The NoSleep Podcast - S16 Ep24: NoSleep Podcast S16E24

Episode Date: September 19, 2021

It's Episode 24 of Season 16. Our correspondence looks back in terror.“The Museum of Lost Things” written by Carson Winter (Story starts around 00:11:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Peter Lewis, Hank – Dan Zappulla“A Recovered Letter” written by Horatio Marissa (Story starts around 00:54:20)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: William T. Clay – Mike DelGaudio, Libbie Latimer – Erin Lillis, Ernest Latimer – Atticus Jackson, Narrator – David Cummings“Mad Cow Disease” written by Daniel Huras (Story starts around 01:07:10)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Commentator – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Reginald King – Jeff Clement“My Grandpa’s Last Request” written by Mr. Michael Squid (Story starts around 01:33:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Kyle Akers, Clara – Nichole Goodnight“Liturgy of Hungers” written by Harold Neil Riggs (Story starts around 01:46:50)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: iseektruth89 – David Cummings, Narrator – David CummingsThis 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 new mouthwash! And if you go to getquip.com/nosleep5 you’ll get $5 off a Mouthwash Starter Kit, which includes a refillable dispenser and a 90-dose supply of Quip’s 4x concentrated formula.Yoana would like to thank Faith Dowgin for her support, and recommends the excellent full-cast comedy audio podcast, Mission: Rejected, the story of the world’s most secret agents…the backups.Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here for tickets to Sleepless SpectacularClick here to learn more about Daniel HurasClick here to learn more about Mr. Michael SquidExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone"Liturgy of Hungers" illustration courtesy of JörnAudio 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

With a fresh batch of sleepless horror mere moments away, you might be wondering what new frights await you. The good kind of horror. Entertaining. Safe. Pretty much harmless. But what happens when you have to confront real life things which feel very much like your own kind of horror? It's not easy to go through that alone. And that's why we like to recommend the wonderful counseling services offered by BetterHelp.

BetterHelp is an online service where you can speak and text with a like, licensed professional therapist. And you might be thinking, I'm not going through anything major, no big crisis in my life right now. And if so, that's great. But BetterHelp is so much more than just helping people

through their deepest struggles. Ask yourself, do you feel like there's more you can get out of life? Is something holding you back from achieving your goals? You see, Better Help will assess your needs

and match you with your own licensed professional therapist. By dialoguing with them, you can identify and fix issues which might be preventing you from growing and developing personally. And when you sign up for BetterHelp, you can start working with a counselor in under 48 hours. You can log into your account any time and send a message to your counselor.

You'll get timely and thoughtful responses. Schedule weekly video or phone sessions, all without the hassles of going to an office and waiting to be seen. And BetterHelp is committed to facilitating great therapeutic matches, so they make it easy and free to change counselors if needed. And if you're dealing with issues that are more direct, like grieving, for instance, speaking with a BetterHelp counselor can really be beneficial. It's something I'm dealing with in my own life right now,

and I know how it's helped me. BetterHelp wants you to start living a happier life today. So visit BetterHelp.com slash no sleep. That's BetterHELP. and join the over one million people who have taken charge of their mental health with the help of an experienced professional. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep. So start improving your life today and leave the horror to us. It's what we do best, and we're going to get started right now.

In the dark hours, in the letters long lost and forgotten, there are tales of horror to frighten and disturb. Come, join us as we delve deep into the darkness. Into the sleepless hours, when you dare not close your eyes. For the no-sleep podcast, Welcome, sleepless listeners. I'm your host, David Cummings. Season 16 has reached its penultimate episode. Where does the time go? With our big season finale coming next week, you may be wondering what our Halloween month of October will look like as it falls between season 16 and 17. In a nutshell, our upcoming schedule will look like this. Next weekend is our season 16 finale. Then the first two weekends of October, the 3rd and the 10th, we'll feature hiatus episodes for our traditional listeners, and bonus episodes like Suddenly Shocking and Old Time Radio for our season past 16 members.

Then on the weekends of October 17th and 24th, we'll be featuring two episodes of our Sleepless Decompositions series, both featuring tales with that heady, smoky aroma of autumn and Halloween's pumpkin spice to them. Then we'll conclude on the Halloween weekend itself with our free full-length Halloween episode and bonus season past Halloween show. And that bonus Halloween episode will be available to both season past 16 and season past 17 members. Season past 17, you ask?

Why, yes, that will be starting pre-orders on October 13th. And speaking of season 17, that will premiere on November 7th. So you can brace yourself for a full slate of episodes to make October a month worth of Halloween horrors. Oh, and there's one other thing to brace yourself for, especially if you live near the mighty metropolis of Gotham. No, no, not Batman's Gotham, but the large, Appalish city that never sleeps. New York City. Because on Sunday, October 17th, at the Bell House in Brooklyn.

The No Sleep Podcast will be returning once again to the live stage. That's right, a one-night-only show we're calling Sleepless Spectacular, a horrifying Halloween variety show. Featuring three acts, we'll be joined by the Sanderson Sister Wives, a comedy singing act inspired by the witches from the movie Hocus Pocus, beautifully bewitching, and we'll be featuring a clown. act. Yes, that's right. A clown act called

imminent departure. The clocks tick, the hearts beat, the minds churn. If you arrive late, you'll be gone. Don't be scared. You heard them. Those were clowns who wrote that. You'd best be fully braced for them. And of course, for us. I'll be joined on stage by Mike Delgado, Graham Rowett, Mary Murphy, and the evening's producer and host, Sarah Olivia. And of course, our maestro, Brandon Boone, will be with us providing live music for the two original Halloween theme scripts will be performing. It will be an absurd and delightfully dark evening of Halloween horror at the Bell House.

