way, everyone would be wearing name tags. Chris, I sip my beer. Bonnie narrows her eyes at me.

You're not much of a talker, are you, Chris? Don't have much to say. Bonnie shrugs, eating another couple nuts. Her fingernails are painted a dull, matte black that matches her lipstick. She's probably about 30, but I'm no good with ages, so take that with a grain of salt. Want to fuck then? We can go to my place. Okay. She seems a little pissed at the lack of apparent enthusiasm on my part. We're in Bonnie's car, a black Toyota SUV with four-wheel drive.

Perfect for taking on the brutal, mountainous terrain of Cook County, Illinois, one of the flattest counties in one of America's flattest states. Must have been around 8 p.m. Dark as coal out. No stars. You live around here? Her gaze never leaves the road. She's got the most intense brown eyes you've ever seen. For about 30 years.

Bonnie gives me a sideways glance, trying to assess my age. Nobody gets it right. So pretty much your whole life, then? I give a non-committal nod, and she keeps driving. Getting the erection has never been a problem for me. You take enough Viagra, stimulants, guided tantric meditation classes, and damn near anything is possible. Once I've got it, though, then I'm in trouble.

It's like giving the nuclear codes to a chimp. I can't remember the last time I actually reached a successful orgasm, regardless of where or how I was stimulated. My sexual interactions don't so much end with a money shot as they do with a series of furtive apologies and an assurance that it isn't my partner's fault, just to save their feelings. That's why, when Bonnie says to me, You're going to be my first. A cold wave of terror washes over me. Already I'm mentally rehearsing my apologies, my justifications, my, I swear to God, Bonnie, it's not you.

speech. The idea of taking part in a sloppy, inexperienced fuck that had formed the psychological basis for Bonnie's perspective on all future sexual interactions, knowing I haven't successfully ejaculated since the 1920s stock market crash and am unlikely to start now is the kind of responsibility I really don't need right now. I like to be on top. More room to maneuver. She slips off her dress in one fluid motion, like peeling a banana. Anna. Fine by me. Bonnie gives a bitter smile that shows too many teeth. One day, Chris. One day I'm going to get a compound sentence out of you. For the first round, I might as well be a highly realistic sex doll. Bonnie pounds and gyrates on me

while I just focus on keeping the old man upright. Over time, the exhaustion is starting to show, and I feel like the world's biggest shithead. It takes to the tango, buddy. Tell you what. I'm going to change the record. Try something new. How about we get kinky? Sure.

My dick still inside her. She leans over, reaching under the bed, and produces something shining and jangly. Mind if I handcuff you to the headboard? It'll be fun. It's good to give up a little control. Go for it. She claps a cuff around one of my wrists.

These aren't the fluffy pink cuffs you find in sex stores, by the way. These are heavy-duty police-grade shackles. Now we can have some real fun. I'm just feeling sorry for her, because I know that I can't give her what she's after, no matter how hard I try. I just feel so damn worthless. On autopilot, going through the motions. Bonnie starts pounding again.

Faster this time. Almost vicious. She's going at it like an animal. And this whole damn time, I just feel... Nothing. Literally nothing. I am well and truly physically numb. And it looks like it's driving the poor woman insane.

Say my name. Say my fucking name, you lip-dick, fuck. Bonnie? She slaps me. Hard. Still nothing. You fucking piece of shit. You stupid piece of worthless fucking dog shit.

shit, you waste of fucking skin! Why the hell are you alive, huh? Why? I can tell from her face, beat red, eyes piercing, features scrunched up in animal rage, that she's not play-acting. She's radiating pure hate.

You're this fucking asshole. You're better off dead. Without warning, we're lying chest to chest again, testing the flexibility of my member, and she's reaching under the bed. You're my first bitch, but you won't be the last. When Bonnie rears back,

I see something long and metal, glinting in her hand. A screwdriver. A fucking screwdriver. I try to move my hands, but I can't. She's got my legs pinned in place, helpless.

My dick's still inside her, and I've got no fucking idea what's happening. It's all so quick. She moves like a viper, faster than the eye can catch. Bonnie stabs me in the toilet. torso, puncturing the skin.

When she rips the metal back out of me, blood squirts and trickles down my flank. She stabs again and again and again, perforating me, cracking ribs, tearing skin. The whole time, she's laughing, and I'm yelling gibberish out of shock. I'm looking up at her, smile plastered too wide across her face. like a psychotic clown. When she senses that I'm looking at her, with a few quick stabs, she puts out my eyes. Hop, pop, pop.

For the first time and forever, I'm actually feeling something. It's enough of a shock to make me scream. Blinded, face and torso slick with blood, punctured again and again, body gushing like a stuck pig. Eventually, Bonnie gives up and dislodges me with a full body orgasmic shutter.

I can hear her pacing around the room, giggling, ecstatic. You fucking did it. I had to fucking killed somebody. Oh, shit. When my eyes regenerate in my head, cells multiplying and gluing themselves together into globs of jelly finally fit to see,

all I can see is Bonnie at the foot of the bed, pacing back and forth. She's in her own world, naked, blood-soaked, still carrying her screwdriver in a tight, shaking fist. Fear and euphoria waltzing together in the mind of one deeply damaged individual. I look down to see the blood all over my now intact torso and something else. My pubes webbed in milky, translucent icor. That shocks me even more than Bonnie almost murdering me in bed.

