The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast - Waiting for 16 Vol. 01

Episode Date: March 7, 2021

While we wait for the Season 16 premiere on Apr 4, enjoy some of our Season Pass stories from the past.“The Radio Static Challenge” written by Derek Walker (Story starts around 00:03:45) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Dom – Atticus Jackson, Lee – Jesse Cornett“The Final Reel” written by Lucius R.T. Greene (Story starts around 00:24:30) TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Lana – Erin Lillis, Ed – Dan Zappulla, Edith – Nichole Goodnight, Agent – Graham Rowat  This episode is sponsored by:Betterhelp – Betterhelp’s mission is making professional counseling accessible, affordable, convenient – so anyone who struggles with life’s challenges can get help, anytime, anywhere. Get started today and get 10% off your first month by going to betterhelp.com/nosleepQuip – Quip is the good habits company for oral health. With their leading-edge electric toothbrush combined with dentist-recommend scheduled replacement plans for brush heads, toothpaste, floss, and now their chewing gum – Quip makes oral care easy and affordable. And if you go to getquip.com/nosleep right now, you can get a FREE plastic gum dispenser with any refill plan.  Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Derek Walker Executive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Waiting for 16” illustration courtesy of Alexandra Cruz HernandezAudio program ©2021 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Phew, season 15 is all over. Time for a short hiatus. Yeah, we've earned a break. A vacation. Time off for a nice long holiday to unwind and relax. It's not quite like that. We have a great hiatus episode coming up, and we're still hard at work for season 16. So, no break at all? Well, sort of. It's kind of the way life is. Sometimes you can take your foot off the gas for a bit, but you still have to deal with the day-to-day struggles.

So you mean we carry on even though we need to find time to look after ourselves? That's right. That's why we like to make sure people know about BetterHelp. Because if there's something interfering with your happiness or is preventing you from achieving your goals, Better Help can be a great resource. They'll assess your needs and match you with your own licensed professional therapist. You can sign up securely online from anywhere in the world

and start communicating in under 48 hours. BetterHelp has a broad range of expertise to help you out. You can communicate with the therapist and get timely and thoughtful responses. Plus, you can schedule weekly video or phone sessions from home. Easy and safe. Let's hear what BetterHelp client, K.A. said after working with counselor Rebecca Coleman for only three weeks on issues concerning stress, anxiety, and addictions. She's very sweet and listens very well, made me feel comfortable from the first session.

And BetterHelp user AD has been with counselor Kathy Foster for four months. on issues concerning family conflicts, trauma and abuse, and self-esteem. I look forward to our sessions every week. I find it so important that Kathy keeps it light for me, even when we talk about heavy things. It's been helpful to stay positive and work through my struggles. And there's better help user SE, who has worked with counselor Gregory Hayes for three weeks

on issues concerning depression, relationship issues, and intimacy-related issues. I appreciate all the help and the talks we've had. I agree with his words and know he understands my wild ride of emotions I constantly have. He's been truly amazing. BetterHelp wants you to start living a happier life today. Visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's BetterH-E-L-P.

And join the over 1 million people who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. In fact, so many people have been using Better Help that they are recruiting additional counselors in all 50 states, and they can help you. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. Say, I think we better help our listeners hear more horror stories. You're right, so let's start the show. Welcome to the No Sleep podcast. I'm your host, David Cummings. We're in between seasons 15 and 16, But we're going to keep the audio horror filling your ears and brains sufficiently.

This week and next we'll feature some great stories heard on previous season past episodes. And on March 21 and 28th, we'll be featuring two of our sleepless decompositions episodes, with stories that push the boundaries in strange and disturbing ways. So don't wait us. It's time to hiatus. And, as always, brace your own. In our first tale, we turn on the radio. With streaming services and our phones full of music these days, people rarely listen to the good old radio, even during a long, boring drive. But in this tale, shared with us by author Derek Walker, we meet some guys who come up with a strange game, which

involves listening to the static on the car radio, and they never imagined how badly that could turn out. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Atticus Jackson, and Jesse Cornett. So stick with your own music or playing games of I-Spyy-Spy-Wing. Just don't play the Radio Static Challenge. Three more teen auto deaths attributed to viral Radio Static Challenge. Not the greatest headline to wake up to, but I guess that's my new reality. I've been keeping a tally of the number of deaths

caused by the radiostatic challenge to date. So far I have 37. 37 deaths on my head. 37 incomplete families. Grieving communities. Empty chairs. All on my head. Anyone would tell me it's not my fault

that I didn't intend for any of these deaths. I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But I've made this bed. And I can't fall asleep in it. Why do they keep happening? Well, the challenge is unwittingly designed to self-perpetuate. Not everyone dies who does the challenge.

In fact, a small percentage of people actually die, but the prospect of dying or hallucinating is high enough that it's seen as a challenge. Can you survive the radiostatic challenge? Since I'm the accidental founder of the radiostatic challenge, I'm creating a personal history. something on the record that tells my side of the story. My friend Dom and I are district managers for a self-storage company in the Midwest. I oversee 15 sites in Ohio.

Dom oversees 12 sites in Indiana. It's not my dream job, but it pays the bills and allows me to not be behind a desk all day. Occasionally, Dom and I will team up and hit some of our sites together. We conduct manager trainings, audit financials, interview employees, etc. The job requires a lot of driving, something I don't mind. I jump between music, podcasts, audiobooks, and even the radio on my trips. There's nothing quite like listening to AM radio in rural Ohio, I'll tell you that. Although the self-storage gig is my sole source of income, I also run a podcast on the side. It's kind of mindless, live-in-the-moment type thing.

I don't have many subscribers, but it's cheap therapy for me. I've always needed a creative outlet to function in the real world, and I find it incredibly therapeutic to research topics, write scripts, and record and edit shows. There's nothing more rewarding than when a fan reaches out on Twitter or Facebook, and thanks me for a recent episode or tells me a story about how the show impacted their lives. Two weeks ago, while Dom and I were making the rounds together in Northern Indiana, he complained to me about his always-on internet brain and his inability to focus.