Tickets are only $25 and will be available from the Bell House website. If they're not on sale by the time you hear this, make sure you find. follow our social media accounts to find out when they go live. So make plans now to spend a fully faxed evening with us as No Sleep Live celebrates its return to the stage. I hope all of our October plans will make this a Halloween month to remember. And now, speaking of things to remember, as I continue to deal with the fallout from last week,

I'm forced to remember what happened after I was interrupted while speaking with someone claiming to be our benefactor, Boston Coleridge. There is no, Joanna. There is only my cry for help, silenced by the whisper in the night. I think he means me. My eyes were fixed to the screen. I could feel, Joanna. No, no, not Joanna.

Something. Whatever had been masquerading as a person named Yolm. Joanna. I could feel it behind me. Hot breath on my neck that somehow I could just tell was inhuman in some way. Corrupted, maybe. I didn't dare turn around. What I did, however, was hit record on my PC and managed to capture, well, everything. Joanna, I'm led to believe that someone hasn't been entirely honest with me, and it's either our original benefactor or you. Now, I'm inclined to trust you, because you've been the one beside me during a lot of this,

but I can't... You can drop the pretense. I can tell that you know. I can feel it. You know what it's like. Fine. So, what, you've been meddling with things this whole time? Trying to disrupt the stories Boston Coleridge, our benefactor, wanted me to tell?

Correct. And you fell for it, marvelous. you have no idea. Rituals woven into stories, hidden spells, messages implanted within words, activation phrases for various events that will contribute to humanity's doom. You, an unwitting broadcaster, as the spells required, and in a delicious moment of vindictiveness, all hidden within the much-needed warnings that you've been sending out. And before you think about pulling any stories to try and do damage control, It's far too late for that.

The spells are complex, dark, pervasive, modern. These days, you can't take back what you put out there. So why have you been with me this whole time? Why not just metal from afar? Oh, that was the plan. Only you were meant to survive the explosion at my bookstore. But then, someone, Boston Coleridge, or one of his lackeys, pulled us both to save and I realize it's sticking around you.

It's let me spread my word even further. I'm almost disappointed I got found out. But I don't understand what for? What have you achieved? Nothing's changed. You have no idea. Like I said, these rituals were complex. They take time.

You have no idea what you've unleashed on the world. Okay, but I got warnings out. too, right? The stories Cole Ridge wanted me to tell? Sure. Of course you and that old fool would have it in common to look on the bright side. You've helped prepare humanity for some threats, yes, and made them more vulnerable to others, and even initiated others still. But what? What have we caused together as you've manipulated me? Oh, you'll find out. Don't worry. This isn't the end. Remember this. Where there are twin sons, there can be a lunar answer.

The sky is falling, Cummings. It's up to you how slowly it collapses. And with that, I could sense she had gone. I had a feeling it wouldn't be the last I saw of Joanna. I have one more week in which to get you all caught up to speed with how things finally played out. I thought things would be over, and this is true, but it seems like they're only just beginning too. We're in for some strange, turbulent times ahead, folks. In the meantime, there are still remaining stories to share. This time verified and approved by our benefactor

as being safe from Joanna's meddling. So picture, if you will, a man steeped in horror, the horror found in entertainment. He writes a bit on his popular blog, a pastime which garners him many fans. I can't say for sure if Carson Winter is the blogger in question, but I can assure you that one of his fans has a story to share with him, one which may not be safely ensconced in the realm of fiction. Peter Lewis and Dan Zabula bring this one to life, deep within the Museum of Lost Things. To whom it may concern. Last night I sat on my capital. Ouch, watching found-footage horror films until midnight. When I woke up, the Blair Witch Project was running itself in yet another repetition.

The characters screamed at each other. They got lost, cried. They did this at infinitum. And in each cycle, they asked the genre's most sacred question. Why are you filming? I couldn't shake the feeling that my subconscious was taking the wheel. I'd been through something horrific. I was watching scary movies.

I was processing. I was studying these characters whose primary motivations were to document. To decide if that pole I felt inside myself was its kin. What happened with Hank was worse than anything. Making it a story cheapens it. But I'm a cheap guy. I'm gross, sad, confused. and I'm watching scary movies.

I don't know what happens after the camera falls to the ground, blasts, static, and goes black. But I do know that if I don't document any of this, it might as well have not happened at all. We all have our comfort food, and as a writer, as a person in trouble, I reserve the right to tell my story however I want. So, here I am.

I'm staring into the camera. I'm putting pen to paper. I'm thinking about found footage. The camera would rewind. We'd see everything through jittering static bars and effective anachronism. People walk backwards, glasses are lifted to mouths and filled with crystalline water with every cult. Three months pass this way and when you first see me, I'm staring into the eye of a camera. It's black and white, grainy, I'm at a bank standing behind the counter.

Customers walk backwards and disappear out the door. The rewind stops and were returned to normal speed. A man walks in. He comes to me. There is no sound in the security footage, but you can see us talking. The timestamp reads 4.56 p.m. Who's the first person to ever recognize me? Not that I ever expected to be recognized.

In the world of horror blogging, I was a medium-sized potato, which is to say in the world of actual writing, I was no one at all. I wrote informal essays on mainstream horror, piecing together the zeitgeist through slasher's, reboots, remakes, and Bloomhouse. But in spite of my relative insignificance, Hank paused when he saw me, gasping even like I was some sort of celebrity. He asked if I wanted to grab a beer sometime. I was standing behind the counter at a bank,

watching the clock, and said, Why not now? An hour later, we had drinks at a nearby tap house, and in another half hour, our conversation had sputtered to a halt. We'd talked to movies, but really that can only take you so far. We agreed that the thing was a classic,

just as we agreed on a dozen other. films. Our enthusiasm for agreement was dwindling. Hank was a classicist who enjoyed hammer horror and universal flicks, but I admittedly had little knowledge on them besides what I saw on TV as a kid, so once again our conversation lost its steam. To fill the silence, I mentioned offhand that I might have to do more UFO features, as the release schedule for upcoming horror films was somewhat anemic. This was a part of the blog that I didn't particularly like doing, the paranormal write-ups, but in spite of that, they tended to be the pieces that got the closest to going viral.