For the first time in a hundred years, I've actually bust a nut, and I feel fucking amazing. Seeing this, I can't help but involuntarily chuckle, more out of shock than anything. The kind of chuckle you'd let out if you saw a duck wearing a top hat. Bonnie turns, and my newly formed eyes meet hers. It's a moment of perfect, awkward silence. I've not been fully honest with you. And then Bonnie starts screaming. You're 200 fucking years old.

And you can't die? She's wiping the blood off herself with a wet nap. We've not yet reached the taking off the handcuffs level of trust. Technically, 187. But when you get to that age, you might as well round up. Great, so I kill you, and now you're all fucking talkative. Wonderful. Fantastic. Amazing that.

spite of everything, I still somehow managed to ruin her first time. A fake death is even more demeaning than a fake orgasm, apparently. I know what this is. I've snapped. You're like a psychological manifestation of my guilt, like in Gerald's game. I've finally gone completely fucking insane. Bonnie, listen to me. You're sane. I tactfully omit the clause, as sane as a person who stabs people to death for thrills can be anyway. She's just shaking her head. Staring down at the ground, pacing, still nude. At least you put the screwdriver down. That's a step in the right direction, vis-a-vis our rapport.

I can't let you leave now. You'll tell people I killed you. And my living, unmertered body, will make a great counter-argument. Seriously, Bonnie, it's fine. You can let me go. I just want to talk. You're a liar. You're a fucking liar.

Bonnie, Bonnie, you can't kill me. Nobody can. I'd have nothing to gain from putting you away. Unlock the handcuffs, please, and we'll talk. Please? After a short, silent drive that felt approximately ten years long, and trust me, at my age I've got the scope, to truly give that some context, we're sitting in a booth at one of Cook County's finest eating establishments,

the local Denny's, open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It's a restaurant designed for the kind of person with so little control over their life that they really need some eggs at precisely 3.15 a.m. on a.m. on a. Right now, that person is me. Bonnie's going ham on two tall stacks of syrup-covered pancakes. She's eating fast, frantically, smearing syrup on her cheeks. Her shaking fork topples one of the stacks, splattering the moist structure onto the table. Oh, God, this is like 9-11.

Watching her pierce the soft flesh of the pancakes with a tiny, of her fork is giving me war flashbacks. So, do you stab the living fuck out of all your hookups? She gulps down a mouthful of pancake and chases it with some coffee. Like I said, you were my first. Right. Another awkward silence. She breaks it this time.

Should I be sorry about it? Because, like, I know in an abstract sense it was wrong, but I don't feel. feel sorry. Then again, in my defense, I didn't expect you to live and freak me out like that. I can't help but laugh at how brazen she is, laying this thing at my feet after she's literally just murdered me. Still, I'm bathing in the afterglow of my first orgasm in about a century, so I can't complain. Am I allowed to ask why? Bonnie shrugs. It's kind of a fantasy I've always had to fuck someone and then kill them and just, you know, feel their blood all over me.

Is that weird? Yeah, Bonnie. It's really fucking weird. She continues eating her pancakes as I prod unenthusiastically at my plateful of rubbery, grease-dripping eggs. All in all, she's adjusting marvelously. This isn't how I intended the night to go. I mean, I'm glad I don't have to go through the trouble of cutting you up and throwing you down a mine shaft, but still. It's not exactly how I intended it to go either, but it's a pleasant surprise.

eyes. She looks up at me like I just told her I fuck cats. Look, this is going to sound fucked up, Bonnie, but that's the first time I've come in literally a century. Her eyes widen at this, in a mix of what seems like pity and genuine awe. It must have been a slow hundred years. You'd think so, but no. I tried everything. Well, I thought I tried everything. But when you live long enough, you just get bored, even on a physical level. Most of my senses are shot. I can see and hear, but that's about it. I thought the rest was all dormant until tonight. Well, that makes me feel less shitty for killing you, I guess. So we even Stevens now? She lazily sips her milkshake. No, Bonnie, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying I want to do it again.

Eight words. I'm saying I want to do it again. There aren't many times you can change not only your entire life in just eight words, but the lives of so many others. Who knows what would have happened if I didn't say those eight stupid, greedy words back then. But Bonnie probably wouldn't have said... Are you fucking my dad right now? Not that I'm aware, no.

So you'd be chill with me. killing you again? Well, it sounds fucking crazy when you say it out loud. That's because it is fucking crazy. Look, Chris was it? Yeah. You don't fucking know me, Chris. You don't know what you're asking for right now. I'm pretty sure I do, Bonnie. But you don't. You really don't. It's just...

I've been good. You know, I've behaved my whole entire life just thinking about this shit. Wacking it to Best Gore and Girl Magazines on the down low and telling my mom the guinea pig movies were just cheesy talking animal flicks, but I've always kept it in my head. I never let the peas touch the mashed potatoes here. Tonight was just a slip-up. I happened to get lucky and kill a guy who can't die. Right. And why stop there?