He had ADHD as a kid, but mostly had it under control by the time he was a senior in college. He's found that he does fine at work, but when he's in the car, he can't seem to turn his brain off. He told me he can barely get through a song without skipping. He tries podcasts, but can't focus longer than five minutes at a time. Audio books are simply not an option. Silence is not an option, because then all he can think about is when he's getting his next drink. We were on our second to last stop of the day in Pendleton, Indiana, getting ready to drive to Newcastle. We drove separately since I'd be going home to Ohio and he'd be heading south to Indianapolis at day's end.

In a moment of unexpected inspiration, I came up with a challenge. The challenge. I'd record a brief radio clip of static pulled from the good old AM radio, loop it in a 30-minute track and save it as an MP3. I told Dom to wait for a minute. I ran to my car, recorded the static, uploaded, and looped it on my laptop, and sent it to his phone. I proposed that both of us listened to nothing but the static for the full 30-minute drive. I told him our phones had to be on airplane mode, and we couldn't listen to anything else. The static had to be loud enough to drown out everything.

Not the safest idea, I know. I told him that if he committed to the challenge up front, it would make it easier. He agreed and said he was actually kind of excited about it. I was too, to be honest. Before leaving, I started a Facebook live session on my podcast's page. A handful of my fans hopped on. Hey guys. I put my arm around Dom.

This is my buddy Dom, and Dom has a problem. One that most of us deal with. A rectile dysfunction. No, no, not that. He has a problem with something I like to call Internet Brain. This is something we talk about a lot on the show, but it's clear that it's taken a hold of Dom. I'm sure we're all familiar with the feeling,

the anxiety that comes with constantly being plugged in. After a while, our brain is so used to the constant stimulation that our attention span shrinks until it's... Gone. Dom pretended to shed a tear. So, I've come up with a little challenge that we're both going to do on the 30-minute drive that's in our very near future.

I've recorded a loop of AM radio static, and we're going to listen to it in our respective cars and loud. I turned to Dom. Okay? Loud and clear. So we're going to do the... What should we call it?

The Radio Static Challenge. Very creative. The Radio Static Challenge. I'll upload the static clip to my page right now, and we'll return and report in 30 minutes. Onward and upward. I finished the Facebook Live session, when we got in our cars.

My phone connected to Bluetooth, and I started the static track. We pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the freeway. Tom pulled up to me in the first red light and rolled down the window, the static blaring in his car. He pretended to ignore me. I rolled my eyes. As soon as I hit the freeway, I zoned out. Like, in a coma while awake kind of zoned out. Driving a car in silence is its own version of white noise, but there's a little.

enough variation in the sound of the tires moving against different surfaces, changing lanes, the sound of cars speeding by, the occasional wind gust, or the click of the AC turning on. But with static, there's no variations. And I learned very quickly that the brain does not like it. At least mine didn't. After about 15 minutes of driving mindlessly, the radio static filling the car, I started to hear overtones. First it was a high-pitched whir, kind of like a boiling tea kettle. Then it sounded like a shrill, piercing scream.

The overtones seemed to rotate between the two for five minutes before dropping pitch a few octaves. The sound became a deep guttural noise that came in and out like a sci-fi sound effect. I knew it was a product of my imagination, that the clip I recorded was only a few seconds long and was nothing but static. the longer I drove, the more my purview began to narrow until I felt like I was driving in an infinitely long tunnel. Thinking back to the experience, I don't recall passing or being passed by any cars my whole drive, which obviously would not have been true. At some point, once the hypnotic effect of the static was in full bloom, my mind became razor sharp. In an instant, I had what I'd call a perfect understanding. but not in a good one.

I suddenly knew that life on earth is the only life in the entire universe. There is absolutely no intelligent life anywhere else in existence. We are all there is. I realize that there's no greater meaning to life. We are pre-programmed to survive. That's how we evolved enough to become intelligent. That's why we build and develop societies to survive. That's why we have children to perpetuate our lives.

kind. Once we've lived long enough to have children and raise them to a point of independence, we are no longer needed. I understood that our freedom to choose, our free will, is simply a construct. We are nothing but animals with animal instincts and a brain smart enough to tell itself stories that will make us think we're in control. For the first time, I internalized that I was born alone and that I'd die alone, and that I would return to the earth when it's all over. my mind would fall into an endless pit of blackness. Of course, I can't prove any of those claims, but believe it all. It's like those realizations bypassed my rational brain and went straight to my soul.

The sound of knocking on my car windows snapped me out of my hypnosis. Are you okay, you there? It was Lee, the manager for the Newcastle store. I had made it to the Newcastle store in what seemed like a few seconds. Like a few seconds or a few years. I opened the door and stepped out. What the hell are you listening to? Is this another one of those new age things y'all millennials are into?

I looked into his eyes for a moment and couldn't help but feel that his iris has contained their own universes. An odd sensation. Dom arrived 30 seconds later. 21 pilots blaring in his car. He stepped out with his signature dopey grin. What happened to the static challenge, man? Oh man, it was great After like five minutes of the static

It felt like a new man Wasn't the idea that we were gonna do it For the whole 30 minutes Well, I mean It worked for me after five So what's the point of wasted another 25 Whatever We followed Lee into his store

During the side inspection I felt unbelievably hollow Like my worldview had been flipped upside down I'm not religious or anything I just never cared much for speculating on the unknowable. But now I somehow knew the unknowable. I walked down the hall to my apartment just in time to see a damn mouse slip under my door. Better find that before I go to bed, I thought, or tonight there will be no sleep. As soon as I stepped inside,

I got onto my laptop to take the Radiostatic Challenge video down. The video itself had been viewed 1,744 times. There were 54 comments of people committing to take the challenge, I had 18 messages in my inbox. Something that simply doesn't happen for a mediocre part-time podcaster like myself. My heart sank. The first message I opened was from Dane Egett, one of my biggest podcast fans. He told me he had downloaded the Radiostatic Challenge file and had done it that afternoon. My heart raced as I read his message, but he wasn't freaked out or upset.