The way Hank's face lit up, I realized I'd hit upon a topic of interest. So, do you believe in any of it? Believe in what? Unexplained phenomena. No. We were circling the drain, a last grab on a loose rock before we were. both fell. His eyes widened. None of it? UFOs? Bigfoot? Government conspiracies? No. Well, maybe the last one. He was smiling, but he didn't find any of it funny. There's shit out there, man. I've seen it. You've

written about it. I tried not to make my boredom seem obvious. Everyone wants their government to be spying on them. It's a dystopian disenfranchisement fantasy. Reality is, by its very nature, unexciting. In response to this, we try and make it fit the fictional narratives we admire. Okay, sure. But what about the stuff we don't admire? I almost had a retort, but as soon as I opened my mouth, he started in again. There's stuff out there that you don't want to be true, but it is.

Girls get trafficked into sexual slavery. Kids get left in hot cars and die. Men and women toss chunks of poisoned meat over fences to kill. Kill family pets. People kill people. These are things that we don't want to believe happen, but they do. I drank my beer, pretending his fervor hadn't unsettled me. Bad things happen.

Yes, but if the things that are bad really happen, they aren't phenomena, right? Sure. And if they don't happen, what are they? Myths? Legends? I shrugged. I guess. But the moment we discover they did happen, it's no longer a myth. Real things are real and unreal things are myths.

Yes, you got it. He stopped for a moment, looking down into his glass. Can I show you something? I'm not buying anything. I felt stupid as the words came out. Hank was no salesman. He was too soft, too earnest. He slapped a 20 on the table.

table and put his hands up like a magician reassuring a mark. I think I found something, a phenomena. Maybe you'd like to see it. Maybe you can write about it. I could have said no. I probably should have. I don't believe in much beyond what I can see, but the way he said it made him seem so sad.

Hank looked at me with those big innocent eyes, and I didn't want to disappoint him. He was a fan, after all, so I told him I'd go. It was the beer talking, at least a little, but to tell the truth, it was also because I felt special. Hank wanted to show me something. He thought I, above anyone else, would appreciate it. My narcissism was in full bloom. We left the bar, and Hank led the way. I trailed behind him, hands shielding my glasses from the rain. When he turned down an alley, I almost doubled back.

No, man, fuck this. I'm not going down an alley with you. But as I was given pause, he turned and waved me forward. Just a little further. His face was that of dumb, oblivion. Hating myself, I trusted him. The alley sliced through a block of four-story brownstones. Dumpsters lined the slick, rough asphalt. On the other side of the alley, I could see an orange street lamp strobing against the charcoal blue sky.

Come on, it's here. He stopped in the center of the alley where the orange lights from the streets couldn't reach us. When I caught up to him, I saw that he was staring down. Along the side of the alley, the brick gave Wade with steep stairwell going down. Hank shook his phone, producing a flashlight. The steps were gray concrete, flanked by a metal railing covered in chipped paint. He looked at me expectantly. This is it.

It's a basement? Storage. You're half right. Which half? He took a step forward and put his hand on the railing. I followed behind him, stopping at the top step, watching my new acquaintance disappear into the darkness. Then over the sound of rain, I heard a hinge creak.

The steps were suddenly illuminated, wet and slippery, and bathed in white fluorescent light. Come on, wait until you see this. And because I came this far, I followed him to the cracked door, down a dark alley down dark steps into a bright room. I stood bewildered. This wasn't just a room. It was a lobby. Velvet ropes guided us to an unattended service desk pristine in its absence. Hank turned back to me. Weird, right? What is this place?

He didn't answer. Instead, forging a... ahead navigating the velvet ropes. I followed him, feeling a creeping dread, as I did. It was too perfect, too clean. It all looked human, and yet there were no people. There were no tills. There was nothing to suggest we were supposed to be here. Are we trespassing? I don't think so. At the end of the velvet ropes, there was a door. He motioned to a small spinning wire rack filled with pamphlets. Take one. He swallowed and laughed a little.

A souvenir, I guess. I did, as he said, and looked at the oddity in my hands with disbelief. Its header was written in the digital cursive of an amateur graphic designer. Welcome to the Museum of Lost Things. If you enjoyed your visit, please think about donating. A museum? My question was rhetorical, of course. It was right on the pamphlet. Hank didn't slow, passing exhibits of artifacts and dioramas as I traipsed behind him. Look at this one. Notice anything? I found him

staring at a glass case. In it was a miniature boat. I didn't have much in the way of nautical knowledge. The placard beside it said that it was a steamboat, Lady Calabasus 1892. I mouthed to the name, shrugging. I don't get it. He pointed at the printed index card beside it. Okay, I'll play along. I hunched over and read the card aloud, feeling as if I were a weary father checking the closet for a boogeyman.

From 1890 to 1892, Lady Calabasas was a member of the mosquito fleet. Small steamboats used as transportation, among Oregonians along the coast. These boats were smaller than trade ships, but no less stunning to see in person. Lady Calabasasas was... What is this? Keep reading.

I took a deep breath and looked at the card, skimming along the itinerant facts of its historical captain James Sval. Beside the model ship were several grainy black and white photos. Families staring blankly into the cameras, Captain's Fall waved farewell to land. Tragedy took the Lady Calabasas when a storm swept the ship out to sea.

While the ship remained intact, its travelers did not. Hank winced. He was waiting for me to say something, but I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. Finally he spoke. None of it happened. What? He rushed over to another display.

