The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep12: NoSleep Podcast S17E12

Episode Date: February 20, 2022

It’s Episode 12 of Season 17. Our spells weave their way deep deep down.“Chatterbox” written by Jack Kaide (Story starts around 00:06:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Erika Sanderson“The Lonely Miner” written by Alfred Rowdy (Story starts around 00:17:40)Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Mick Wingert, Voice – Jesse Cornett“The Cellar” written by Andrew Hughes (Story starts around 00:34:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – Andy Cresswell, Jossen – James Cleveland, Gessle – Penny Scott-Andrews“Bodiless” written by Faith Pierce (Story starts around 00:56:30)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Grace – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Mother Jessica – Nikolle Doolin, Boy #1 – Matthew Bradford, Boy #2 – Kyle Akers, Man – Peter Lewis“Three Pieces” written by Marcus Damanda (Story starts around 01:12:30)Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Summer – Jessica McEvoy, Casper/Carlisle Fick – Jeff Clement, The Wraith – David Ault, Angus Johnston – David Cummings, Phineas – Dan Zappulla, Silas – Peter Lewis, Absalom – Mike DelGaudio, Lafayette – Wafiyyah White, Doctor Abner Rusk – Graham RowatThis episode is sponsored by:Upstart – Upstart believes people are more than their credit score. We take a holistic view of an applicant, rather than write them off because of their credit score. We want to empower people to take control of their debt and financial future. Get started by going to Upstart.com/nosleepBetterhelp – 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/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about the new horror anthology, “A Woman Built By Man”Click here to learn more about Faith PierceClick here to learn more about Marcus DamandaExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“Chatterbox” illustration courtesy of Hasani WalkerAudio program ©2022 – 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

Season 17 of the No Sleep Podcast continues with episode 12. It doesn't take long for the horror to start. And another thing, why on earth would I ask you for money? Wait, wait, wait, what? Mr. Alt, are you still upset about what we discussed on our 500th episode? Indeed, I am, sir, for you to imply that I, David Alt, with this glorious British accent, would need money from an upstart like you from the colonies, I mean the nerve. Well, that's precisely it, David.

Upstart. Upstart is the fast and easy way to pay off your debt with a personal loan, all online. Of course. Whether it's paying off credit cards, consolidating high-interest debt, or funding personal expenses, over half a million people have used Upstart to get one fixed monthly payment that's perfectly clear. And most of us can empathize about the dread you feel looking at your credit card statements. Trust me, you're not alone. Debt can feel crippling.

But Upstart can help you on your path to financial freedom. I feel like we're straying from my bone of contention, but, um, yes, Upstart knows you're more than just your credit score and is expanding access to affordable credit. Unlike other lenders, Upstart considers your income and current employment to find you a smarter rate for your loan. With a five-minute online rate check, you can see your rate up front for loans between $1,000 to $50,000. You can receive funds as fast as one business day after accepting your loan. So, when you consider how quick and easy it is to refinance with Upstart, I ask you again, why would I need to borrow money from you? How should I know? Maybe they raise the price of PG tips or crumpets or something.

Now, look here. Oh, calm down, David. Dear sleepless friends, find out how Upstart can lower your monthly payments today when you go to upstart.com slash no sleep. Crumpets. That's upstart.com slash no sleep. Don't forget to use our URL to let them know we sent you. Beg tips! And I should also mention that loan amounts will be determined based on your credit, income,

and certain other information provided in your loan application. Apoplectic! So go to upstart.com slash no sleep. I am about to show you what real horror looks like. So are we. So brace yourself. It's starting right now. It's long gone.

In days of yore. There are legends and tales of dark folklore. Round candlelight and fireside. The tales are shared. Enchanting dark secrets in hushed toads declared. And from those, days both present and past. We beseech you now to brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast.

The sleepless tales commence, fellow travelers. I'm your guide, David Cummings. I would like to announce that a woman built by man, the newest horror story anthology from publisher Cemetery Gates Media has been released in print and e-book form. This fantastic collection is co-edited by Friends of the Show and Contributors, S.H. Cooper and L. Turpitt, and created in conjunction with Olivia White, our content manager,

who also provides the forward and a story for the collection. It's a spooky collage of horror tales that seek to crawl under the skin and deconstruct the many ways women are built up and broken down by a patriarchal society. and the many ways they're finally saying, enough. Featuring 21 celebrated horror authors and striking cover art by Lorraine Hodge, who Olivia has instructed me to inform people, is her mom. A woman built by man is the perfect horror read to kick off 2022.

Links to purchase can be found in the show notes. And speaking of notes, you'll never guess who I received correspondence from the other day. Remember, Joanna, the reality-bending witch who almost ruined and ended my life in 2021? I've felt her specter looming over me since then, and I've known that one day she'd come back into my life. She did warn us of the dawn of the season of the witch, after all. I didn't expect her return to be like this, though. I'll read you the note. Dear David, I understand that I'm not your favorite person, but I need your help.

I'm being pursued. The hourglass has fallen upon me. The goat is in the pasture screaming beneath a thousand stars. The campgrounds are being salted. The tent is being pitched. Five or six impaled on sticks. March on. Unlucky plus one.

You understand. That's it. The whole note. What a crazy old... old witch. In our first tale, we hear someone at the door, someone who wants in, someone, or perhaps it's something. In this tale, shared with us by author Jack Cade, we're going to have to open up to see who or what is outside. Performing this tale is Erica Sanderson. So put your hand on the doornaub, begin to turn it. Here the hinges,

and ask yourself, who could be waiting outside that's such a chatter box? By the chitter-chatter of my teeth, you will hear me. You'll be wrapped up and sleeping tight. Don't let the beg bugs bite. While up the wooden hill I'll be a creeping softly. Nobody's awake but you and me. I've made sure of that. I don't want to share you with anybody else.