He was grateful. He told me that in those moments, about 20 minutes into the challenge, he would, was dawned with a profound sense of purpose. He didn't tell me exactly what his purpose was, but he said that he'd never been so at ease with existing ever before. He reposted the radiostatic challenge on his page, which seemed to generate a decent amount of activity. The messages showed mixed experiences,

or possibly mixed reactions to the same experience. Some were scared, some were relieved, some were dull. Many were simply weirded out. Several fans said they shared my post. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, prompting the mouse to flee from its corner hiding place to my bathroom. I shrugged with indifference. Nothing matters, after all, I thought, and returned to my laptop.

After finishing the messages, I decided again that it would be best to take the post down altogether. It might be like pulling the rug out from my only fans who, undoubtedly, spent a lot of time writing their experiences alongside reposting the challenge, Oh well. I finished a second beer and left for a late-night grocery store trip to get mousetraps. The thoughts kept coming in. Well, it felt more like thoughts were disappearing, leaving me with nothing but a dark, empty, blank slate. That's what these horrible thoughts, realizations were.

It's the knowledge that was always there, but that gets covered up as soon as were spoon-fed religion and culture and customs. wanting to be discreet and having an odd fear of stepping on a mouse trap in the middle of the night, I got an ultrasonic mouse repeller, a mouse deterrent that plays a certain frequency, one that goes unnoticed to humans, but that makes the mice stay away. I kept thinking on the drive home about frequencies. Different frequencies spark different reactions in different species. What if a clip of static I took from the radio that day was emitting some kind of frequency that was causing this reaction in people? That's the best theory I've been able to come up with to date.

When I got home, I got the first message. The first suicide note. It was from Dane Eggett. He said that he understands it all, that it's time for him to go. I didn't know what that meant, and he didn't respond to any of my messages asking for clarifications. It was ambiguous, but it was enough to prevent me from having a decent night's sleep. My fears were confirmed the next morning, when I got a reply from Dane's account, only it was wasn't from Dane. It was from his mom. She said he took his life sometime in the night,

likely soon after sending that message to me. I was the last person, Dane messaged. I was crushed. I came clean to Dane's mom, told her that the radiostatic challenge was meant purely to be a mindfulness exercise, nothing else. She was understanding and asked if I'd taken it down already. I said yes. What I didn't realize at that time is that someone, well, lots of people had ripped the video and reposted it many times over. I found about 20 different ripped postings of my clip on YouTube. There were tens of thousands of views between them all. But I don't think the radiostatic challenge would have had the effect it did if the national news hadn't picked up Dane's story immediately. I guess all the Slender Man and Mo Mo Mo happenings were good

business for the news media because they didn't shy away from Dane's suicide. Colorado Mad commits suicide after doing radiostatic challenge. They had to have known the way they covered Dane's suicide with Sparkmore. Despite having deleted the video early on and creating an apology video, I was blocked on YouTube and Facebook. I get it. I'm the guy who started this thing. Didn't matter my intentions.

It started with me. Ten more suicides happened that week. I did an interview with my local NBC station, then one with CNN the night after. I explained the original intent behind the clip and that I never meant anyone any harm. I purposely neglected discussing my dark experience with the challenge. Twenty suicides happened the next week. The videos continued racking up views.

The comments grew darker. What began as a fun challenge became a drug for many. People said the more times they listened to it, the deeper their understanding God. What pisses me off more than anything is the undying media coverage. of the challenge and the suicides. They could have prevented this tragedy to a large degree, but they don't care. It's good TV. It's clickbait.

Lots of ad revenue. Now the suicide count is at 37, and I'm at a loss. There's no sign of them stopping, though I'm sure it'll stop at some point. All viral challenges like these do eventually, right? There's an overpopulation problem anyway. You're doing the world of favor. That's just a sample of the dark thoughts I'm plagued with day after day. I'm signing off now because I'm doing the radiostatic challenge again.

Only this time I know what I'm listening for. I'm either coming out of this thing with a deeper understanding of what's really going on and I can work to stop it, or I will become victim number 38. It's too much static for me. We'll take a quick break, but there's more horrors to come. Gum? Did you say gum? I have some right here. It's new Quip Gum. No, what I said was... Wait, did you say Quip Gum?

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Yeah? Yes, I get it. Very funny. Eh, ain't that the tooth? Please, leave the puns to me. Oh, why so down in the mouth? Ah, and now, let's get real, and return to the show. show. In our final tale, we meet a woman who never forgot the cult classic horror movie from her youth.

She was obsessed with it, the biggest draw being that the end of the film has always been missing. But as we learn in this tale from author R.T. Green, when she's given an opportunity to revitalize her hometown's local theater, she'll finally be able to watch not just the movie, but it's lost ending. Performing this tale are Aaron Lillis. Dan Zapula, Nicole Goodnight, and Graham Rowett. So let some movies only live in your fond memories. You don't need to see what's on the final reel. The best horror film I ever saw was incomplete.

It was called The Town That Dreams Forgot. Have you heard of it? I would be surprised if you had. No one went to see it during its initial theatrical run. It was one of those weird art house horror movies that got greenlit in the early 1970s, before the slasher genre really got going and there was still money in the more experimental and weird side of the horror scene. The plot concerned a town called Anadarko, a name shamelessly appropriated from a Native American tribe,

and its descent into an unspecified madness as the town's isolation drives them to murder each other. What makes the film fascinating and utterly unwatchable to some people is that nothing really happens. When it seems like a character is about to die in some horrible way, the movie cuts away from their scene, and they never appear again. Now, I know elliptical editing is definitely a thing. I actually paid attention in my media arts elective, but this movie does it every damn time.

I found a number of reviews calling it boring and downright maddening, but I tend to agree with a sentiment that Pauline Kale wrote in her unpublished review, where she said it was a lyrical oddity among Schlock, a nightmare half remembered by a waking mind. Legend has it that the director hypnotized a studio executive to finance the film. No sane person would have approved such a project by a director who made no films before or after,

at least as far as we know. See, that's part of what made the story of this movie so tantalizing to me when I was a teenager. The director, writer, crew, and even the studio remain unidentified. This is because the final reel of the film, approximately 10 minutes of footage, was lost. This wasn't a fluke. The reel was missing from every print ever distributed. We know this because there were no end credits on the version of the movie that played in theaters.