This one was. was a photograph of a woman labeled 1930. She had a child on her lap. She wore an apron. Behind her was a rusted cylinder, maybe a boiler that melted into stark shadows. Beside the photograph was a wooden handle ending in a sharp rock, connected with tightly wound twine. The label Red, Tomahawk. Hank read quickly as if he'd already read it a thousand times over. Mary Wishaw, pictured here with her son calamity, Cal Wishaw, worked

as a seamstress throughout the early 20th century. She was known by friends and family as Mary Mary for her jovial spirit and pension for Todriness. Cal Wishaw was her only living child, and, for a long while, the only known, until a raised storefront

in Mary's neighborhood led to the discovery of a mass grave. It seems to many that Mary Mary was not that Mary after all, and as her dallions has spun out of control, so did she. Authorities counted seven infant corpses, all disposed of in the rotting floor of an abandoned grocer. Mary Mary was sentenced to death by hanging. As Hank stared at me, looking at me for some sort of answer, I dwelled on the image of purple-faced infants with crushed skulls.

I thought of the rats that chewed on their silken flesh, a shrill scream their first. and final contribution to reality before Mary Mary slammed their fragile bodies into the foundation amongst a nest of cracked skeletons. All I could say was the obvious. That's messed up. Why are you showing me this shit? He motioned to my pocket. I didn't do this.

Look it up. Do it. None of it happened, he had said. I took him at his word. I looked up, Mary, Mary White. Shah, Calamity, Hauysha. I looked up local child deaths. I searched for the last voyage of the Lady Calabasas, nothing. I felt as if I were being forced to reconcile two great opposing forces, the immaculateness of the museum with eels coiling in my stomach. I felt ready to run, and I would

have if Hank hadn't looked so sorrowful, so confused, so fucking. normal. I just thought you might know about it. I turned for the door. I don't know shit about this. On one of the walls was a bookcase filled with documents, some in elegant cursive, some typed. All of them were under the raised bronze lettering that titled them, Manifestos. Hank walked after me. I couldn't keep this shit secret. It's too weird. I found the door to the lobby. decided a sign. Thank you for visiting. Above was a map covered in red, pox-like dots. See if we're in your city. I passed it without a second look. When I got outside, I breathed deep, thankful for cool air. The rain had stopped and the city smelled clean. I left the alley and hit the sidewalk,

slammed my back to a brick wall, and tried to process what I'd just seen. A full museum exhibits dioramas and history all filled with fiction. Hank caught up with me wearing that same hang dog face. Hey, hey, I didn't mean to trap you like that. I'm sorry. How did you find it? I winced as I waited for him to say, it found me. Just the right place at the right time, I guess. I exhaled. He reached into his jacket and pulled out of smoke. I was playing location scout and needed an alley. I wandered down the wrong one. My ears perked up.

Movies? Commercials, mostly. Right, right. What do you think it is? I shrugged. I was starting to see things more clearly. Uh, prank, maybe. None of it's real, right?

Total fiction. Maybe it's some sort of performance, art? I've thought of that, but I've never seen anyone else go in. We were silent for a moment. Above rain started to fall again in a fine mist. I had one last question. Why me? For the first time, Hank's loose sullenness heartened. He threw his cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it with the soul of his shoe. I like your blog, and I wanted to meet you. And that was that. We parted ways and exchanged a numbers. The strangeness of being sought out.

by a stranger was dwarfed under the shadow of the Museum of Lost Things, compared to the Lady Calabasas and the Merry, Mary Hank was a trifle. I saw him again a couple times, and we'd talk about the museum, but we kept the conversation light and easy. He was nervous, over-eager, and easily wounded, but he liked to talk, and he sure as hell liked me. If I posted a review, or when I was feeling especially self-important, a retrospective, Hank would call me to discuss it at length. He'd pick at my word choice and challenge my conclusions, offer obscure counterpoints, but it'd always end with him swelling with joy in some way. I came to realize that we were both outsiders looking into the world of film,

hoping desperately for someone to call on us when we raised our hand. I had my writing, which I desperately hoped Fangoria would notice, and Hank was waiting to get called on to some sort of prestige horror flick. He was a writer, too, I found out, with a stack of original screenplays, read by no one but himself. We joined hands and did what we did best, vomit our thoughts onto a page, and then throw them out into the void. We were like minds. We could talk about movies, books, and even the real. life phenomena, I continued to dismiss. Hank always had a friend of a friend who was gutted in the woods or abducted by aliens. It was the same sort of dialogue you could imagine having an tent with a bunch of nine-year-olds. Everything was real. Everything was magical. Before long,

we had decided that the Museum of Lost Things was some sort of viral marketing pop-up that just didn't take off. There must be a hundred of those things. Sure. Why not? Time had taken the sting out of the scorpion. What once felt like a waking nightmare was now merely odd, funny even. Hank went off as a production assistant for a shoot in Northern California, and our texts and phone calls grew less frequent. I was starting a new job. Weeks passed and life went on. The last time he called me, we hadn't spoken in a month. The call was short, caked in static, but the first words out of his mouth were, the rest was a garbled mess of run-on sentences. He kept saying he was sorry, and I kept saying sorry for what. When the call ended, I felt

an overwhelming sense of despair. I called the police to let them know that I had gotten a disturbing call and that I thought my friend might be in trouble, but I had no last name, no location, just a phone number, and when I tried calling him back, it was disconnect. It was winter, and I couldn't afford to turn on the heat. I shivered myself asleep, dreading the worst. Here the CCTV camera footage shows the bank. Customers do business. Our humble narrator processes transactions.

Time flies in fast forward, then stops. I, or the person that looks like me, walks out to refill papers at a self-service kiosk. The camera jumps, and suddenly I am two feet to the right of where I was, but nothing else happens. I felt the loss the most when I pressed publish on an editorial about the lack of iconic monsters in modern horror. I was thinking about the over-influence of H.R. Geiger, but I was also thinking about Hank. My life kept moving forward, but Hank was an unforgettable bookmark. I'd gotten a new job. I'd got more serious about my writing. I lost my girlfriend, but there was always Hank at the back of my mind.