At first, I'll scratch against your door. the nails of my little tozies and handsy sharp and rasping like broken bottlenecks against the wood. My poor old bones will be a rattling and a shaking in the cold night air I brought in with me, and the bellows in my chest that wheeze and creak like old oak trees will go up and down, up and down, with little cliques and clacks of dry leather in motion. I am so very lonely the side of the door, I will whisper to you through the keyhole. Let me in. I have no eyes to see, no tongue to taste, no ears to listen, but I will know that you are there.

The little wooden box with the little paper scroll that sits inside me, with the seven words upon it that give me life, burns like a red-hot brazier when you are close by. I feel a mercury quiver in my soul, a little warmth in my poor old wooden bones when you were near me. I cannot bear it when we are apart. You made me. Then when I no longer brought you pleasure or distraction, you abandoned me. You called me wicked when I ate the little chicks in their nest by the workshop.

I gobbled them up one by one, their little feet still kicking as they went down. You locked me in the coal house for that, till the damp and the rain made my bones swell and my poor old joists and brackets ached with the coal. Seven days you kept me there. I could feel the woodworm and the rot begin to set inside me, as my teeth you made from seashells chattered till they sparked. I begged and begged for you to let me out. Then when my voice began to fail, I whined like a dog for you. You didn't understand. I only wanted

you to love me. You let me out, eventually. Far too long to be down. in the dark, says I. You made me in the workshop, behind the great house, with a few words of old magic and the breath of life. You gave me no eyes to see, nor ears, nor a nose. But you gave me the most wonderful smile, a lovely set of pearly white set in Indian rubber inside my little wooden head. I called you, sir, and danced and spun to your delight. It was my only wish in those days to please you, though sometimes I spoiled things and made you angry. I did not mean to. You tired of my dancing after some months, and soon you took to locking me in the workshop at night.

I longed for your attention. I craved your love. In my jilted fury at your indifference I took to thieving and petty acts of violence against creatures who could not resist me. This was, I believed, the only way. way to make you notice me. A year went by, and still you punished me, locked me away and called me horrid. A beast, an abomination. I tried ever so to win your affection, to just make you notice me. And when the little prentice boy from the tannery went missing in the village, oh, you noticed me then. You saw me all right. In your workshop behind the great house, I swore to you that I never

touched a hair on his lovely flaxen head. But you called me a liar, and you said you'd watched me skulking past the lanes behind the tannery yards, tasting the piss-soaked air that wafted about the yards like a greasy yellow fog. You pulled me down, then set my head upon the iron vice. There you wrenched my jaws apart and scraped and tugged and rasped until you found it buried behind my gums. A little bonnie blue button, the same ones the prentice boy wore on his overall. You smashed my lovely white teeth with a mallet, till all but splinters hung from my soft rubber gums. You doused me in turpentine, and pushed me into the fiery furnace, shutting the door as I tossed and turned and begged you and cried for mercy. I was a secret, a creature of old magic that must be burnt away, to save the reputation of your name.

None knew of my existence, but you. In the hellfire of the furnace, I screamed as my bones turned to charcoal, though the air soon became soot black and choking. I hit my brittle fists against the iron walls, but you did not hear me, or perhaps you chose not to. I could feel the little box with a little scroll with the seven words you'd written upon it begin to burn. The seven words, each containing in them seven letters, each one a sliver of my soul burning away. I didn't want to die. So I climbed up the great souppipe of the furnace, up and rising with the smoke. I couldn't see and I couldn't feel.

But still I climbed till I could taste night air. When I reached the top of the smokestack, I rolled out and down the slanting roof slates until I landed in the woodpile behind the workshop, the fire in my bones still smoldering. There I lay for three days and three nights, until I crept off into the fields behind the great house, knowing that you would not follow me there. I was lost and all alone in the world.

It was cold out there among the rolling hills and blighted fields of gorse and blackthorn. I was hungry and frightened, though soon I learned the hardening ways of the wild woods, the old rules of tooth and claw and kill or be killed. I found that I could smell blood, Or rather tasted at the back of my throat, like a drowning man tastes seawater. An iron and copper bite, a warm victual of red delight.

In time, I made myself some new biters, some lovely pearly whites to replace the ones you broke. I took a handful from the jaws of a fox. The others were the bones of a wriggling pikefish. And when those broke, I took to sticking nails and broken glass and horrid, thin, needles into my raggedy gums. They were never as fine as the set you made me. I soon became a bad dream, a tricksy little goblin that followed lost travellers down lanes and across the hills. Nobody truly believed in me, but all the same, the people about the town locked their doors at night and barred the windows of their children's bedrooms. Not that it made any difference.

I always find a way in. You see my new lovely pearly whites? Some of them belong to people once. It is so easy once you know how to pull and tug until they come loose, no matter how much a person screams. I've come to show you them. Chatter, chatter. Can you hear them on the other side of the door?

I know you can. They rip and tear lovely through the meat and marrow. I'm only a poor old bag of bones, but I knows how to butcher a beast, no matter what size. I know that soon you will need to sleep. Soon you will not have the strength to keep the door closed, and there is no other way out of that room. It is too high up, and the window too small for you to risk jumping. I can wait here forever. It is how you made me.

Eternal life is what I have and eternal patience. Soon, through hunger and thirst and madness, you will try to rush the door, to escape and take up arms against me. But you will find the other side of the door to be empty. I will not be there, but I will be somewhere in the great house. Maybe in the attic, or in the cellars, cooling my poor old bones against the casks of wine. Maybe I'll be in a secret room behind the old clock in the study, the one you never talk about, the one painted black on the inside, the one you take young ladies into who never come out again.