A rumor started to circulate that this reel is where this unnamed director had placed all their pent-up violence, mayhem, and madness, where they revealed what was truly driving everyone mad and showed the violence crescendo into a bloody fever dream. This rumor maintains that the distributor had been so disturbed by the climax of the movie that they actually removed the end of the film, thinking it would sell better than the fucked up climax the director had envisioned. To make matters worse, copies of the movie slowly disappeared over the years, either recycled or destroyed by bankrupt theaters, or absorbed into private collections to gather dust.

By the time I was born in the late 1980s, the film was more legend than fact. and the director never resurfaced to claim ownership of their work. So you can imagine this story was absolute catnip to me growing up in the 1990s. Urban Legends Forum spread every little detail people knew about the film, passing descriptions of scenes and even technical specifications down like oral history. And I, as a chubby goth girl in the Midwest, with a love for cinema and fairly lenient parents, ate it all up. I wanted to see the town that Dreams forgot so badly that I even snuck out to an all-night Halloween cult movie marathon,

all because someone online had hinted there might be a copy among the old Gialo and Mondo films being screened there. I had been willing to sit through 12 hours of softcore torture porn for the mere chance of glimpsing this movie. I was more than dedicated. I was obsessed. But like many teenage obsessions, my interest in the town that's. dreams forgot dwindled as I got older. I grew up, left my childhood home for college, and never looked back. I still loved horror movies, but my obsession with this particular film went from my main focus to just one in a very long line of trivia items I knew about indie horror. Life rolled on for me.

I went to college, fell in and out of relationships with men, women, and non-binary people, got a degree in business, and graduated with my entrepreneurial dreams right as the Great Recession was hitting. Needless to say, all my businesses failed, and I had to swallow the bitter pill of moving back home in my late 20s. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because just a month after being back home, I received a phone call. Well, I received a voicemail on my parents' landline anyway. Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Schaefer. This is Ed Wexler. I was told that Lana was back in town.

If you could let her know that I called, I'd really appreciate it. I have a business idea that I think she'd be interested in. Needless to say, I called him back right away. I didn't remember Eddie Wexler well. He was another outcast in high school, but we belonged to two entirely different circles of outsiders. He was in band. I was a theater tech. Two entirely different worlds of nerd.

but there was something in his voice that I couldn't ignore, a strange urgency. The phone only rang once before he picked up. Ed, it's me, Lana. I hear you're back in town. Did you get my message? Listen, Eddie, it's been a long time, but I'm just in town until I can get my feet back on the ground. I don't mean to stick around for a serious amount of time, but he interrupted me then. I don't know if it was deliberate, but what he said shut down every excuse I have. in my brain.

Lakeshore Cinema is going up for sale. I paused, registering those seven words. Lakeshore Cinema was to my childhood, what church is to a young evangelical. It was my place of worship. Yeah, I'm here. Did you just say what I thought you said? We're up for auction next week, and I think we'll be able to take it over. Hold on, Eddie.

We don't have the money. It turns out, I didn't have to work. worry. Ed's parents, unsurprisingly, were loaded. All the previous owners needed was a business plan worked up by yours truly to seal the deal. Ed's plan was that we could co-program the theater. He would run our matinees with the cult animated films he adored. Well, I could program midnight screenings of my favorite horror pictures. I gotta say, it was a tempting pitch. When we were first let into the musty old building, the smell of memories and possibilities washed over me. I remembered taking in those awful Mondo documentaries with my neighbors and friends.

My heart swelling as we all screamed at each new atrocity on the screen. I wouldn't watch any of those movies ever again, but I'll remember us laughing and applauding together until the day I die. The memories filled me like heroin, and that's before we even got to the basement. Lake Shore Cinema had the biggest vault of strange and obscure film prints I had ever seen. Cobwebs strung between them, but I didn't care. The logistical side of my brain was overrun by the side of me that just couldn't wait to get my hands on those cans. Film cans, I mean, God, it sounded like a sexist 1930s detective there. We set about refurbishing the place that afternoon.

Ed's parents gave us enough of a loan to acquire the building on the condition that we repay it in installments going forward. I was fine with that. Even in economically strapped times, people still wanted to go to a cheap matinee or indulge their desires for weird movies. Ed and I did most of the work ourselves, cleaning the concession stands, the seats, the bathrooms.

Fuck me, the bathrooms. Single-screen cinemas feel small when packed with people. But when you have gone, have to clean every inch and make it look presentable, it felt as big as a Notre fucking Dom. When I finally got to the projection booth, I took a moment to take it in. It was like an analog control center, the sort of thing you imagine at the center of a Jules Verne submarine or airship. I must have been standing there for a while because Ed came in to check on me. Is everything okay? More than okay. It's perfect.

expected our premier to be a disaster. It was a first for both of us, and we didn't know whether there would be interest. We spread word as best we could, but Ed was a nerdy recluse who lived on the end of town, and I was the prodigal daughter of a shoe salesman. We weren't exactly local celebrities, but people came. They came in droves. I didn't know this place was so popular, even in its heyday. I suppose they saw the under new management sign on the marquee and couldn't resist the pull of nostalgia. I wish I could tell you what movies we were screening, but because of what happened later that night, I've completely forgotten. Even after going to one of the most famous party schools

in Connecticut, I never quite forgot how to not be an introvert. I wore my most flattering Elvira-inspired black dress, and did my best to put on the face of a good host, but I was out of my depth almost immediately, swept up in the swarm of enthusiastic moviegoers. and curious questions. The only time I had a moment's piece was during the movie, before which I had to give a brief monologue reintroducing the theater while Ed strung up the projector. I must have looked like quite the mess standing in front of the projector

with my handful of note cards, awkwardly thanking our donors for making this night possible, all that cliche clap trap. I didn't have stage fright, though. It'll sound strange, but the projector beaming into my eyes made me feel like I was talking to God, not just a room full of sweaty humans.