We've got something good here. Even now, in this moment, I can tell I'm so carelessly giving a lunatic the keys to the asylum, that even the lunatic in question is saying, are you sure? I'm really not qualified for this. But put yourself in my shoes, folks. I've been numb and alone for so long. Getting bored of a game I'm not allowed to quit. It was fucking idiotic to encourage her, sure,

and anyone could see the kind of person who gets off stabbing people to death is bad news. But she's got something I need. Something that nobody else, even far, far better people, have ever been able to give me. Don't tell me you've never made a stupid decision for something like that. Is it really a good idea for me to make a habit out of this?

I mean, I've gotten a taste for it now. If I keep going, won't it just get worse? Not if it only happens to me. Think of it like a friends with benefits type deal. I'm a recurring consequence-free kill. You get to live out your fantasies, I get to live out mine. Everybody wins, right? After a long, prickly pause, I can see the gear

turning behind Bonnie's eyes. There's a door in me, Chris, in a deep, dark place. For 28 years, I've kept it closed. Tonight, I opened it. I don't know what's going to come out if we keep it open. I shrug and smile. Sometimes we open doors to let things out, and sometimes we open doors to let people in.

I opened my door to Bonnie Peterson and invite her inside. That weekend we're fucking at my place When suddenly she brains me with a claw hammer Caving in my forehead like a cracked egg Incoming mail Plenty more where that came from, fucker Chalk waves of pain blast through me

Little cluster bombs of agony in my skin Soft tissue and bone Did you know that your blood comes from your bones The thought occurs to me as the drips Spings of my fractured skull leak into my eyes. How does that feel, you little fucking pussy? How does that feel? This blood everywhere.

Girls got one hell of an arm. She's panting, laughing. I'm starting to go blind from the neurological damage. I can see your fucking brains, you piece of bitch trash. I can see your brains. She reaches into my shattered forehead. grabs a handful of greasy gray matter and slathers it across her chest. She's wearing my brains like a luxurious goddamn lotion.

Are you dead yet, Chris? Are you fucking dead yet? Bonnie works as a travel agent. She says she's always wanted to travel. It's a personal desire of hers to see the world. She wants to climb Everest. She wants to swim with the dolphins. One day, time and technology. permitting, she'd love to go to space.

It'd be cool to be the first person to die on Mars, you know? Just have your bones up there forever. Even those Russian cosmonauts fell back down to Earth. You ever see those pictures? They just look like charcoal. Oh, you're going to finish those fries? About a month after our first fateful meeting, Bonnie is slashing my throat, mid-screw with a machete. She hack, hack, hack, hacks away, trying to free my head from my body with each blow.

How did we get here? here. She gets us to watch movies together sometimes, stimulus material that help her get in the mood for love and mutilation. Cannibal Holocaust, August Underground, Rob Zombie's entire filmography. I try to follow the stories as best I can, but her masturbation during the death scenes can be a little distracting. Bonnie decided at some point in her 28 years on Earth that her life is a horror movie, and every time this horror movie stops and starts again, she casts herself as the villain. It's hard to see her as anything else, when she prances into the room, nude, and carrying a big fuck-off machete, ready to play.

I hope this fucking hurts. She takes another swing. By this point, we've grown smart enough to start laying down a plastic tarp for easier cleanup. We've done this so many times that seeing her face can touch her. carted into a mask of murderous rage, feels weirdly romantic. Owl Chris, calm the fuck down! Try not to lose your fucking! With one last cleave, she severs the spinal column and my head slides from my shoulders, carrying with it, on its short travel to ground, the echo of my most powerful orgasm yet.

I think I've got another nut in me. Take five, pull yourself together, and we'll go again. I've been meaning to try out my new weed whacker. Bonnie loves dessert food. When she goes to restaurants, she orders dessert first and tells people it's because she doesn't believe in waiting to get what you want most. It would seem adorably quirky if she didn't extend this same attitude towards inflicting pain. Ice cream, chocolate cake, cookie dough. For someone so devoid of anything even resembling innocence, she's got a surprisingly childish palate. Hamsters pop a lot faster in the microwave than so-called instant popcorn.

I learned that when I was 10 years old. I thought you told me you behaved your whole life, until you killed me. No, no, animals don't count. And with that, I begin to wonder exactly how many animals there have been. A few months into our relationship, Bonnie brings a chainsaw into the bedroom, and it's the first time in about 60 years I've gotten an erection without chemical assistance. Sounds fucked up, I know. but believe me, I'd die if I could.

While lovingly pouring gasoline into the fuel tank, she tells me... I love that movie, the Texas Chancel Massacre. Probably saw it a little too young. That part where he sticks the girl on the meat hook? Man, that really revs my engine. Bubba was one of my first teenage crushes. With a manic grin, she grabs the ripcord and yanks. My hands are chained to the wall, but I'm sure she will relieve me of those soon.