You'll think it was all a bad dream, and soon you'll be sleeping in your bed again. Then, in the dark, one silent night, you'll feel a cold wind against your skin, and will feel a cold wind against your skin, and will be sleeping in your bed again. with it the smell of rotting wood and damp leather. In the dark, you'll hear a scuttling, a sound that old branches snapping. And then you'll hear a chattering. Chitter, chatter, chitter, chatter. I'll eat you slow, or I'll eat you quick. Maybe I won't at all. I'll just sit at the end of your bed, my teeth are rattling and a shaking, popping, snapping, biting, cracking in my little wooden head. The sound will drive you mad, I think, before I even take a bite.

I'm ever so lonely this side of the door. Let me in. Ah, there's gold in them thar hills. Well, that's what they used to say. But now the hills no longer glitter. And in this tale, shared with us by author, Alfred Rowdy, there's only coal left to recover. And when disaster strikes like a rogue pickaxe swing, everything is at stake.

Performing this tale are Mick Wingert and Jesse Cornett. So when you're deep underground don't give up hope, pray for help. Surely something is around to hear the lament of the lonely miner. I used to be an average man. I'd come to Colorado chasing gold. but a failed claim left me miserable and penniless. Fleeing the mountain winter, I found myself in Louisville, one of the countless coal mining towns sprang from the prairies roughshod.

It was the age of steel and locomotives, and the world yearned to burn the bounty of coal brought forth from the depths below. The town was centered around a four-story tipple that towered over the Acme Mine, Skips full of shiny ore emerged from the shaft where the contraption of metal screen separated chunks of bituminous coal from the worthless cinder piled in heat.

The refuse smoldered with the remnants of fire suppressed, quietly crackling and entrenching the town with an accurate smoke. This was the view from my kitchen table, distorted through a cheap glass window, an admonition that a miner's work brings no. nothing more than grim survival. Unions were fast encroaching from the east, promising to elevate our prospects.

They had their own hazards. Lawmen opened fire with gatling guns against a crew of striking workers at the Hecla mine a month prior. Green miners lost their lives, and trust was in short supply. I turned to God instead. The congregation met every Sunday, listening to the preacher,

call for the salvation of our souls. We hope the heavenly world beyond would deliver the promises left broken and rotten in this one. I met my wife on the chapel's lawn after the preacher's Ash Wednesday sermon. She was a country girl from a potato farm right outside of town, poor like me, but her smile was radiant when our eyes met that day

with grease smeared in a cross on our foreheads. Both of her parents had succumbed to consumption. and she yearned to start a family of her own. Her name was Evie, and we waited the 40 days of Lent before consummating our love in a frenzy. We married two months later at the same church. The preacher gave his blessing, and I vowed to support her with my labor. We drew into a daily rhythm. I left for the mine at sunrise.

She tended to the household, and we shared a few hours of leisure before bed. I pulled on my boots and left our company home through the front door. Outside, a layer of cinder ash covered the snow, turning the town pinkish brown. The mine entrance was past the burning waste heat, and the streets were filled with workers solemnly trudging through the cold. I shuffled in line with the others for my place in the elevator. We pressed shoulder to shoulder and back to front in the enclosure. A horn sounded before the cable unsuited. pulled from the pulley wheel and the metal cage began to sink into the earth.

180 feet to the level I was working, nearly half a mile sideways to the edge of the drift. The light from the surface grew smaller as we descended past deserted levels. Their rich bitumen demuted in years past. Cage crunched to a halt at the bottom and somebody swung the rusty door. Men spilled into the tunnel, Their lard lamps casting dimly on the low walls. Water seeped from the rock and collected in a stream running in the center of the tunnel.

I marched through the damp corridors towards my destination. A prospecting drift at the end of the level where we were testing the direction and limits of the coal seam. Timber supports held the ceiling of the tunnel, but their frequency declined approaching the seam. A snowstorm in the mountains was preventing resupport. fly from the timber trains, and each new beam had to carry twice the load. I met my crewmate where the supports ended. We called him bang, man, with the index and ring fingers he'd lost in a botched demolition. We'd nodded our heads towards the other. He got to work. The rock face was pockmarked the drill holes. A single chalk X marked the location of the final

bore. I heaved the iron drill to the rock and held it in place, while Bangman struck the blunt end with a sledge. The sound of the drill reverberated through the cavern as it bit into the rock. I rotated the drill a quarter turn and repeated the process. The effort continued for a dozen minutes before we reached the flange indicating the correct bore depth. A fetched the explosives from a crate and unwrapped the wax paper around each before inserting the chart. charges into the holes. Bangman followed me, checking the placement, capping the holes, and gathering the fuses. He demanded to verify every demolition arrangement since the accident that took his fingers. Once he was satisfied, we retreated from the drift face, stretching the detonation

cords around the corner to a small alcove. Bangman pulled a match from his shirt pocket and struck it against the wall. Flame illuminated his dirty fingers as he lit the fuse. It sparked, and a glowing ember fizzled across the cord, around the corner, and toward charges buried in the rock.

He cowered in the shelter waiting for the blast. I felt the familiar queasiness in the pit of my stomach. The anticipation lingered, and suddenly and violently, a wave of destruction swept past. First came the percussion, then a brush of air, followed by a cloud of dust, and finally, the noxious smell of black damp. We left the alcove to see our work successful. Rubble piled on the floor and fresh fractures in the face. We began to clean up the debris, lifting and shoveling slack into the skip until it was pulled the rim.