The thumbs up from the tiny projector window was my cue to slip back into the shadows and let celluloid take the wheel. Next thing I knew, I was standing in the lobby while everyone filed out, thanking me for restoring their favorite local attraction. Without my knowledge, I had been caught in a ring of film devotees,

listening as I rattled off trivia on autopilot. It was like I'd been saving every, Did you know? Nugget for this very moment. And that's when I saw her. She wasn't in the ring of film fans, but loitering behind the now-closed concession stand, 20 feet or so from where I was standing in the lobby. She was the sort of beauty you expect to see at events like these, but rarely do. Hale as you can get, dressed in a thin black tank top and leather pants, her hair also black. She looked like what I wanted to look like when going through my goth phase in high school.

A phase that had never really gone away, only went into hibernation. I thanked everyone around me for coming before making a beeline for this strange young woman. You sure do know your stuff. Spend a lot of time on IMDB. And watching documentaries. Did you enjoy the movie? Sure. It was cool. What, um, are you new in town? I haven't seen you around.

Oh, I've been here about a year now. Just don't go out much because, uh, the nightlife in this town is so fucking dead. I smiled politely and told her I hope tonight was the exception. It couldn't help but fixate on her lower lip. A silver ring was set perfectly in the center and it bobbed up and down when she spoke. No, this was good. I was super bummed at first because the theater was closing down, and I knew I wasn't going to save enough money to run away from home anytime soon, so I was kind of stuck. Well, if there's anything I can do to make your time here any more enjoyable, let me know.

I said this as casually as I could, but part of me hoped she read the subtext in the words. I hadn't seriously dated anyone in upwards of two years, and she, she made me feel like an alcoholic in a distillery. This mysterious goth smirked. Don't you want to know my name before asking me out? I stammered something, but she saved me from having to confirm whether I was flirting or not. I'm Edith. Edith Padgett.

Oh, that's a, that's a good, good name. Do you think it fits me? Edith put her hands on her hips in a way that suddenly pulled her tank top tightly around her chest. My breath caught when I realized she wasn't wearing a bra and that both her nipples were pierced.

I had the strangest feeling that this was a well-rehearsed maneuver on her part, but I had no intention of gopping like a drooling jaw at a strip club. The professional side of my brain was waking up and she needed to assert her. herself. Absolutely. Well, I hope to see you at the next screening, Edith Padgett. Edith smiled, recognizing my change in tone for what it was.

She vanished without another word. Her eyes lingering on mine ever so slightly before she turned and vanished out into the night. It was only then that I noticed the theater lobby was completely empty. The stragglers had all filtered away while I was clumsiness. My eyes were drawn to a vintage poster on the wall, a 24 by 36 inch print of deep red that showed a doll hanging itself. The poster shifted, and I realized there were a pair of legs coming from underneath it. It was Ed, straining with the effort. A little help, Lana. I ran over and helped him set the poster right.

He emerged from behind it, hair slick with sweat, but his eyes alight with passion. So? So, what? A success, right? A smashing fucking success? Absolutely. We laughed and hugged before both collapsing onto the floor by the ticket booth. Our gamble had paid off, and we spent the rest of the night eating the dregs from the popcorn maker.

If only we knew, the joy wouldn't last. I'll spare you the boring details of what it's like running a repertoire theater in this economy. But needless to say, I had my hands full for. the next couple of months. When I wasn't doing payroll paperwork or making bulk orders for concessions, I was down in the basement cataloging the hundreds, no, thousands of film prints that Lakeshore had stored away. I didn't have time to privately screen each and every one of them, so usually what I did was look at the title and company of each film, helpfully printed on the film can, and deep dive into my old stomping grounds on cult movie forums to put together the

most effective pitch for genre buffs and casual fans alike. As a way of gauging interest, I even posted to the forum, What cult movie would you want to see at Lakeshore Cinema? To my delight, my new programming plan had both local and out-of-town interest, and it was only a matter of time before one of the commenters brought up my white whale, the town that dreams forgot. I jokingly replied to the comments saying, Me too, buddy.

Of course, that was before I found our copy. In hindsight, I shouldn't have assumed that Lakeshore Cinema didn't have a copy of the most infamous cult horror film of the 1970s. It wasn't among the main shelves, but tucked away in a closet off of the main office, as if it was waiting to be sorted. A stack of film cans of varying sizes, but labeled as if they were supposed to be in order. The first five reels were 35 mills. The next two were 16, and after an inexplicable reel of 8mm, which I almost thought was a joke, it was back to 35 for the rest of the film. As websites had long rumored, it would require simultaneous use of both a 35 millimeter and a 16 millimeter projector.

I didn't know how we'd screen the 8mm chapter, and whether it even was intended to be part of the movie or was just a supplemental piece. And, of course, the final reel was missing. That last part was the least surprising, but somehow I still felt a pang of disappointment. I would be still consuming an incomplete version of the film I'd been seeking out since I was an acne-riddled teenager. Always the bridesmaid. A loud knocking at the door made me almost jump out of my skin. I was alone in the theater that day, Ed having driven up to Boston to pick up a print of the secret of NIM we were renting. I knew, even before I left my office, that it would be even.

Edith standing at the glass doors of the theater. The sunlight streaming in gave her a halo like some kind of dark angel. I hadn't seen her since the premiere, but she had not changed in the slightest detail as far as I could tell. Same black tank top, same black pants, same black, well, everything. She mouthed something through the glass, which I couldn't quite make out. I was still dazed from my discovery moments earlier when I cracked the door open. You look like you've seen a ghost, Maestro. The lip ring glinted beneath her grin. What are you doing here?

I got out of school early. I thought I'd swing by. I was thrown by this answer. You're in school? Uh, what, um, where do you go? That grin again. Oh, I long since dropped out of an institution. My parents are rigorous homeschoolers. So why are you here?

I wanted to take a film course. It was unprofessional of me to let her in. I know that. I was just so overwhelmed by my discovery that I had to share it with someone, anyone. And while, a woman who I was embarrassingly attracted to had just appeared on my doorstep, life, lemons, ever the twain shall meet. So I told her everything.

Well, not everything. I told her that I had a special film I was about to watch and she was welcome to join me. I was honestly surprised when she said yes. She still struck me as someone who went to the cinema as an excuse to get out of the house rather than appreciate the art of film, but I'm judgmental that way.

