The NoSleep Podcast - S17 Ep13: NoSleep Podcast S17E13

Episode Date: February 27, 2022

It’s Episode 13 of Season 17. Our spells weave their way into the darkest places. “The Unholy Interpreter” written by Manen Lyset (Story starts around 00:06:30) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Nikolle Doolin, Evelyn – Sarah Ruth Thomas, Tyler – Graham Rowat, Lisa – Mary Murphy, Translator – David Ault, Glyconian Snake Demon – Elie Hirschman “The Other Thing” written by Samantha Dragon (Story starts around 00:27:10) Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Jessica McEvoy, Mee-Maw – Erin Lillis, The Other Thing – Danielle McRae “The Black Library” written by CM Scandreth (Story starts around 00:50:10) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Narrator – Penny Scott-Andrews, Librarian – Jake Benson, Voice – David Cummings “The Grove” written by Evan Dicken (Story starts around 01:20:35) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Phil Michalski Cast: Mel – Kristen DiMercurio, Molly – Linsay Rousseau “The Nightmare Room” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 01:43:40) TRIGGER WARNING! Produced by: Jesse Cornett Cast: John – Atticus Jackson, Sam – Jeff Clement, Emily – Nichole Goodnight, Man in Wheelchair – Matthew Bradford This episode is sponsored by: Truebill – Truebill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don’t need, want, or simply forgot about. Start cancelling today at Truebill.com/nosleep. It could save you THOUSANDS a year. ZocDoc – Zocdoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient-reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Go to Zocdoc.com/nosleep and download the Zocdoc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Click here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast team Click here to learn more about CM Scandreth Click here to learn more about LP Hernandez Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone “The Unholy Interpreter” illustration courtesy of Kelly Turnbull Audio 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

Sleepless horror is mere moments away. We'd never forget to bring you a new episode. I wish I could remember things as easily as that. What do you mean, Sarah? I forgot I signed up for a subscription service a year ago. I no longer use it, but I didn't remember to cancel it in time. And I'll bet the company didn't remind you of the subscription renewal. You got it.

Ding! A charge added to my credit card. Such a hassle. That's why I recommend True Bill to everyone. True Bill is the new app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you don't need, want, or simply forgot about. Companies make subscriptions hard to cancel, so True Bill makes it incredibly simple. Just link your accounts, and True Bill will cancel your unwanted subscriptions in one tap. I sure could use some help with my finances.

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I'm going to do that right now before I forget about another thing. That's great. You do that, because the horror is starting right now. M'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 tones 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. As you may know, last week I received a note from disgraced former bookstore proprietor, Joanna. 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, march on, unlucky plus one. You understand. Now I've been trying to decipher it, and I think I've worked out that some of it at least points to the announcement I have to share with you today. I'm extremely proud to announce that the No Sleep podcast has teamed up with author Bonnie Quinn to adapt her How to Survive Camping Series to audio. The result is an incredible, terrifying 10-part audio drama called Goat Valley Campgrounds. When can you hear it?

Well, next week, of course. Season 17, episode 14, will include the release of the first episode of Goat Valley Campgrounds, with the following nine episodes releasing each week attached to the end of the show. Season past 17 holders will receive a separate file for Goat Valley Campgrounds in their feed. Goat Valley Campgrounds follows Kate. a young woman who has taken over managing the camp from her parents. She must deal with the unusual hassles of misbehaving campers and keeping the place running, but on top of all that is the inconvenient fact that the campgrounds are home to several sinister supernatural

entities who make Goat Valley campgrounds a place which requires quite a few rules in order for campers and staff to survive. We're tremendously excited for you to begin listening next week, and ourselves and Bonnie hope you have, well, a horrifying camping trip. And speaking of horrifying trips, it's time for this week's horror to commence. In our first tale, we meet a group of young scamps up to that typical spot of youthful trouble that we all got involved in. That's right, summoning a demon. But in this tale, shared with us by author Manon Lyset, we discover,