My crewmate walked toward the shaft to find the hoist cable for the sun. skip. I turned my attention to the exposed coal where fractures had spread in a web across the scene. I attacked the oar with a pickaxe. Fist-sized pieces of coal satisfyingly crumbled from the wall. Aiming for a fracture at face level, tip of my axe struck a soft spot, and the crack expanded upwards. Took a step back and swung harder. The axe sunk further in the square block of coal. fell at my feet. Pulled the axe out and the fracture spread all the way to the ceiling as it retracted from it. The line in the wall looked peculiar, traveling behind the edge in a way that I had not seen

before. A rock fell from the ceiling, and I jumped sideways to dodge me, dropping the axe and fall into the wet floor. The crack ripped across the ceiling above me. I craned my neck toward the skip and watched in disbelief as the fissure grew to meet the nearest timber beam. Beneath the timber, the bangman was struggling to attach the horse cable

to the skin. Deep rumble following the fissure was enough to shift his attention to the roof. He froze in place. Eyes wide as saucers staring at his doom. I did not have time to call out. He turned to run, but was trapped.

Timber splintered, rock came crashing down until the tunnel was sea. Echoes of crumbling rock and falling gravel continued. A mangled leg attached to a bloody boot was the sole remnant I saw of Bang Man. I bypassed the gore to inspect the fallen ceiling. It was impenetrable on all sides. Help! Can anyone hear me? I trapped my voice, not allowing it to escape from the chamber.

I retrieved the drill we'd been working with minutes earlier and thrust it into the space between two boulders, pressing all my weight against the iron lever. It did not budge. Frantically, I stabbed a drill against the slack pile over and over, searching for a weak spot. A tool slid into a cavity, and I grunted as I pried a piece of stone off to reveal an opening.

Peering into the void, I could see nothing. I brought the lard lamp closer. Thin fingers of light fled through the gap in a mrs. illuminated the face of Bang Man on the other side. Revolved, I sprang backwards and wretched. The dead man was looking directly at me through the gap in the rock. In place of his left eye was a raw red hole where I had stabbed his head with the drill. I quickly extinguished the lamp. I could not bear to see the dead man's face any longer. A total blackness, few men have experienced, sank into every corner of that chamber. It felt heavy and oppressive, and the air

reeked a bile, utterly alone and afraid. I began to pray aloud. Please forgive me. I have not let a perfect life, but I have tried to live by your name. I receive the sacrament and I follow your word. I beg that by your grace, I will see my wife Evie again, for sure. I have tried to live by your for she makes me whole. If that is not to happen, then I ask for the salvation of my soul in the everlasting. Hours or days passed while I awaited rescue. Time was inscrutable in this coffin devoid of all light and sound. I sensed the grisly gaze of the dead man staring at me from beyond the rock.

I saw flashes of light to pink, wide and green, but knew they were imaginary. When the silence became overwhelming, I tried to recite the Lord's prayer, but the words were all jumbled. Our Father of Heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom came and left me in silence, and your will be done beneath the earth as it is in heaven. Give me this day, my daily penance, and forgive me my sins. as we forgive them that leave us to rot, lead us not into sunlight, but to deliver us from evil. For years as a kingdom, the power, and the darkness, forever and ever. More time passed, and I lost the ability to distinguish between sleep and wakefulness.

I dreamed in both, until the stillness was unexpectedly broken. by a raspy voice. Who are you? What do you want? The chamber remained in the deepest black. The shore is running down my cheeks in the darkness. Yes, please. Save my soul.

I will give everything for your grace. The tunnels of the Acme Mine remained below Louisville. As does the bargain I made that. My soul has grown wary. Saved long ago I have become lonely And loneliness has turned to sorrow And that sorrow is turned into a vengefulness

I cannot escape I'll wake in rage within my silent tune Condemned to rain over this darkness Authors and storytellers can spring from all kinds of backgrounds Video game developers, legal secretaries, soldiers stable hands, you never know who might secretly possess away with weaving words. But in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Hughes, we meet a man whose storytelling prowess may be under threat.

Performing this tale are Andy Cresswell, James Cleveland, and Penny Scott Andrews. So let's sit back and allow him to seduce us with his silver tongue, reel us in, and lead us down into the cellar. That night, as with every night for the past two moons, Josson took the carriage into town to delight the inhabitants of the black dog tavern. Previously known around town as the half-foot-fool, when Josson first had entered the tavern with a moleskin notebook clutched in his pudgy hands, the owner of the establishment had only allowed him to read as a lark.

The drunkards and harlots had fallen quiet. awaiting a good laugh. But no one chortled as the poetic prose flowed from his lips. That night, as with every night, when the story was finished, the room had erupted in a chorus of applause. Men had shaken his hand, their eyes glossy with tears of admiration. Women had wept and clung to his cloak. He used to blush in embarrassment at their adoration. He was once just a simple, stable hand and had never known a woman's touch or a man's appreciation. But slowly, he became accustomed to their praise, and now he bathed in it as he drank and shouted out his tales. That night, when he finished reading and returned the notebook to his cloak pocket, the men applauded and the

women rushed forward, all except for one. Josson saw her through the throng, the beauty, the Angel, the golden-haired goddess in the evergreen gown. She sat at the farthest table, leaned back in a chair, running her long pink nails around the mouth of her flagon. Her lips were pursed in rye amusement. She appeared unimpressed. Josson pushed his way past the lustful women and shouting men, and stumbled to her table.

She watched his approach, and any words he might have conjured in defrauded. fence of his work vacated his thoughts. His knees went weak, and he leaned against her table for balance. The mead in her flagon swirled, then settled. Good evening, my lady. Did you enjoy the reading? The woman smirked, then picked up her drink and brought it to her thin, pink lips. She drained it in a single swallow, and Josson watched as it flowed down the smoothness of her throat. There seemed to be light emanating from her very presence. He averted his eyes and kicked himself for being foolish enough to approach someone of such high blood. Her voice flowed like velvet.