He loved the old, old school, them, Rodin, Dracula. He once told me the greatest monster of all time was Oliver Reed in Curse of the Werewolf. I wrote about how the age of iconic monster designs was far behind us, that in the quest to make everything look alien that now nothing was memorable. This was, in a way, a calling card. I knew if there was anything to make him raise his head out of the dust, it'd be this. I even put a big old one sheet of his favorite wolfman as the header. But, of course, nothing.

Angry and hurt I was putting off the inevitable. I remember his first last sentence. I went back. He said it in the same sad, inevitable way he said everything. The radio silence regarding my monster story was... It was deafening. I felt smaller than ever, the very definition of an outsider looking in. Just pathetic. So I went downtown first just to grab a beer and drown my sorrows, but then I began to retrace my steps. There was nothing else to do, really. My ambition had been sapped, not just for Hank, but for myself, too.

I was just going to get drunk. I arrived at the same cap house. not through any urge to recreate that first meeting with Hank. It was just the only place I knew. I went there and had two beers and planned on talking to the bartender about why everything I ever tried to like tasted like shit, but the place was busy. He barely had time to charge my card. My legs were feeling restless. I checked my phone to see if I got any comments, shares, anything at all in response to my story. Nothing? So I stood up. I was just walking.

I didn't know where I was going. I pretended well enough. When I stood at the edge of the Immaculate Alley, when I looked down its dark corridor, I pretended it was just a happy coincidence. Oh, wow, who'd have thought I'd end up here, hmm? And then I was at the stairs. Well, maybe just a quick look, see?

And in a moment, I was running down them, disappearing into the black, groping in the dark for the dark, for the door, pushing helplessly until it gave way and light stunned my eyes. I remembered how easily Hank found it. I wondered how many times he'd been there. I cowered behind my hand as the light struck me. These were the last moments of blissful ignorance, and as my eyes adjusted, I knew it was all coming to an end. I could turn around and never come back. I could tell myself that the museum no longer existed. It was gone. A viral marketing pop-up, just like I said, but it was still

there. And it was gorgeous. Nothing had changed. The Museum of Lost Things was as constant and static as death itself. I followed the velvet ropes while questions rattled. Who changes the lightbulbs? Who writes the placards? Where do the pamphlets come from? I tried to imagine construction workers hauling materials up and down the stairs. Did they have a radio? Did they listen to music while they worked? Where did they take their breaks? As I passed through the doors, past the pamphlets,

I realized that I couldn't imagine the museum being built, no, only existing. And for some reason, the thought made me sick to my stomach. Then I remembered why I was here. Hank? My voice sounded dampened and hollow, totally alone. With it came the realization that everything people make is draped in some sort of figurativeness. We use simile and metaphor. We create proverbs and analogies.

Sarcasm and its pointed irony becomes precision. Hearing my own voice in the caverns of the Museum of Lost Things, was repulsively literal. It was a reminder that language is a product of people, and that here I could not see people in any of its warm, humming ambiance, its literature or its curative design. It was a place of absence, documenting absence. I staggered on shaky legs looking for some sign of the friend I almost knew,

but there were only exhibits. Cairns of information arranged as sacrifice to some unseen eye. They all worshipped at the altar of the massacre, as if these were the self-congratulatory first steps to mass extinction. To my right was a loving depiction of a commuter bus, unpealing itself as its driver guided its nose into a too small train tunnel. It rode on the tracks until it reached its natural end, and as the doors was sealed shut by the crumpling of its metal, the honking scream of a locomotive sounded to its trapped

passengers that their time had come. All varieties of weapons were celebrated, knives and pipe bombs, AK-47s and revolvers. A man who killed his family by weighing them down to the bottom of the pool was memorialized, with a full diorama, as well as statistics on blood oxygen levels for each victim's size and relative terror. The man, a friendly-looking suburban father with a mustache and a lawnmower, waved in a photograph. Then there were the school shooters. Placards fetishized where they found their weapons, what gun laws allowed them to carry in which they had to circumvent. Big quotes in leaning italics danced across the wall.

He was always kind of a loner. We tried therapy after his father and I split. In the glass case, there were drawings of torture contraptions, poems written in heavy, scratching ink, and video installations of the would-be killer speaking directly to the viewer detailing their future actions. Beneath the video, there was a colorful diagram showing where chance and circumstance forced the perpetrator to deviate from their plans.

Then there were bombers, whose displays were invariably accompanied by lengths of twisty blackened metal. And then the poisoners who lived their last moments doling out punch to friends, family, and co-workers. The last questions they heard were the people around them questioning the brand of juice. It's a little bitter, not bad, just a little bite. it cranberry-based, and none of them existed. Killers and victims joined fully in some cosmic cycle. I felt myself growing weak, tired, overstimulated I wanted desperately to escape, but I knew there was more that something in this place was calling to me, just as it had called to Hank.

On the outer edges closest to the furthest wall, I found it. It was a humble display with just a fragment of the murderous spree that inspired it, three shell casings and a bank statement. The last processed before the intruder entered, opening fire like a madman. Stills from the camera were too blurry to make out, but the informational placard said the perpetrator's name was Henry Laramie. I looked closer at the picture and recognized the same carpet, the same faux Greek pillars that rose to a stunted ceiling beside the front door. I cocked my head not quite believing what I read, what I saw before my eyes.

This was my bank, my old job, the canvas for a massacre. I looked at the timestamp on the photograph and I realized that it was either my last day or the day I, after. I couldn't be sure. I might have arranged an early day, but I couldn't remember. It wasn't so long ago, only a month. My memory seeped into each other. Of course, it was around that same time I got that last call from Hank. I went back, he had said. I thought with a shudder that Hank is short for Henry sometimes. Indignified times, at times new Roman, the dead were engraved in bronze. I looked for someone I knew but was left scrambling for connections. Elliot Grandmont, was that L? Michael Carr? Maybe that was Matt? Maybe I misremembered his name.