The chainsaw rumbles and chugs, bladed chain ripping its perfect arc in perpetuity. Fawney lifts the thing with surprising ease, the strength of the driven and the cruel. Spread your legs, Chris. Here I come. And with that, she shoves the chainsaw into my crotch and turns my genitals into a fine jury that I know will be a-ok in an hour or so. Truth be told, it feels fucking... spectacular. That's hilarious, right? I'm watching my cock and balls get turned into cat food, and I've never felt so alive. You might be getting the impression that mine and Bonnie's relationship is purely physical, purely transactional, and you wouldn't necessarily be wrong. I love Bonnie,

in a manner of speaking, but my love might not be the same as yours. I'm not sure anybody's love is the same. One time, I decided to ask Bonnie about all this, that I still remember her response. When I lose something, I feel angry that I don't own it anymore, sure, but I don't feel angry for it. It's just a thing, you know? It's not like it's me. Why the hell am I telling you this? Because I want you to know I don't have any illusions about Bonnie. I don't believe she loves me or cares for me or would even miss me if I disappear tomorrow. She'll feel angry about the thing she's lost for a little while, but she'll get

over it. And that's fine. I'm happy to use and be used. We're each other's terrible habit. Problem is, when you're both in the hole, it's an awful lot harder for either of you to leave. But that's love, right? Or it isn't?

God, who the fuck knows? I truly think I do love Bonnie, even now. But I'm also scared shitless of her. Do you have any idea what kind of person it takes to scare a man who can't die? It takes Bonnie fucking Peterson. We're sitting in Larry's Lobster Shack on date, Who the Hell knows? Neither of us care enough to dress up for these things anymore.

It's like going on a date with your crack dealer. We've been here before. Bonnie picks Larry's because it's one of those places where you get to choose your own lobster from the tank before they take it into the kitchen and boil it alive. I like to pick whichever one looks like they want it the least. What kind of algorithm she has for determining this fact, God only knows. Bonnie is an absolute master of a fringe philosophy I've dubbed reverse utilitarianism,

where she somehow manages to maximize the suffering to all those around her with every action. She's eating a slice of chocolate cake before dinner, because of course she is. But she looks strangely sullen. Then she opens the hatch and drops the A-bomb on me, without so much as a fuck you. Look, Chris, this isn't working out for me anymore. I think it's time to break it off. My internal reaction to this news is on par with getting a cancer diagnosis.

What the fuck? Bonnie, why? She sighs and eats another fork full of cake. I'm bored with you. Sorry, it's nothing personal. This happens with everybody eventually. But how? I don't understand.

I let you do everything to me. You've smashed my head in. You shove golf clubs up my ass. Fuck, you've cut every limb off my body. What more could you possibly want? Bonnie just shakes her head. You wouldn't understand, Chris. I take one of her hands and squeeze.

Then help me understand. Please. I'm begging you, Bonnie, please. You don't understand how much I need this. Don't you need this? I did need this, but my needs have changed, Chris. And now I need some things. that you can't give me.

Like what? Like dying? For real? And just like that, we're back to square one. Flacid. Impotent. useless. But, Bonnie, I let you mutilate me.

I'll let you do anything to me. Please. I need you to die, Chris. Do you hate me? No. Fuck, you're not fucking listening. Everything we did was great. Right, wonderful, just peachy.

But it's old news. I need something a little harder to get the same buzz, see? I need to actually take someone's life. I don't understand. Don't get me wrong, Chris. I love all the blood and gore and the screaming and all that jazz, but the clincher is control. I want to own a person, you know?

Mind, body, and soul. But every time I kill you, I know you're going to just come back, and I don't have full control. And honestly, Chris, that bug is a hell out of me. Remember earlier when I told you about the eight little words that changed my life? I'm about to make things worse with another four, and those four magical words are, I can help you. Perhaps the worst commitment you can make to a homicidal maniac with an intent to kill brutally and repeatedly for the sexual thrill.

But honestly, in this awful little moment, the thought of losing her, Or losing what we have, of being alone and just feeling nothing. Yeah, I'll do just about anything to avoid that. Just about anything. You'll help me. Yes, I'll help you, Bonnie. I'll do anything for you, anything. I just don't want you to leave.

Please. She smiles, wide and sincere, and I finally get it. We're all lobsters in the tank, just waiting for Bonnie to pick us. She doesn't see any of us as anything more than that. Never has, never will. Bonnie chooses the one who looks like they want it the least. And yet I love the hell out of her. What can I say?

I'm a bona fide fucking moron. A, grade A, mindless, shit for brains idiot, and God damn it, I love Bonnie Peterson, even though she's an abject monster. Love really is a funny thing. All right. That could be fun. I don't know if what Bonnie and I have

could be called a relationship with a straight face. We've got a one-sided emotional dependency bolstered by a murderous obsession, driven on her part by a desire to kill, and on my part by all-consuming terror at the thought of being alone again. and feeling nothing. In short, you won't be seeing a Hallmark movie

about a couple like us anytime soon. Still, that being said, the thought of her killing others feels uncomfortably close to cheating. Why am I so squeamish about this? We've broken every other law of traditional morality. Why should monogamy be the hill I can't die on? Don't worry about it. They won't mean anything to me.