It was good, but it was not what I search for. The woman stood. Please, what is it you seek? The woman smiled and placed her face. fingertips upon his forehead. My name is Gessle, and I'm searching for the best tale ever told. I have travelled far to reach this town, because I've heard rumor of you, Jossom. But it appears they were mistaken.

She removed her fingers and took a step towards the door. No, please. He clasped his hands. Let me read for you again tomorrow night. I will bring my very best work. She smiled, and her teeth glowed as white as fresh milk. Perhaps. With that, she seemed to float across the bar room and out the door.

Josson hurried to the bar and had the tavern owner hail the carriage. There was no time for drinking and whoring tonight, and the owner gave him the sack of coins for his work. When the carriage arrived, Josson slipped out the back, gave the driver a handful of coppers and told him to ride fast. The driver uncoiled his whip, and they galloped through town. Josson pressed his face to the carriage window and searched for Gessley, but she was nowhere to be seen. And when they passed onto the dirt road that led to his shack, he leaned back and began to plan. He had a long night of work ahead. It would be hard work indeed,

drawing out a story divine enough to enthrall her. When the carriage arrived, he bid the driver good night and shuffled to the door. There was no lock on his front entrance, for no one would think to rob a place so ramshackle. There were no gutters, and sections of the roof had caved in. Inside, the floorboards had rotten, and rats had chewed holes in his straw bed. Some night, when he lay upon it, he could feel the most of the more. moving within. Josson tossed the sack of coins upon the rickety kitchen table, then found a candle and matches. When the wick was lit, he strode to the wolfskin rug that lay beside the cooking pot.

Kneeling, he yanked it back and revealed the trap door. Six iron locks held it in place. Jocson removed the keys from his pocket and twisted them one after another. Each fell away with a soft thunk, and he lifted the wood slab. Below, stone steps stretched into the blackness. A cool draught tickled the flame, casting flickering shadows as Josson descended. He whistled as he walked. When he emerged in the musty cellar, Josson set the candle on the workbench amongst the hammers, the pliers, the pliers, and the spikes. I told another one tonight. He clutched his notebook in one hand and stepped forward. The candlelight fell upon his back, casting a dark shape upon the wall.

There was a woman there, the most beautiful being to ever grace this land. But she wasn't impressed. I may have another chance, though. I need you to do better this time. The creature hung where Jocson had left it, its arms splaced. out and affixed to the wall by chains. Its wings were pressed against the stone tight enough that they could not flutter. The creature was humanoid in shape, but far too small, the size of a child rather than any grown thing. The evergreen corset it had worn when Jocelyn had found its sleeping

by the lake was torn to a loincloth that obscured its groin. But its skin was still a rich tan, despite being locked in the dark for weeks. As with every night, the previous wounds had healed, leaving no scars or traces of blood. The creature's eyes were pinched shut, and the rag was still in place, threaded through its mouth and tied behind its pointed ears. You can't hold out on me this time.

She's searching for the greatest story ever told. Josson dragged a stool across the day. dirt. He placed it in front of the creature and sat down. I'm in love, and I need something truly perfect for her. Air flowed from the creature's nostrils, but still it averted its eyes. The lids pinched shut so tight that its forehead quivered. Josson reached out and pulled the rag from the creature's mouth. Come now, don't hold out. If you tell me a good story, Maybe I'll take you for a walk. The creature did not budge.

Always the hard way. He stood, went to the bench, and picked up a hammer and a handful of spikes. Don't forget, I gave you the chance to be nice. Josson started with a blow to its claw-like hand. The creature squirmed. He struck harder, cracking the fish. fingers. The creature screamed, but did not open its eyes. For hours, Josson went through his tools, driving spikes through limbs, clipping off claws, tearing off chunks of flesh. Finally, as he sawed

through its wing with a jagged blade, the creature opened its eyes, and black tears flooded down from its golden pupils. Josson dropped the saw, dove for his notebook, and placed it beneath the creature's pointed chin. As the tears struck page, they transformed into floral, looping writing, and as it sobbed on and on, the story spun forward of knights and princesses and high adventure upon distant mountain slopes. Sucking in breath, his arms quivering from their exertion, Josson read the story as it unfolded. Soon he was crying too. for it truly was more beautiful than anything he could ever have fathomed. When the final tear fell and blossomed into the end,

Josson closed his notebook and slid it into the breast pocket of his cloak. Thank you. He shoved the gag back in the creature's mouth and cinched it tight. The golden eyes glared at him, and Josson ruffled its evergreen hair. This is truly your best work yet. He picked up the candle, now only a nub, went back upstairs and fell upon the straw bedding. Outside, birds chirped, and the sun rose, ushering in a new day. As he fell asleep, Josson's mouth perked in a grin.

For those pages held his destiny. When he woke late the next day, He ate a quick meal of venison and cabbage stew, then re-read the story. Again it brought tears to his eyes, and he kissed the parchment. This was his masterpiece. As night descended, purple, then black, he donned his best breeches and shirt. When he heard the drumbeat of hooves upon the dirt path, he checked the locks on the cellar, covered it once more with the wolf pelt, and went outside to meet the

carriage. The tavern was packed that night, as more outsiders piled in to bear witness. Josson made his way through the crowd to the stool in the corner of the room. The crowd fell silent as he climbed to his seat. The notebook felt rough in his sweaty fingers. He cleared his throat and searched the sea of faces, but Gessley was not amongst them. His heart throbbed and his mouth ran dry. The crowd began to murmur, then someone shouted out, Get on with it already! There was a chorus of jeering support. Josson sighed, his hopes as beaten as a hunting trail, and began to read. The story followed a young night as he fled a bloodied battlefield in search of his love, Susanna. Across scorched fields and burning cliffs, he searched

for her. Fighting dragons and demons and trolls, he searched for her. Until finally, he returned home alone, to find her ghost waiting for him. As the story ended, there was not a dry eye in the tavern. And when he read the final words, the crowd cheered and pounded their hands together so hard, pain flashed across their faces. They showered him with coin, and women reached the for him, yearning to drown him in kisses and perfume. Men bowed and shouted for an encore, but Josson stuffed the story into his cloak pocket and pushed his way through the throng. His head cast down. Before he could reach the door, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and her velvet voice flowed into his ear.