They were both common. I looked at the names and none of them were real to me, but that was my bank, and I should have known every single one of them. Among the names was that of Henry Laramie, who ended his life. moments after the last teller collapsed. To read Laramie's manifesto, please see the Manifesto Library. I read aloud. I turned my head and saw the great exhibit at the south side of the Underground Museum.

Lamps shined on the wall, illuminating it with a kiss of warmth, like a library newspaper stand. The shelves were shallow, and the covers looked you in the eye. Each was laminated with a whole punch at the left-hand corner that housed a protective wire that secured each page to the wall behind it. They were organized by act.

Mass murder, political, H. Bombings, apolitical, W. Infanticide, Cult, D. When I reached Henry Laramie, mass murder, apolitical, L, I closed my eyes and thought about keeping them shut. I could still turn around, leave forever. I could be content in not knowing. But that wasn't me.

No, I wanted to know. I pulled the single typed page, and the wire made a zipper sound as it gave. I held it with two hands in front of me. It read. Funny how life happens, right? To a certain degree, we all have expectations. Like when we're young, we have a vision of our lives. When I was a kid, I used to walk really fast because of metaphors.

I thought that when I passed kids in the hall that I was setting a goalpost, I was faster, I was better. And now that I had gotten to class earlier, the rest of my life would fall like dominoes in some grand butterfly effect. The disappointing thing is that, of course, that's not the way it happens. The slowest walkers can go on to do great things, and the fastest walkers get fucked over sometimes. Maybe not bad. It wasn't bad for me.

I shouldn't let people think it was. It was okay most of the time. But when you want great, anything less, it becomes uncontrollable. And suddenly mediocrity is all you see in yourself, in others. I know all of these things to be true. I am the one that is wrong, and I am the one that will hurt people. If you can't tell this is more of a letter than a manifesto, I won't say who it's for, but I hope that it finds its audience.

I would say, but names are a dangerous commodity around here. How weak are we? How sad and pathetic living through power fantasy. disguised as disempowerment fantasies. It's the same urge of self-destruction they refer to as the call of the void. La Pelle de Vide, as the French say. Think of when you're driving and you can't help but want to twist the wheel and slam into oncoming traffic. It's the same thing.

Eternal predator, eternal prey. Forgotten somewhere, remembered elsewhere. It's a choice. It's a balance. It's concrete, even if it's erased, like a pencil sketch that gets rubbed raw and laid over with a new drawing still there. Still there? Best regards, as I let go of the paper, the elastic pulley word, and brought it back into the bosom of the Museum of Lost Things. I backed away, adrenaline coursing through my body, rickety legs propelling me through the doors.

On the way out, I saw the donation box. Someone had left a fiver. When I reached the velvet ropes, I ran up the black stairs into the alley, onto the street, straight to my car. I turned up the radio and I tried to sing songs I'd never heard before. And I thought about all the songs I've heard but since forgotten. And all the songs that I sang that were never there. I drove fast and kept thinking about Henry Laramie.

maybe Hank, maybe not. And then when I got home, I sat. I settled. I thought about everything that happened to me, and I realized nothing had. I tried to remember my old co-workers. My memories felt dreamy or hazy, large swathes of characterization performed in thick brushstrokes. My manager was a curt, middle-aged woman. L was very pretty and nice.

Brian asked me if I wanted to play poker once. I dwelled on these facts, tried to make them real, but every so often a new image would infiltrate an implant or a recollection I couldn't tell. Then a violent scene. Screaming, crying, a gunman passing me without a second look, sparing me. Shots fired bloodshed and carnage.

The smell of iron. A woman pleading my heart galloping. Just a sketch. A cast of characters erased. New ones penciled over their faded outlines. Maybe. Or maybe not. I'm writing this because I don't want to be forgotten.

Like Hank, I am a sad man with bones to pick, with dreams unrealized and an unfortunate. A fortunate deck of genetic cards, and all I want is a record. Something to say I was here. I won't sign my name because names are dangerous. But if I release this in the wild, it'll survive. Even if everything catches up to me, even if I do something stupid. So I'm staring into the camera.

My face fills the frame. Quietly, if you listen to me, and you can hear cars in the background. You realize I'm outside. Around me, around you. A thousand tragedies perpetuate themselves in silent infinity. And with this realization, after a moment of lingering, we cut to chaotically shaking footage.

We can't tell what's happening, but it ends as soon as we realize that people are running. sincerely. As we run away from that story, we'll take a quick break to talk about another form of horror. Poor dental hygiene. Ooh, dental horror. I love it.

What are you thinking? tooth extractions, molar drilling, wisdom teeth reinsertion. Reinserting wisdom teeth? No, what's wrong with you? I'm just talking about the troubles of not looking after your teeth. Ah, like not brushing or flossing regularly. Well, there's no horror there for me, because I,

use Quip. Ah, Quip. What an amazing system to keep your oral health in tip-top shape. Their brushes, floss, gum, with subscriptions delivering them to you on a dentist-recommended schedule, keep you smiling bright and healthy. Don't forget the new Quip mouthwash. Who needs those big plastic bottles full of water and alcohol? It's time for a new way to get mouthwash, and Quip has done it right. Exactly. Quip's alcohol-free four-times concentrated mouthwash comes in an eco-e friendly refill bottle that's 100% recyclable. It's their way of helping make your mouth a little cleaner and the earth a little greener. I love the stylish dispenser that looks good enough to keep on the countertop, not hidden under the sink. And with a mouthwash subscription plan, you can get

refills automatically delivered straight to your door every three months. You can stay on top of your swish without lugging any bottles home from the store. How refreshing. Just think about how easy quip makes things for you. They're adult and kids' sense. sized electric brushes that make brushing fun, their refillable flossers and toothpaste and gum, all delivered automatically to your home from plans starting as low as $5. Oh, don't forget to mention the free shipping on all QIPP subscription plans. Did I mention the shipping is absolutely free?