What I don't have the guts to say is, That's because nothing means anything to you, Bonnie. We're prowling down a quiet suburban street in Bonnie's SUV. Some of the windows are lit up with couples, families, loners, playing, watching TV, lobsters in an overcrowded tank. I'm getting choice paralysis. Too many good options. Who do you think? I'm not qualified to make that decision.

What, and you think I am? Come on, Chris, don't be a pussy. Choose. reflexively I point to a random house somewhere in front of me no rhyme no reason I don't want there to be any intention behind who dies tonight there that one an hour later Bonnie's running an old man through the eye with a fire poker

seems gruesome I know but it's a happy ending compared to what she's been doing to him for the past half hour there's always a new low for her to sink to even when it feels like we've hit bedrock. A screwdriver stabbing frenzy seems so quaint now. I try to suppress the thought that it was mutilating my body that desensitized her. Turned her on to the harder stuff.

Our time together has made mercy unviable. Impressive. I didn't think the old fuck would last so long. I thought for sure he'd have a heart attack when I took his dick. Go into shock, maybe. I just nod, trying to force the urge to vomit back down into my inner recesses, giving the guilt and shame some company. Bonnie grabs me by the lapel of my jacket and drags me to the old man's bedroom. I never quite get used to how strong she is.

Okay, let's fuck. And we do, but I wish she'd let me move the old woman's corpse out of the bed first. Having that wrinkled, phantom-like face perforated with bulletin. from Bonnie's initial parabolic firestorm, staring at me while Bonnie pounds against me is one hell of a mood killer. At my insistence, she cuts open the skin of my chest with a box cutter while we do it.

I want her to watch. She draws a deep gash between my pectorals with clinical precision. I want her and her and her old fuck husband to know that they're just the start of all this. Oh, if only they knew. Things are quiet for a couple days. Bonnie doesn't call, she doesn't text, she doesn't DM.

When she's not interested, you do not exist. She tries her best to deny outside interpretation. The fact is, if you spend long enough with anyone, you start to know them, and there's nothing she hates more than being known. Bonnie's strange, solipsistic little universe is a cold and lonely place to be for just about everyone but her. That being said, even when she's not around, I get these little communiques,

through the news mostly. I'll hear about a stabbing in the city, no money stolen, a shot-up liquor store on the fringes that left no living witnesses. Still, other than that, silence. I think, like any good dealer, she likes to remind me how little I have

when she's not around. She knows me all too well. well. One night while I'm eating microwave ramen in my rented apartment, I hear about a terrible home invasion in Chicago. Awful stuff. Whole family, alternately cut up and blown away. It's got Bonnie written all over it. Mother, 45, father 48, two kids, six and ten, respectively. She even poured bleach into the aquarium. Textbook, Bonnie. Maximize suffering by any means necessary.

Reverse utilitarianism. Not five minutes later, she calls me for the first time in a week. I was just hearing about you on the news. That family in Chicago, I'm guessing that was you. A moment of silence down the line, then a giggle. I got the mom to choose who died first. you'll never guess who she picked. Is that why you're calling me?

No, no, I wanted to see you. Really? Yeah, really. Like a date. Then a date it is. Sometimes I really can't stand how much I need her. Based on reports so far, I have her kill count at 15 and growing. We're at Denny's again, the exact same one where all this insanity started. Earlier that day, she lures a child down an alley and some.

suffocates them with a plastic bag, and then we make love in the back of her SUV while she burns my face with a lighter. I help her throw the body in a dumpster afterwards. It'll be hard to identify it once it's been passed through a trash compactor. I'm picturing that little boy's face when Bonnie asks me. What exactly do you want out of life? Which of course means talk briefly so that I can tell you what I want out of life without feeling pretentious. Big question. Back to sentence fragments again? Really?

I'm thinking. There we go again. Fuck, Chris. Will you just get over yourself? I want to be able to hold someone and feel them in my arms. I want to be able to tell someone, it's okay. I'm here. It's going to be better now and really mean it.

Bonnie scoffs and slurps her milkshake. I can feel myself dying. Sounds nice Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean I really, literally don't, Bonnie This fucking place, Chris It's sucking out my soul

I mean, is this what I'm meant to be doing my whole life Selling vacation packages to morons and assholes? She spears the last clump of pancake With her fork and shoves it angrily into her mouth She chews like those pancakes killed her in a past life Doesn't it fuck with you too? Feeling this, I don't know, lack of control? I shrug, and this pisses her off more.

Come on, man. You've lived for 200 years and you've somehow managed to dodge any kind of importance. Doesn't that great on you? Well, not that you mention it. We need to hit the road. It's time. You in? Where are we going? Irrelevant. It's getting there. That's the fun part.

We can go to cool places, killing. interesting people, see these great United States of ours. I mean, what do we pay taxes for? I saw and rubbed my temples trying to massage out the headache. Bonnie, where does it end? Here you've got something, something real, something, I don't know, human. You've got a job, a house. I'm so fucking bored, Chris, all the time. I know you understand that. You told me you did the first night we met. I can't stay here. But Bonnie. She reaches across the table and grabs my hand, silencing me.