That was true beauty. Josson turned, and there she was, more heavenly than before, donned in a white gown fit for a priest's blessing of matrimony. Gessley leaned down and brushed her lips across his ear. The carriage rode fast through the night. Gessley stroked her hand through his hair, and Jocelyn felt the point of her nails brush his neck. He studied her and stammered for words. I did not think he had come. Gessley leaned back upon the wooden bench and smiled as she looked out at the passing forest.

How could I have forsaken such potential? You had me last night, but I had to be sure it was not a flute. You truly are the most talented storyteller I've ever bore witness to. Josson bowed his head. How can one be so kind, yet so beautiful? Gessley stroked his neck. Only for you. They arrived at the shack, and Josson gave the carriage driver a silver coin.

He thudded down upon the muck and offered his hand to Gessley. She took it, and he led her down the steps and in through the door. Josson rummaged around the shack, lighting every candle he could find, until the room was as luminous as a shrine. Gessley studied the shabby decor. He is not much. Josson produced a bottle of meed and two clay cups. But perhaps once the printing press arrives, I made by a home in town.

I think you should. Gessley eyed the wolfskin rug. For the two of us and whomever we may create. Oh, you... Yes, whatever you desire. And this? Gessley outstretched her hands. Is where you pen your stories?

Yes, yes. Josson strained, twisting the bottle. Finally, the cork came free. He poured the two mugs. This is where I write my stories. Gessley strode forward, picked up one of the mugs, and downed it. Then I need to see what more you can do.

She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him backwards. Stumbling, Josson landed upon the straw bedding. Within, the rats squeaked. Before him, Gessley brought her long nails to the straps of her dress. Josson gulped, clutched his chest, and felt the notebook in his pocket. Gessley pulled the straps to the side, and the dress fell away. Thin, porous wings sprouted from her back, filling the room. Her face elongated and contorted, her ears growing points, her pupils glowed with golden fire,

and when she spoke, her voice was a booming thunder clap that made the mausoleum of candles flicker. "'Where is my daughter?' Josson screamed and pushed further onto the bedding. One long, clawed arm shot out, grabbed him by the neck and lifted him into the air. His stubby legs quivered as her grip closed around his windpipe. Gessley's mouth gaped wide, exposing pointed teeth. "'Tell me!' Josson's vision swirled with the white flickering candlelight.

He raised one pudgy hand and pointed at the rug. Gessley hurled him at the pelt and he landed hard enough to crack the floorboards. He tried to crawl away, pulling the pelt with him and exposing the locks when a clawed foot dug into his back and pinned him to the ground. Open it! Josson struggled beneath the grip, slunk a hand into his pocket, and produced the keys. He unlocked them one by one. When the last metal lock fell aside, Gessley reached down, wrenched the trapdoor open, and tossed him into the black.

Jocen fell hard, struck his head upon the stone, and descended into a pit of unconsciousness. When he woke, his visions spun. He attempted to move his hands, but they were held tight by metal braces. Josson blinked through the pain and caught a single glimpse of light pouring down from the opening in the floor. In the beam, he saw two silhouettes hovering on fluttering wings. Then the trapdoor fell. The lock click.

and his world was consumed by black. The end. We're going to get out of the cellar and take a quick break. It's your line. No, Atticus, you're supposed to say, Hey, boss, is there anything I can help you with today? I'll be right there. Good gracious, man.

Your chest has been ripped open. Why didn't you tell me you were injured? I'm fine. Just let me get my script. You're not fine. You need help. Nonsense. I'm professional. I can do this. Atticus, come on. You have to look after yourself. Stop acting so tough and get help.

Hey, boss? Is there anything? Stop it. Look, man, there is nothing wrong with reaching out for help when you need it. Too many of us try to tough it out and struggle with life's problems instead of turning to professionals. Like the professional therapists had better help. And they help me? Well, obviously not with a gaping chest wound, but they would be able to help you talk through the emotional issues which make you ignore such a serious injury.

I'm feeling woozy. Of course you are. Look, better help is the kind of affordable and accessible help so many of us need. Not for a serious crisis and not for some self-help stuff, but when you need help, you can reach out from anywhere at any time and connect with a trained therapist who is matched for your specific needs. Better get help?

That's right. Better get the help you need with better help. They want you to start living a happier life today. There, that's good. You rest for now. But for everyone else, you can visit betterhelp.com slash no sleep. That's better, H-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. This podcast is sponsored by BetterHelp, and No Sleep listeners get 10% off their first month at betterhelp.com slash no sleep.

Right, Atticus? Oh, well, it's time to get back to the horror and discover what we do in the shadows. Imagine a world in which you're not complete until a partner has been chosen for you. Incorporial, intangible, untouchable, watched over by my mother. others and courted by suitors, but merely a shadow of your eventual self. And in this tale, shared with us by author Faith Pierce, we're forced to confront the fear of being incomplete for all time and the possibility of a fate worse than that.

Performing this tale are Sarah Thomas, Nicole Doolin, Matthew Bradford, Kyle Akers, and Peter Lewis. So let's hope you find a match. Let's hope you can become complete. Otherwise, you'll find yourself, bodiless. I was 12 when I saw it for the first time. It was lying motionless, covered with a blanket up to its shoulders. Do you see that, Grace?