What matters is she came in and I was practically shaking with anticipation. I strung up the first couple of reels in the 35-millimeter projector, figuring I could switch it over to the 16 after the first hour. Now, let me be perfectly clear. I don't like distractions in the theater, any distractions. One time in high school, I went on a date to see The Lost World in the theater. When the guy tried to make out with me, I bit his lips so hard it drew blood.

Fortunately, he got the message. Let less cultured couples make out and give each other blowjobs in the darkened theater. I was always there for the movie. So when I say what was about to happen was extremely out of character for me, I want you to know I mean it. To share such a niche interest with a crush was a big risk, but I was grateful to not be alone. We sat in the very first row at my insistence.

I didn't want to watch from the back row like I usually did during our packed screenings. I wanted to be overwhelmed and transported to the town that dreams forgot. Nothing I heard about the film could have prepared me for the first shot. No logos, no fanfare, no prelude of any kind. Just pain. The film opens with the interior of a church. Completely dark, but for the light seeping in through the windows. A single woman sits in the pews, weeping.

From then on, the film plays just as I'd imagined it. Small town drama, thick with atmosphere. Anonymous actors giving understated but credible performances as one by one they disappear between scenes. The horror was never in what was on screen, but what the director always kept just out of frame, the absences. Something strange happened, about a half hour into the film.

I felt hands on me, pale hands, like delicate spiders searching for a place to build a web. A full shiver passed up my spine. I hoped those were Edith's hands, but I was afraid to look. In my mind, the theater was now full of these thin, white hairless spiders crawling over everything, gentle touch hiding the venom in their fangs. I were to die from these creatures. Let me die thinking Edith felt the same way about me that I did about her. When I tore my eyes away from the screen, all thoughts of being swarmed by arachnids vanished.

Because she was there, closer than anyone had been to me in years. And I, Lana Schaefer, who once tore a boy's lip open with her teeth rather than make-out in a movie theater, gave myself over to Edith Patrick. in the flickering darkness. What was most amazing about the experience was that I didn't lose track of the film. If anything, I felt like we became a part of it. The flickering light of the projector provided us only glimpses of each other. A hand there, a pale arm there, a wisp of a thigh. The sounds of the film were enrapturing.

Our moans and sighs of pleasure fit in perfectly between the muted conversations of the characters. Like the film itself was breathing in satisfaction as each cast member vanished from posterity forever. I don't remember switching the projectors to play the 16mm reels and then back to the 35. I don't remember much of anything besides her and the movie playing across her. alabaster skin. To this day, I'm not entirely sure the movie didn't play itself. Then it was over. We lay on the stage in front of the screen, clothes spread out around us. We were both looking up as the last few shots of the town that dreams forgot shimmered above us. The infamous final shot, as the intrepid outsider invites the remaining members of the cast into the town hall, ostensibly

to explain what was going on, played out. And then, a blank projector screen. As if waking from a dream, I realized what had happened. I'd fucked someone in a movie theater. I'd fucked someone in my movie theater. And there she was, lying beside me, eyes fixed on the blank white projection screen. So, is the filming complete? I told her the rest of the story,

about the film, about the missing reel, about my lifelong obsession with seeing even this much of the print. Halfway through my telling, her eyes fogged up, as if she was looking very far away. Before I finished, she rose to her feet and ran toward the projection booth not bothering to dress herself. I scrambled after her, pulling my blouse on as I went. I found her standing beside the stack of film cans, clad only in bracelets and a handful of back tattoos. I've seen these before. My heart skipped a beat. Ever since I was young, my dad loved collecting old knickknacks.

It didn't matter what they were, just that they were random and rare. He had stacks of rare stamps despite never caring about stamp collections. He had coins that were long since out of print, and he had a film can just like these. But it was labeled Real 12 Dreamtown. I think I stopped breathing for a whole 30 seconds after she said this. Edith turned to me, catching my alarm in those green eyes, and reading my question before I even had breath to ask it. It's still there. I can get it for you.

I didn't know what to say, how to say yes to this favor that would turn my world upside down. You might think I was transfixed by the idea of financial bliss that would come from being the first theater to show this film in its entirety. But really, all that I could think of was being able to see it for myself. Why would you go out on a limb like this for me? We've barely... I mean, I hardly know you. Take a good look if you want.

Not what I mean. I have a good feeling about you. That's all. Several good feelings. It's a rare person who can braid life into this shithole. The excuse went down easy. I bought it all. Hookline and stuff.

I received a visitor later that night, long after my parents went to sleep. It wasn't Edith, or even Ed, who got back well after my femme fatale had vanished out through the back door. I told him about my discovery of the film print, and bless him, he tried to seem excited for me. I knew that he wasn't really a horror guy, but I was touched by the effort. I would never tell him about the man that visited me that night, though. If he couldn't handle horror movies, no way he could handle this character. There was no ring from the doorbell or even a knock. I just kind of felt that someone was at the door, someone who needed to be let in.

The first thing I noticed about him was his height. He was maybe six foot six and stooped in a way that only someone who spends his days at the desk can be. He wore a pork pie hat and a black and white suit, which seemed very poorly fitted. His skin, where I could see it, was clammy and tinted blue as if, suffering from dehydration. His voice was a breathless whisper. Miss Schaefer, I presume. Yes? Can I help you?

You can. I would like to talk to you about a specific item in your possession. I would have shut the door in his face, but something about his posture unnerved me. His hands gripped the doorframe, as if his legs would not support his wife. weight at all. Both of them were gray, with fingernails filed to a point. I had no way of telling what he would do if I refused him. I stepped aside and he walked into the room, although

walked is probably the wrong term. It was more like he dragged himself into the room. His hands gripped every surface they could, pulling the rest of him along like a strange, upright sloth, until he could settle into a chair and resume his vaguely human appearance. What he said, as soon as he sat down, gave me chills, even on a hot summer night. Don't play the final real. Who are you? I'm an agent of sorts. I represent a single client, one whose work is of particular interest to you, I'm told.