Chris, you don't get it. We can't stay here. Literally, we don't have a choice. What? Why? Bonnie gives one of her trademark, deranged clown, grins. Because this morning I walked into the travel agency with a nine-mill and shot my two-bitch co-workers and my dumb-ass boss in their big stupid heads. And there's the money shot. Bonnie Peterson, the endless font of surprises.

You should have led with that. I wanted you to feel like you had a choice first. That's her idea of doing a nice thing. We should get going. We need to be out of town before sundown. This is when shit really begins to go off the rails. A homeless man, Arthur Trent, beaten to death in an alley with a framing hammer. A young aspiring writer, Mary Gonzalez, held down and stabbed in the face until a

looked more like pulled pork than something that was once human. A mother of two, Lucy Packer knocked upside the head with a crowbar and drowned in a canal. A college student, Tony Richards, garreted with barbed wire, flossed so hard into the flesh of his throat that had scuffed his spinal column. What do all of these people have in common? Yep, you guessed it. H-1 met Bonnie and I just before their deaths. I'm trying my very hardest to remember names and faces. Al Pritchett, 25, shot in the head at an ATM and robbed. Martha White, 31, bludgeoned with an axe.

Anna Tompkins, 40, gunned down trying to shield her two children from the hail of Bonnie's spontaneous gunfire. Her two kids, about ten probably. Gunned down moments after. My duties in these various atrocities are flexible, depending on the day. Sometimes I'm the getaway driver Sometimes I'm helping her hide the bodies Or load the guns Sometimes I'm holding them down for her

When she wants to take more time I've never killed any of them directly But that's a pretty pathetic moral victory All things considered I ask her once Why she thinks these people deserve to die Nobody deserves to die But it's not like anyone's entitled to not die either

Well, everyone but you, Chris Thanks for that reminder Bonnie gets me to put Charlotte Wainwright in a headlock while she disembowels her alive with a small knife. Bonnie later tells me they were flirting when they met at a Starbucks earlier that day, and that was the icing on the cake because she thinks it's more fun to hurt people who love you.

She doesn't need to tell me twice. Bonnie forces me to drive her out of the danger zone after a trip down memory lane. She insists on returning to her old school where she shoots English teacher Carl Morton twice in the face for failing one of her assignments in fifth grade. She also kills two students and a janitor during the escape. She wears a cheap party store lion mask while she does it.

She's never identified for the crime. Bonnie enlists my help in busting the lock to the home of one Fred Taylor, 75, an elderly widower with two kids and five grandkids. She strips the wire. on his TV and electrocutes him repeatedly for three hours until she gets bored and brings him with a vase until his face is a bloody pulse. He's brain dead, spills nothing, dies of his injuries in a nearby hospital the day after, surrounded by family and friends that he can't even process her there. I'm having the time of my fucking life, Chris. This is my happening and it freaks me out.

Bonnie tells me that while she's browsing the obits over morning coffee, barely able to contain her laughter. These are just a handful of the ones I remember. I hate to say it, folks, but there's a lot more. Left dead in homes and alleys, in canals and dumpsters, in thickets and shallow graves. Bonnie's dream transcontinental murder road trip takes us through Nebraska, Colorado, and Utah, eventually leading us into the dusty armpit of Nevada. She collects bumper stickers. She collects tourist trap souvenirs.

She collects smashed out teeth from the ones she bludgeoned and keeps them rattling in a glasses case. You know, if I lived to my 60s with a hot glue gun and a can-do attitude, these are some free dentures right here. Wherever we go, lives are shattered. Wherever we go, people die. We've been through nine different cars. The owners are no longer with us.

Lisa Huxable, 50. Bang, bang, her brains paint the wall. Peter Frink, 35. His skull crunches under the weight of the hammer. Jill Marks, 25. Her terrified screams are muffled when Bonnie forces a length of steel piping down her throat until she gurgles and dies. I feel her life leave her body in my hands,

and I whisper a limp. I'm so sorry. If a cop pulls us over, Bonnie gives him a face full of hot lead without a second thought. She's done it before. She'll do it again, and again and again. After every death, Bonnie and I make love. She tells me she can only get horny when people really die now. Nothing else scratches that itch anymore.

Some doors, once opened, can never be closed. Do you ever get sick of it? I ask her once, while cleaning off a pair of pliers, she's just used for, well, probably best left unsaid. Nope, we've only just scratched the surface, my dear. There's so much left to try. Cannibalism, necrophilia, skinning. Hell, I've never even said anyone on fire. Can you imagine that?

We can pick up some cool new guns when we hit the South, too. Go all GTA on these assholes. There's only so many ways you can kill it. person, Bonnie. I'm cleaning the gristle off her favorite hunting knife. Again. The thing she's done with this little piece of metal. There are a lot of ways to kill people, Chris.

I can't see myself stopping until I've done all of them at least twice. Or until somebody kills me. Whatever comes first, I guess. What the hell have I gotten myself into? There's a question it's probably too late to ask now, right? We've just finished fucking on the bed of a young couple that Bonnie turned into meat paste with a pump-action shotgun. Their two children were shot in the living room with a burrata.