Mother Jessica spoke with pride in her voice. That's your body, your gift. When you find your match, of course. We were in a long hospital room with narrow beds lining the walls, curtains drawn tight around each bed except mine. Mother Jessica had glanced around to make sure we were alone, sharp eyes sweeping the room for the tenth time since we'd entered, before she finally moved aside the curtains of the bed that held my body.

I didn't know what to say. I offered a non-committal half-smile up at her. Would you like me to uncover it? Her expression was strange and unreadable as she looked down at me. Not discouraging, yet not inviting either. No. I shook my head as the blush crept up my neck. She smiled then, like I had passed some invisible test,

and began closing the curtains around my body. I understand. She turned to walk back down the corridor aisle, her tapping heels echoing through the room while my feet moved silently beside her. It's a bit embarrassing, isn't it? Don't worry. It won't be too bad once you have it.

When you're with the right person. I wondered what Mother Jessica's right person had been like. If he had been kind, if he made her laugh, if she missed him. He was dead now, of course. but it was hard to imagine her ever having been around a man, touching him, being touched by him. I'd only ever seen her with girls like me. Her arms held so close to her own solid body, it seemed impossible that even air could fit

into the space between them. I was 16 when the courting started. Groups of boys, laughing and putting hands over the sides of their mouths to whisper to each other as they were led through the school and seated and rose before us, the Glimmer Girls. They brought noise into our quiet world, rustling clothes and thudding boots, slamming doors and scraping chairs. But they would all fall silent and subdued when the mothers caught their eyes and glowered. All except one, my first year. He would return the mother's meaningful gazes, and he would smile, unabashed and sincere.

year, until they had no choice but to offer a reluctant, tolerant twist of their lips in return. This one was nothing special to look at, with freckles and a large nose, but it was that smile and the joy that radiated from him that made me love him. And so I waited, tolerating conversations with the other boys who showed up each year, and patiently watching as the other girls were spoken for and left the school in troves. I was 19 when my freckled, big-nosed boy asked for another girl's hand. I stayed in the dorm room for a month after that,

refusing to meet with other boys, too broken-hearted to think of the consequences. Another glimmer girl tried to comfort me, told me the man who eventually chose me would be the right one because he chose me and that my freckled boy couldn't have been because he didn't. I was 20 when they said it was time to leave the school. It's not that there isn't still time for you.

We will continue to arrange meetings with young men who might be laid in making their choices, or maybe a widower. But we don't keep young ladies at the school after 20. There's nothing else for us to teach you, you see. And we have to focus on the younger girls. Where will I go? There were stories about where unmatched shadow women went.

The nicer stories had a special school, sad and lonely, but safe. Others claimed we would be put out on the street to fend for ourselves, or kept as examples for younger girls to mock, or sold to collections for lewd men to leer at in dark mansions. I thought up another possibility on my own. One I didn't mention to the other girls because I was too afraid it was true, and it crawled around my mind at night when there were no laughing girls or kindly mothers to make it ridiculous. I thought I would be sent nowhere at all.

Maybe the mothers had a way of disposing of their unsuccessful students. My soul would be erased from existence, my empty body tossed into a hole. As if my thoughts were as transparent as my own. shadowy form, she said. None of the stories are true. We have lovely homes for unmatched young ladies. You'll still have a mother to help take care of you and keep you safe. There won't be so many of us, but you'll be more independent.

Doesn't that sound nice? I tried to keep my lip from trembling. I had never been outside the school grounds. That was supposed to happen only. Only when I had been given my body. It wasn't something to be faced as a helpless shadow. I knew there was no use, but I couldn't keep from blurting out. Why can't I just have it?

Why can't I have it for myself? Mother Jessica looked abashed. That is absolutely out of the question. Not to go out into the world without a mate, but I could stay here and learn to be a mother like you. I could be useful. She was shaking her head vehemently. Ladies may not have bodies for themselves.

They are a gift for your mate. You do not have a mate, and therefore have no one to give it to. Frankly, knowing you harbor ideas like this, I'm beginning to understand why. I'm not trying to be improper, but... That is enough. I will not hear another word about this. Silence fell, and she waited, making sure I would not continue arguing. I didn't.

I stared at my hands, tears running down my face. Now, you are leaving for your new home tomorrow. As I said, we will continue trying to help you find a mate. If you behave and are agreeable, and trust the process, I'm sure you'll earn your body in no time. The house was a two-room cottage outside of town, tucked away from the rest of the world with a high fence. One room for the shadow women and one room for our bodies, laid out in bunk beds, no longer kept in sacred shrines. There were more than a dozen of us staying there, with one harried mother Adelaide to care for our bodies,

to keep us supplied and entertained as well as she could, and to chaperone when the not-so-young men. men came to visit. These men had none of the bravado and good humor of the boys who visited our school. These men were sad, often angry about being sent to the house of cast-offs for being too old or too poor or undesirable in other ways. They came into the house with an air of having been wronged, full of entitled righteousness. I had no patience to match their ill-temper with agreeableness, and so the dozen shadows rotated while I remained to haunt the sad little house. I was 23 the first time I saw a solid person that wasn't either a mother or someone accompanied by a mother. I was alone in the yard.