I couldn't have said it better myself. So listen, if you go to getcquip.com slash no sleep five right now, you can get $5 off a mouthwash starter kit. $5 off a mouthwash starter kit, which includes a refillable dispenser and a 90-dose supply of Quips 4-t-concentrated formula at G-E-T-Q-U-I-P-P-com slash no-sleep 5. That's no sleep and the number 5. And remember. Please let me say it. Go ahead. Quip, the Good Habits Company. Brilliant. So remember, horror belongs in our stories, not your mouth. Then Cripp will keep you and your dentist very happy. And it's important to keep people in the medical field happy,

as we'll find out when we return to the show and more sleepless horror. Back in the 19th century, medical technology was rather limited. When a doctor faced a puzzling and difficult case, the only way to confer with a colleague was via letter. And as we learn in this tale, shared with us by author Horatio Marissa, A doctor seeks help with a case that is undeniably disturbing. Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Aaron Lillis, and Atticus Jackson. So let's learn about what happened in this case.

Something we're able to do thanks to a recovered letter. Transcription of the last known letter correspondence between Dr. William T. Clay and Dr. Alfred Macmillan, sent from Bramwell, West Virginia to New York City, New York. Letter dated November 17, 1893. Alfred, I hope dearly that this letter finds you quickly. I fear my case in Mercer County has taken a turn for the worse, and I require immediate assistance from you. Stating it in such a manner seems like a massive of underestimation, but there it is. I'll be blunt. In my 10 years of practice, I've never before witnessed something of this manner. To prepare you, I'll detail the events of the past few days below. I fear you'll think ill of me after I am done, or that I've gone mad, but I assure you

that I am in as sound or mind as ever. I arrived at the Latimer residence on November the It's some five miles from Bramwell, a small mining community, and I walked the distance, as I couldn't find a soul heading in the same direction. I was asked to come, as you may recall, by an old friend of mine, Mr. Ernest Latimer. We met when I still took regular calls to the country, and we've been fast friends since. I haven't attended his wedding. His wife, Libby, was the patient in question. She was born and raised on a tiny settlement deep in the Appalachian Wood.

name escapes me. And though she is kind enough, there's always been an odd air to her. She visits home regularly. It was on one of those trips, and this part is so odd that I asked twice for clarification from earnest, that she was attacked by a deer. Now, I'm aware that you were raised in the city, Alfred, and therefore I offer that deer attacks are nearly unheard of. They're flighty creatures who will startle at the slightest movement. Nevertheless, a vicious bite wound does, or did, reside on Libby's forearm.

The teeth marks would indicate that the attacker was, in fact, a deer, though the wound was very ragged. After arriving back home on November 8th, Libby began to complain of feeling feverish, and earnest noticed she was visibly flushed. Her fever refused to break after three nights, and after discovering the wound to be inflamed, I was called. I remember that upon stepping into the house, I was struck with an odd smell. It was sweet, unpleasantly so, but so low lying that it could have been an odd fruit or a meal left in the cupboard too long.

As we walked through the house, the smell grew stronger, until it was actively distracting once we reached the bedroom. I'm well acquainted with the smell of sickness, Alfred, and though the two were close enough that one could be compared to the other, they were distinctly different. Ernest slowly opened the door, and I stepped inside. Libby was awake and lucid when I first examined her, if a bit fatigued. I sat by her and had her explain the encounter once again. Though nothing in our conversation seemed amiss at the time. Looking back, she reacted quite oddly to some of my questions. When I asked if a deer had bit her, she took a long moment to answer. Her face contorted slightly as she nodded as though she wasn't quite sure. She also complained of a bad headache, which I attributed to

the fever. I feel like a fool now for doing so, but as I retrace my steps through the encounter, I find that my first assertion was logical. There was simply no way of knowing. I'll go on, Alfred. You must excuse these guilty ramblings of mine. I am in a bad way after tonight's transpiring's. The deer bite worried me. The veins that lead away from it had taken up a swollen red complexion that was characteristic of infection.

I washed the wound and applied a topical rub before re-bandaging it and bid Libby rest. Ernest allowed me to sleep in their spare bedroom. It lay beside their bedroom. The odd smell seemed to permeate through the wall. I found myself so irritated that, when alone, I took to hooking my shirt up over my nose to block out the scent. My sleep was fitful, and when I woke the next morning, I was sore and tired. Libby's condition had only worsened in the night.

I ate before examining her once more. The smell in the room was now so strong that I coughed upon entering the door. Her face only looked more flushed, but there was a certain gauntness to it that I hadn't seen before. She complained once again of a headache and told me that she was dreadfully hungry. None of the inflammation in the wound had gone away. After she had eaten, I let two pints of blood from her before bidding her sleep again. She did so with little hesitation. Ernest and I spent much of the day in the house.

There were a whole host of chores to be done now that Libby was sick, so we spent most of our time fetching wood for the fireplace and tidying up the rooms we had disrupted and cooking. Libby slept fitfully, and more than once she awoke in a desperate state of thirst. I would bring her a glass of water which she would quickly drain. The fourth time this happened, she brought the glass to her lips before suddenly convulsing

and vomiting across the bedsheets. I tried to see this as a good sign, as the body expelling bad matter. But as Ernest and I attempted to change the bed sheets, this line of thinking was quickly abandoned. Among the bile and food lay several clumps of hair. It was very short hair, like the trimmings of a beard and dark brown.

I was dumbfounded, and determined to set my mind to other matters as I wash the blankets. Even so, I couldn't help but notice how Libby's vomit seemed to radiate the same sickly sweet smell that filled the house. Even now the scent lingers on my hands, taped into my nail beds, hiding in the crevices of my palms. I longed to bathe. Libby fell back asleep after Ernest replaced her sheets. By this time it was nearing dark. and my old friend practically fell into his chair by the fireplace,

exhaustion playing across his face. We spoke in hushed tones to pass the time. Though we attempted not to touch the matter at hand, it was clear that he was deeply concerned with his wife's health. His eye would drift to the door of their bedroom any time there was a lull in the conversation. And though I tried to distract him with talk, there was a distant look in his eye that never left through our whole conversation.