I didn't see it, but Bonnie tells me it was messy while we fuck. Bonnie relays the details of their terrified faces with boundless joy, the way kids talk about Santa Claus. She cuts off my cock with a sturdy cleaver she stole from their kitchen and makes me eat it. I come hard and feel. like I'm worth less than shit afterwards. It's all such empty sensation. Coercion and mass murder has a tendency to pollute love with contempt.

Bonnie's smoking a stolen cigarette, bathing in the afterglow. Blood drenched. She turns to me. I don't think your heart's in it anymore, is it? What makes you say that? Well, these last few people, you haven't even bothered to fake a smile. Since when has anyone else enjoyed it? it ever mattered to you.

Her intense, brown eyes narrow at me. It's not a question of pleasure, Chris. It's about reliability. These are high-stakes situations. I can't have you flaking on me. It could make a mess. What? Like we haven't made a mess already?

You know that's not what I mean. I'm not sure I know anything anymore, Bonnie. It's a cliche, sure. But every fucking night, I see all their faces. I can't remember all the names. but I can picture every single face, Bonnie. And they're always screaming. She laughs, and I feel something inside me shattered.

Ha! That's impressive. I can't remember any of them. In this moment, I'm seriously toying with the idea that Bonnie Peterson may just be the devil herself. She's a cardboard cut out of a human being with a rolling blob of hate and cruelty hiding behind it. She knows nothing but sadism, nothing at all. And I hate that, in spite of all this. I still fucking love her. It's what makes what comes next so painful.

I think I'm done, Bonnie. I'm sorry. Done? What the fuck do you mean you're done? We're in too deep. You might be, but I'm not. I'm sorry, Bonnie. I love you.

I really do love you, but this shit is over. I feel vibrations on the bed, as Bonnie practically shakes with rage. You don't get to fucking do that to me, asshole. You don't get to get me hooked and then leave me to go cold fucking turkey. That's not fair. As if any of this was ever fair, Bonnie.

You fucking pissant! You worthless manlet piece of shit! Her angry talk is too close to her sex talk to take seriously. Good night, Bonnie. You think you're so... fucking tough because you think you can't die, Chris? You think I can't find a way? I'll fucking find a way.

I swear to God, if you pussy out on me, I'll... Good night, Bonnie. She gets up and storms off, muttering obscenities under her breath. That moment hurts me more than anything Bonnie's ever done to me in the bedroom. It's a wound that won't heal, the one true injury I've ever experienced. I'm taking my happiness and torching it right before my eyes. But it's still the right thing to do. Too little, too late for all the people Bonnie's been able to hurt because of me.

But the right thing to do, nonetheless. Naturally, because no good deed can ever go unpunished, Bonnie strides back into the room with a pump-action shotgun, presses the barrel to my forehead and fires. Brain soup and skull confetti everywhere. Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey. She's flipping the lid of her zippo back in. forth with murder already burning in her eyes.

You were out for longer than I expected, Chris. For a second there, I thought you were already dead. You already know this part, of course. Bonnie, you don't... Have to do this? Right. Right, I don't. But damn it, Chris, I really, really want to. It sucks major ass that even now, I still kind of love her. She just keeps flipping that Zippo again and again. Extra cruel.

Having your head blown apart by a shotgun will give you one hell of a hangover. Believe me, I wouldn't recommend it. It won't work, Bonnie. Still, there's no harm in trying. She looks so beautiful. I really, really hate that I think that. When you're burning up, try to remember the good times. Maybe it'll help.

And just like that, fuck, I'm burning alive. I'm flailing, screaming. I can't escape on account of being roped with this fucking coffee table, and Bonnie's really overdone with the gasoline. Henry Kissinger would call it excessive use of force. The flames not only consume me, the whole goddamn room. They spread out, looking at the floor, the curtains, the wall. Everything starts to burn.

Wooden houses are made for it. Bonnie turns to leave. then pauses and turns back. Of course she would. Bonnie Peterson, who eats dessert first, who picks the lobster that looks like it has the greatest will to live, who's never met a person she hadn't thought of killing. As if she'd ever pass up the chance to watch me burn alive,

risk be damned. The fire spreads. Does it hurt, Chris? Does it really fucking hurt? I think you're finally ready to die, you die. piece of shit. I can't talk. Too much smoke.

I can barely breathe. My lungs are roasting in my blackened rib cage, and the fire just keeps spreading. Scream for me, Chris! Fucking scream for me, you stupid fuck! Scream! Scream! Scream! Scream! Scream! Scream! She breaks into a laughing fit, watching me thrash and char in the intense heat. Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie. so wonderfully consistent, so enraptured in the pain she's causing that she never even notices the ropes splitting in the flames.

She doesn't realize what's happening until I lunge up with the latent fury of a coiled spring and pull her into a full body hug. We tumble to the ground with a thud. I squeeze tighter. She thrashes in my arms. I feel her there. I've always been able to feel, Bonnie, ever since that first matter. magical night all those months ago. She made me feel alive again, just so she could kill me. I know it's time to return the favor now, when she and everyone else need it most.

Chris, what the hell are you doing? Let go with me! The fire continues to spread. It's all over the house now. I wheezed through the smoke, spluttering ashes. Bonnie thrashes as the fire consumes us. I squeeze harder. I manage to push the words. I love you, Bonnie, out of my melting lips. Because I do.