I knew who he was referring to right. away, the filmmaker or filmmakers behind the town that dreams forgot. What is their name? They wouldn't want me to disclose that information. Why are you here then, if your client wants to remain so mysterious? A client wanted me to deliver a message. I can repeat it. He didn't have to. I don't even have the final reel. Why would I even try... Don't lie. You will come into believe.

possession of it within the week, and you will try to exhibit it. Should I expect a cease and desist notice? Such an action would require my client to reveal themselves, and that is something they cannot do. I can only hope your best judgment will prevail. Like all the others I've spoken to over the last four decades. This was news to me. I was unaware people had tried. to screen the full film before. What would you do to me if I played it?

Won't need to do anything. The next thing I remember is closing the door. Outside was nothing but impenetrable blackness, so I couldn't tell if there had been a visitor at all. But his warning echoed in my mind afterwards anyway. To play the final reel. Why hadn't he gone to Edith? For that matter, how would he have known

that Edith had promised to let me use her dad's print? The thought of that slinking salamander of a man lurking in the back of the theater sent a shiver up my spine and spoiled the pleasant memory of hooking up with Edith at the theater, at least for the time being. After all, I had no intention of doing as he suggested. The final reel was somehow less intimidating than I expected. Some part of me anticipated it being dropped off by men in hazmat suits or priests furiously trying to exercise the celluloid.

But what Ed showed me was an ordinary film can. Silver Rim a bit tarnished, but otherwise unremarkable. As promised, it read Real 12 Dreamtown on the side. He handed it to me. How do you know the Padgetts? I met their daughter at our premiere. We've been hanging out. Shit, I didn't even know they had a kid.

Why? What's their deal? Nothing crazy. I mean, they're just a weird rich couple who moved to town while you were off at school, and the rest of us were living that small town life. I hear he's been funneling money into small businesses around town, getting some serious puppet master vibes. Maybe he's just a philanthropist type, improving the community because he can. Have you ever met a rich person?

Tusha. Obviously, I resisted viewing the final reel on its own. I needed to see the whole picture. end to end. We did minimal advertising for our screening of this once-in-a-lifetime movie night. I knew where we could easily fill the auditorium. I took a crappy digital picture of Real 12 and uploaded it to only one of my many preferred online forums and hinted that there would only be a limited number of tickets.

Our website was soon flooded with requests. I fully expected Ed to want to back out, or not being his thing, but I was sure that. when he confronted me the day before our midnight screening. He had a face that didn't wear serious well, but he was trying his very hardest. I'll run the projectors tonight. Are you sure? It's kind of a weird setup. Now, I know tonight is important to you. Tell me what to do. I'll run it a dozen times, and you can be in the audience.

I wish I hadn't told him. I really, really wish I hadn't. But I did. I saw the strange slinking agent one time before the premiere. I was locking up Tuesday night, 24 hours before our special screening. It was lightly raining, and I could see the reflections of the streetlight and marquee in the pavement. While switching off the bright theater lights, I saw a shadow of a person moving through the mostly deserted street. There was no mistaking those long dangling arms, like a sallow ape. trying to pass as human.

I walked as briskly as I could down the wet streets. Every slight movement, every cat in an alleyway, caught my eye and made my hair stand on end. He didn't say he was going to harm me, right? Another movement in an alleyway between shops. No, he said he wouldn't have to. A scraping sound. Is that his fingernails against the pavement?

I quickened my pace. Thoughts of him crushing the life out of me, filling my head. They'll still be able to reach me. Something stirred my hair. It feels like fingers. I was only moments away from home. I could see the porch light floating tantalizingly just behind the trees.

I made it. I slammed the door behind me and turned both the door lock and the deadbolt. I stood for a moment there, leaning against the door, waiting for my pulse to return to a slow enough beat that I'd be able to sleep. Part of me was convinced I would never be able to. But if this agent wanted to dissuade me from showing his movie, stalking me, had the opposite effect. If he thought he could intimidate me into canceling the screening, he had another thing coming. He could show up if you wanted. I'd even leave a free ticket for him at Will Call.

Oh, who was I kidding? He'd definitely already seen it. The day of the premiere felt deceptively ordinary. In spite of barely sleeping at all that night, I was really, wide awake and alert. I got all of my errands out of the way by noon and was able to run through the projection procedure with Ed multiple times in the early afternoon until I was sure he wouldn't make any mistakes in screening the film. Our solution to the three formats was elegant. We'd found a Super 8 projector at a yard sale and managed to mount it toward the front few rows for that weird 8mm segment around the midpoint. Ed would have to be light on his toes,

but he would be able to do it. He quipped that the perfect, of this whole setup was that he'd be too busy switching projections to see any of the film itself. The line started at 10 p.m. Even people who hadn't bought tickets online came from out of town to see it. The variety of alternative fashion styles that showed up on Lakeshore's doorstep was astonishing to see in such a small and normally fairly conformist community. And then when the local theatergoers arrived, The crowd had become a blend of small town banality and punk rock chic. It was standing room only inside the theater. I left a sign on the marquee saying that no one would be let in after the show began.

It was a total Hitchcock move, and I was kind of delighted to build that kind of suspense. Five minutes before midnight, Edith arrived, just like I hope she would. She wasn't dressed in goth minimalism like what I first met her, or in her birthday suit like I'd last seen her, but in a deep purple vest, deep green button up, flowing sleeves, and bolo tie.

The kind of outfit that only a queer mistress of the night could pull off. So I was stunned to see that her parents were accompanying her. And they weren't a regular Gomez or Mertisha either. They were a banal white middle-aged couple, alarming only for their normalcy. I don't remember our conversation. It was no doubt, very awkward, but I do remember the conversation I had with Edith as the elder Padgetts went inside.