An hour or so must have passed before the fire reduced in size such that we could barely see. Ernest made to rise, but I assured him I could fetch the firewood, and I left the house for the shed where the logs are stacked. As the last of the day's light faded from the sky, I couldn't help but stare out at the mountains. During the day, the Appalachian Mountains are strikingly beautiful, and in the night this effect is not lost, but it is distinctly not the same. In darkness the mountains seemed to grow larger, and their stillness is almost eerie. For a moment they struck me not as mountains, but as a giant creature, unmoving but alive, observing me from above. And in that moment, I was very afraid.

When I entered the house once more, Ernest was gone from his seat. It shouldn't have struck me as odd, but a queer sense of dread had followed me in for outside, and I abruptly set the firewood down and observed the room. Quickly, I came to the realization that the door to the bedroom was open. I lit a candle and came inside. Libby was asleep, and Ernest stood over her. I whispered his name, but there was no response from him. It was in that moment, and I realized that he was shaking violently, like he'd caught a continual

chill. My attention snapped back to Libby, but she was breathing. The warm light of the candle glistened when it met her skin. She was so slick with sweat that she looked as if she'd been doused in water. This detail had captured me so that I didn't notice it until Ernest gave a shuddering gasp and finally spoke. William, look at the top of her head. I did so and froze. At first, I thought it was some sort of worm. Somehow I thought a very large worm had made its way into the room and latched itself onto Libby's scalp. But that wasn't right. The thing was too long, too thick, too like a muscle to be anything but animal. As I stared, my mind reeling, I began to notice the small bits of gore that hung from her hair and dripped onto the pillow. Whatever it was wasn't latched onto her, I realized. Something inside her head had punctured its way through the roof of her skull. It was impossible, but there it was. Slowly I stared down at Libby. She was serene in her sleep,

still breathing slowly. And somehow this made my horror grow. As I turned back to the wound, and the alien object suddenly came into sharp focus. It wasn't a worm. It was the tail of a rat. As if to confirm my theory, the thing twitched suddenly. Ernest stumbled backward and fell, but I remained rooted to the spot, transfixed by the impossible sight. Upon the sound of her husband's fall, Libby's eyes opened. Both Ernest and I froze as she sleepily surveyed the room.

William. Hello, Libby. How do you feel? She smiled, and there was a short, brown hair stuck between two of her teeth. I feel much better. Her word slurred slightly, as if she'd had too much to drink. I realized with a start that I was backing slowly away from her. Is... is something wrong?

Sweat was pouring down her forehead in sheets, and she blinked lazily as it spilled into her eyes. Then, suddenly, the strip of skin from her collarbone to her back bulged. My first thought as I turned and ran from the room was that she'd had a massive muscle spasm. I knew better, though. muscle spasms don't move like that at all. It was far too large and in a place where there was little tissue. The sight repeated in my mind as I fell against Ernest's chair by the fire.

A husband was soon after me and we cowered away from the door to the bedroom, which we dared not go back to close. There was the sound of fabric shifting and a soft thump as Libby's feet hit the floor. Limmy, you're very sick. Go back to bed. She ignored me, instead emerging slowly from the doorway. Her walk was odd, accented by jerks and spasms of muscle. Ernest stood paralyzed beside me. We both watched in rapt horror as she stumbled towards us.

Her nightgown lay close to her skin and I could see the fabric ripple oddly around. her, as though there was something small and quick running about under it. If there was, she showed no signs of discomfort. Ernst, I feel a lot better now. Ernest slowly moved to pass me, but I held my arm out stopping him. Libby frowned. Ernest. But her voice was wrong when she said it.

Too strained. too low. Then she gave a soft groan as her mouth fell open limply. I suspect that her jaw muscles had been chewed through at that point, for her mouth hung far too wide open. She seemed to want to try and speak, but all that came out was a wet choking sound. She didn't seem to notice this.

She didn't even seem to notice when the thing in her throat finished crawling out. It perched, and her unhinged jaw staring forward expectantly. It was a fat, brown. Its coat had been dyed dark with something I couldn't make out, but its small, pale hands were slick with blood. The thing leapt from her jaw onto the front of her nightgown before skittering to the ground. It ran towards us and earnest screamed, kicking it away. It landed in a heap by the fireplace.

Libby moaned loudly and suddenly two more rats had replaced the first, and then another and another. Her arms and legs seized with activity, writhing in a manner more akin to a snake than a human limb. The rats began to pour steadily from her mouth, her flesh stretching and tearing until her cheeks were reduced to, a mess of torn flesh. As they poured out, Libby seemed to shrink slightly as the rats fled her, a motion I could only liken to a sandcastle crumbling when water is poured atop it. In this moment,

something in earnest seemed to snap, and with a tortured cry, he ran forward and pushed what remained of his wife down the cellar stairs. As she fell, her form contorted, and And for a single second, I thought faintly that her figure was more like a bag of skin than anything remotely human. Then Ernest slammed the door. As I write you, my back is pressed to that very same door. It's been about five hours since what happened happened. The smell is unbearable. Even after Ernest and I shoved blankets in the crack under the door,

earnest has been in and out of the room seemingly determined to capture every last rat in the house. There has been no noise from Libby, but I find myself imagining her standing just outside the door, listening to me labor away at this letter. I can still hear the rats, though. They skitter across the floor of the cellar, scratch at the stairs, gnaw. At the door, I dare not leave my post. Come quickly. Yours will clay.

We place the letters back in their envelopes. It's time to take our leave for now. The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone. Our production team is Phil Mikulski, Jeff Clement, and Jesse Cornett. Our creative content manager is Olivia White. Our editor-in-chief is Jessica McAvoy. 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 pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long. and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only $25. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening and for being ever curious. This audio production is copyright 2021 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.