I had heard groups of children in the houses next door many times before then, but I had never seen them. Now, the first time I stayed behind, when Mother Adelaide and the others went to the monthly service held especially for shadow women, it appeared like it had been waiting for an opportunity. It peered at me over the high fence as I strolled through the yard, and I started. I wanted to demand, who are you? But my voice caught in my throat. I gaped at the small face. It belonged to a boy of 12 or 13, and he grinned at me. You're a nothing, girl. It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer. I heard other voices begin chattering excitedly through the fence

and gathered that they had manufactured some kind of platform to see over the fence. He kept grinning. We saw those others leave. You all by yourself, lady? I glanced back toward the house, wanting to lie, but knowing he wouldn't believe me. I shrugged, before I knew it. He had been given a boost, hopped over the fence, and stood in front of me. I gave a strangled cry and leapt back, but he was followed by three other boys in quick succession.

They formed a semicircle before me. I had never talked to boys like these. I had never talked to any solid human at all without a mother around to supervise. Two of the boys were taller and looked a little older than the first boy, the leader. One was smaller. They stood staring at me, brazen. To my shock, the leader stuck his hand out and ran it through my waist, something no one had ever done to me my entire life.

I gasped and stumbled back as he chuckled. Awesome. They can't hurt you. I reminded myself. That's the whole reason you don't have your body. My stomach flipped at his neck. words. So, uh, is it true?

He inched closer to the house. Is your real body in there? No. I said, too fast. He gave a wicked grin and sprinted toward the house, his companions close behind, hooting and laughing as they went. No! I followed them, but was helpless to shut the door or lock them out even if they hadn't

gotten there first. I found them in the room with the bodies, staring around an open wonder. You have to leave. You have to. Someone will come back. You're not supposed to be here. You can't do this. It's against the rules.

I was praying that they wouldn't notice my body, that looking at the dozen empty women lying there would be enough to satiate whatever mad desire brought them here, and they would leave. But the leader followed my gaze and lighted on my body, covered to the shoulders, and his lips curled. This you, huh? He jabbed his finger into its shoulder. I cried out as though in pain, though I couldn't feel it.

I had never seen anyone touch my body, ever. Only the mothers were allowed, and they did it in privacy, with the utmost respect we were told. He laughed at my reaction, and the other three clustered around, mischievous energy coursing through them as they bounced on the balls of their feet and twisted their fingers in anticipation. One of them pinched its cheeks and pushed them up into a ghoulish smile. Look, she's happy to finally get a little attention.

Another ran his fingers through its hair, then pulled it and watched my face for a reaction. He must have liked what he saw there, my frozen horror, because he yanked it again and laughed. Then, in one sudden motion, the first boy ripped the cover from the body. I screamed and covered my face. How could the first time I saw it be like this? But I was drowned out by their laughs and howls of amusement. None of the rules designed to protect me were working. And I knew then that I must have brought it on myself.

My stubborn refusal to follow tradition and find a mate, my foolish whim to stay home alone that day. Mother Adelaide had given me a disapproving frown when I asked if it was allowed, but shrugged her shoulders and left without me. Through the humiliation and terror, a harsh voice bit at me. You deserve this. The children's hands began to travel over the inert form, squeezing and prodding, turning it over on its side and exploring every crease.

One of them pulled a marker out of his pocket and began drawing obscene scrawls over the stomach, arms, and breasts as I wept. What the hell is going on here? A man's booming voice cut through the room and we all jumped, the marker clattering to the ground. I turned and saw through my wretched tears a man, tall and bearded, maybe 40. The hell are you kids doing? You were just messing around.

Shame on you. Get the hell out of here now. Be glad I'm not calling the authorities. The boy fled, leaving us alone in the room. The man standing awkwardly in the doorway while I collapse. Falling to my trembling knees and trying to comfort myself that at least it was over. He waited several moments before asking. Are you all right, miss?

I rose shakily and tried to compose myself. I think so. He stood watching me in awkward silence, and I remembered myself enough to whisper, Thank you. He nodded. I always thought it was a shame. How they treat women like you?

Left with so little protection? No way to keep a body safe. I couldn't find the words to answer, and my throat was thick, my shadow body shaking. So I only nodded. I couldn't stop staring at the exposed flesh, streaked in marker and dirt from the boy's hands, and I wanted to beg for him to cover it up.

But I was too embarrassed, as though acknowledging the naked body would make it real. Then I lifted my eyes to his face and decided it would be better, much better, if he would just leave. Please leave Because his eyes had begun Darding from my shadowy figure

To the solid body beside him And in those eyes was something Hungry Our mother will be home soon I said And my voice was false and desperate Such a shame He spoke as though he hadn't heard me.

His voice had shifted, a new note of falseness and greed. These poor bodies just left here. No use at all. His eyes lifted to meet mine then, and I couldn't speak. Could only stare back at him in terror. I could help you. I could keep it safe. He moved toward my body and didn't seem to expect a response, didn't seem to care what the response would be.

I watched in stunned silence as he carefully wrapped it and lifted it into his arms. It would be far safer with me than here with so many other bodies to care for. He moved slowly toward the door with my body, and now he was watching me, waiting to see if I would protect. test, and my mind screamed for something to say that could make him stop. But the objection rose to my lips and died there. It wasn't really mine to fight for, had never been mine, and now would never be mine. And maybe he was right. Maybe this was another way of being chosen, a terrible way that nobody had bothered to warn me about.

The real story of what happens to. to unmatched shadow women. The neck rested securely in the crook of his arm, and I watched the head lulled back over his elbow, hair swaying down his side. He turned, and the body's beat brushed the doorframe with a harsh knock, concrete and substantial. They had never worn shoes.

I had never held a pair in my hands and bent over to tuck feet into them, felt the tight security of limbs encased in tangible warmth. My eyes stayed glued to those dangling feet as he left. I wondered if he would put shoes on them. As the fires wane and embers glow, our stories cease as shadows grow. The night is long and darkness deep.

Remain with us. Embrace no sleep. The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media. 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 past 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 under our spell. This audio production is copyright 2021 and 20,000, and 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.