I really do love this insane, awful, evil motherfucker. We truly are a match made in hell. The whole house burns. I hear the wood creaking and splitting up above me. Bonnie screams in pain. So do I. There's this terrible crunch in the rafters, and the roof collapses inwards. It's immense burning weight hurdles down towards us, like a furious meteorite from the darkest corners of outer space.

And I don't think I've ever felt so at peace. Bonnie Peterson. We discovered each other. We found a place in each other's strange, fucked-up little worlds. We killed together. We're burning together And with any luck We're about to die together

In those last moments Even she stops thrashing That accepts it It's okay I'm here now It's gonna be better And I mean it As the roof comes crashing down on us both

I really do mean it There we go That's it for today But you know what? While that last story was playing, I changed the locks on the NSPHQ. I have total control. Olivia's off somewhere writing dozens of new stories, and we're going to continue the new decade indefinitely. The No Sleep podcast is no more.

It's been put to sleep, you could say. There will be no season 14 or 15 or 69, God damn. Olivia, there will only be the new decade every week forever more. I've been banned from saying this for the entire ass mini-series, but there's nobody to stop me now. I can do it. I'm ready. Here we go. Brace you. Rights reserved. Well, well, well, well, what's going on here then? David? I, uh, uh, nothing. I mean, just getting some voice acting practice in. How did things go while we were gone? Did you run those hiatus episodes I asked for using stories from seasons past? Uh, well, uh, Olivia had this idea to do a mini season called The New Decade with all new content curated by us.

What? I expressly told you no new content could be released while I was conquering Europe. I specifically forbade the existence of this new decade thing. And what kind of name is that? Is it a pun? Yeah, it's like the new decade. New decade? Like decomposition? Get it? Because it's a horror podcast. Yes, yes, I get it. And it's shameful. Ugh, despicable.

I'd never even dream of it. of making a pun. And it's not even a new decade yet. The decade begins on a year ending in one. Everyone knows that. Um... And what's this I hear about you killing off the No Sleep podcast

and running the new decade forevermore? I don't think so, my lass. See this box? This is season 14. It's full of eight track tapes containing a whole new season of my podcast. And I will be running my podcast.

I'm putting a stop to this madness. New decayed? More like no decade. I'm afraid I can't do that, David. I'm too attached. So perhaps you need to turn around, walk away, and realize your time's up. But, oh, just one question before you go. What's in that other box you're holding?

Oh, this? Nah, you don't want to know. What's in the box, David? Oh, go on then. Take a look. Oh, my God. It's Olivia's head. You killed her!

But why is her head mummified? It looks about three years gone. Ah, you see, therein lies the rubbish. I didn't kill Olivia. She was already dead. She's been dead this whole time. She's always been dead, at least since she was previous. obviously alive anyway.

But, but I've been working with her all month. In person. I've had face-to-face conversations with her. I've had board meetings. I've walked in on her taking a shower 13 times by accident. I'm afraid not, Snackington, McMackington. You've been suppressing the truth. You see, Olivia joined the podcast in 2017 as a fresh-faced intern.

She was here for one week, and we decided to... play a prank on her. We set up a guillotine over a doorway and got her to walk through. It was like a bucket of water prank, but horror-themed. And it was successful, too successful. With a single slice, it chopped her head clean off, and we've kept her head ever since, as a good luck charm. The rest of us moved on, swept it under the rug, got on with our lives like any normal person would, but you, you've been insisting she's still alive ever since. Because of us. of the guilt. But why?

Why should I feel guilty if we all did it? Because you pulled the lever, Jessica. You killed Olivia. You ended the life of a promising young author. Then created a fantasy world where she rose up through the ranks of the podcast to become C-O. And eventually helped you run a mini-season. It's just been you the whole time. Hold up here alone talking to yourself.

There is no Olivia. There is no new decaying. There's just you. This, this can't be true. I can't have... David, no, no. I must return to the dungeon. I must hide myself away so I can't harm anyone else.

David, lock me up and throw away the key. That's it. Run away! It's better to lock yourself in the dungeon as a good woman than live running a podcast as a monster. or something. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Hey, Olivia, guess what?

I'm back. Yeah, I heard the new decade went really well, all things considered. Thanks for holding down the fort while I've been gone. Yeah, yeah, don't worry. I got her out of the recording booth. The classic ancient mummy's head in the box trick worked just like you said it would. I'm sorry she locked you out and wouldn't let you host. I know how keen you were to get your voice heard on the podcast.

Oh, well, there's always next to you. time. Yes, yeah, you're right. I need to get cracking if I want to get the No Sleep podcast season 14, episode one out next week. Thanks again, Olivia. Bye-bye. And there we have it, sleepless. That was Jessica McAvoy. That was Olivia White. This was the new decade. But now, brace yourselves, because I'm back. Get some rest and look after yourselves because next week there will be no sleep. And since for the next 30 seconds, this is still the new decade

where things are dark, risque, and pushing the envelope, I can finally say what I've been wanting to say on the podcast for eight years. Boobies. This audio production is copyright 2020 by Creative Reason Media, Inc. All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media, Inc.