What do you think? They weren't what I was expecting. Don't let their tweety white parent look full you. They're as evil as they come. Is that so? Devils under the skin. Both of them. Something about her words stirred uncertainty in my mind, but she's,

expertly wiped it out with a kiss before disappearing inside to join the devils. At midnight on the dot, I stepped inside to cheers, exultation, and adulation from the assembled crowds. Those who knew me from the forums and knew the reputation of the film itself were like the streets of Boston after the Red Sox won the World Series. The rest of the crowd, I suppose, were moved by their enthusiasm. As I had countless times before, I saw, stepped up and gave my introduction. That two and a half minute speech was my masterpiece. During that all so brief time, I was a legend in a community I had only lived on the fringes of. Ed gave me his thumbs up and I stepped out of the way. In the cheer that followed,

I thought I heard a single dissenting voice screaming no, but it was swallowed before I could register its presence. The beginning of the film played without much fanfare. On the second watch, the flaws in the film were a little more apparent to me. The entrancing atmosphere was somewhat one note, and the director was clearly more in love with their establishing shots than the actors. I made a mental note to find the director's bio online once I saw the famously elusive credits.

A strange energy started to sweep over the crowd around a half hour in. There were a few snores, some walkouts, but the energy in general seemed to be tense. Heads stirred, not restlessly, but like reeds in a gentle breeze. They were all enraptured, in the way that Edith and I had been enraptured when we first watched the film. When the first switch to 16mm, happened, I could feel the atmosphere of the room crack ever so slightly. A few couples here and there were already amorously wrapped around each other, and I was getting hot under the collar myself. As a way of preserving my dignity, I left the auditorium to check on Ed.

I told one of the ushers, a dutiful boy named Terry, to politely cool down the more enthusiastic couples. I first knew something was wrong when I reached the projection room. A wave of hot, sticky air slapped me in the face as I stepped in. I heard Ed groan from within. It's so... He was naked. His usually red face flushed and sweating.

He made no move to cover himself up, just watched the film reels spool over and over and over waiting for the next one. I told him that I could handle it if he wanted to get some air. His hands performed the actions of switching out the reels, but they moved sharply and mechanically, as if controlled by something that didn't care. care for his exhaustion or his comfort. I heard a sharp sizzling sound as his hand plucked the take-up reel off the projector

and replaced it. It shouldn't have heated up that much. A cry from outside drew my attention. I ran to the window and peeked out. In the auditorium, a fight had broken out. I saw my usher, Terry, stumble backwards from the front row, head hitting one of the columns that flanked the screen. A small splat of blood colored the screen, not looking out of place in the moody Gothic

drama that played out on it. The audience around him was no longer a normal theater crowd. They were all writhing, like maggots on a corpse. The sudden violence against poor Terry seemed to send a shockwave through the seats. Their movements seemed to be growing less amorous and more vicious. And dear God, it was hot. I noticed myself subconsciously unbuttoning my blouse. I had to force my hands to stay at my side.

I stepped back into the theater to restore order, but in the momentary wisp of darkness between the booth and the auditorium, I heard a familiar voice, whisper in my ear. It is too late. When I entered the auditorium, the crowd was in a rapture of violence and pleasure. Some couples were still obliviously lost in each other. Others had begun animalistic fights for seemingly no reason.

reason. Straighted to the strange sight of a fully naked man and woman fucking each other while the man took blows about the head from an agitated bystander. Soon he had passed out from blood loss and the woman tore into the bystander's throat with her teeth. In the center aisle, the best seats in the house, Edith was strangling her father with her bolo towel while her mother was dragged across the floor by an out-of-towner. Popcorn kernels stuck in her perfectly sculpted hairdo. I should have been horrified by all this, but I understood. The town that dreams forgot was never about the film itself. It was a reflection on the audience. We were the cast of our bloody melodrama, and the film was the movie theater, slowly emptying of patrons as they watched us. I saw Ed run down the aisle

dodging between the combatants. His movements were loose and strange. The airskin flcked with blood. He ran to the Super 8 projector, triggered it, and then dragged himself back toward the booth, running with his arms rather than his legs. I saw a flash of white by one of his elbows. Was that Bone? I wanted to resist. I wanted to assert myself as the one calm person in a maelstrom of hate and terror, but I knew I wouldn't be able to. It just felt too good to give myself over to the film. My favorite film. I tore my blouse from my chest and approached the screen, arms held wide. I would give myself over to this film. I could have all of me. body and soul, as long as I could see the final reel. I suppose you know what they found the following morning. No one in the theater called the police, but it was hardly surprising that someone investigated the noise.

It was all over the local papers a day later. Crazed out-of-towners slay locals. Trigger mass hysteria. What was I supposed to say to that? I couldn't say what really happened, and doing so would only implicate myself, either as a crazy woman or as someone who knowingly endangered the entire town. Ed was found dead in the projection booth. His neck had broken, despite that being technically impossible to do in the enclosed space.

Of the 400 people packed into that little theater, I imagine little less than 100 survived. I've seen theories flying around about me on the forums, people saying that I'm a lot of, a witch, or that I am somehow in league with the director of the film's satanic mission. Some even suggested that I was the director of the film, and I had to stop myself from pointing out I hadn't even been born when the film was made. I wisely kept my head down. Maybe I'll do an AMA one of these days if I really get desperate, but for now, anonymity suits me. I'll go down in history as one of the most infamous horror fans on the internet, one way or another. Edith sent me a postcard a few months later. In the chaos, I had completely lost sight of her.

She seemed to be thriving, invited me to join her in Hawaii. I've put two and two together by now. She was not as ignorant of the film's history as I had assumed. Whatever her parents did, to earn her hatred, I may never know. But it was clear she saw this as a chance to rid herself and the world of them forever. I could still take her up on her offer, I suppose. I haven't decided. The worst part about this whole affair is that part of me is happy about what happened. Not the death or destruction, per se, but that I was finally able to see the film in its entirety.

And I suspect, wherever he is, the agent is surprised I survived the night. In a sense, I beat him. No, that's not the worst part. The very worst part is that I want to show the movie again. Not at Lakeshore Cinema. That place is long since boarded up. I've even moved out of my parents' place. I didn't take much with me.

Just a suitcase, a backpack, and 12 reels of film. I'm still looking for a new place to show the town that Dreams forgot. If you know a theater looking to set up a midnight movie showing, give me a call. I promise it will be a memorable night. Thank you for joining us on our journey down the Lost Highway. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikalski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White.

I'm your host and executive producer, David Cummings. If you would like to find out how you can hear the extended editions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com to learn about our season past program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 2499. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Has the darkness phase? feels like you're going.

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.