that the depictions we see in movies have had something lost in translation. Performing this tale are Nicole Doolin, Sarah Thomas, Graham Rowett, Mary Murphy, David Alt, and Ellie Hirschman. So don't worry if you don't understand it first. We'll make things clear for you with the help of the unholy interpreter. The altar was set. The candles were lit, and the runes were scrawled in their proper spaces in the goat's blood pentagram. Lisa giggled as she wrapped her arms around Tyler's left bicep, squeezing it firmly. Do you really think it's going to work? Tyler's sister Evelyn sat cross-legged on the other side of the pentagram,

staring at the lovers with thinly veiled disgust. She mumbled something to herself, and when asked to speak up, regained her pleasant facade. The smile was insincere. Any person with a shred of intelligence could tell, but not Lisa. Not sweet, pure, gullible Lisa. Of course, it's going to work. I followed the instructions word for word. Tyler grinned Riley.

What are you two going to wish for? Eternal youth. Evelyn snorted at this. Pella. Power. Her eyes traced the lines of the pentagram one more time. to make sure she hadn't made a mistake. You?

Tyler kept a hand to his chin pensively, as though trying to come up with an answer. He wasn't fooling Evelyn. She knew he'd picked his prize months ago, and this was all just part of their act. Money. Lots and lots of money. He winked to Lisa.

So I can spoil my girl here. Lisa blushed and leaned her head against his shoulder. Aw, you're the best. Evelyn finished her quality assurance check and looked at the time. Is everybody ready? The witching hour is about to start. Tyler nodded. Let's get this show on the road. This is so exciting.

Evelyn looked down to the ancient leather-bound book in her lap. She turned the page to the ritual incantation. It had been written in Latin, and she'd spent days researching and learning the proper pronunciation of each and every word to guarantee success. She held out her hands on either side of her, waiting for the two to take them. One by one, they chained their hands together, and she began to chant. Vinnie inquit antiquis unam.

The candles at the far back of the warehouse began to flicker from an unseen breeze. Axype sacrificeum. The bowing of the flames drew nearer, like a wave in the ocean. Dona nobis Vota! The flames within the pentagram grew larger and hotter. She repeated the chant over and over again. And with every cycle, the flames within the pentagram grew stronger. She knew she'd done it once the flames turned blue.

Now! The three broke their grip, stood up, and threw their arms into the air. Dona nobis water! The fires were now so big and so bright. They made the still wet blood forming the pentagram appear to glow a bluish hue. The ground began to rumble as a shrill shriek cut through the air.

No, it wasn't an optical illusion. The pentagram really was glowing. Months of preparation were paying off. Evelyn's heart raced, as she watched the ground within the circle of bright lines, seemed to disappear into an endless abyss of darkness. Within the pure black chasm, she spotted a coiled shape begin to move, begin to climb. Lisa let out a terrified whimper. All Evelyn's efforts would have been in vain if Lisa ran.

She had to stay no matter what. It's okay. This is all part of the plan. The shape in the darkness drew nearer. Its bright blue slidded eyes opening as it approached the surface. Its head rammed into the pentagram from beneath and crashed through the ground with ease. The snake-like creature uncoiled and stretched, forcing the teens to slowly back away to give it more room. Good thing they'd change locations at the 11th hour, thought Evelyn.

Had they performed the ritual in their basement as originally planned, it would have torn the roof off. The creature was magnificent. A tall, powerful, monstrous serpent, with light blue and gray scales and clusters of matted blonde hair hanging from its head. The circumference of its body was easily that of a manhole, and its head was as large as a car. A tarry substance that smelled faintly of sulfur, drizzled from and clung to it, like delicious glaze on a donut. It was everything Evelyn could have hoped for. She checked on the pentagram.

The main circle remained on the floor, but the criss-crossing lines stretched up and clung to the creature in like chains. Good. They were a fail-safe to keep the demon from entering the real world. Evelyn became briefly aware of an obnoxious sound previously drowned out by the magnificence of the monster. Lisa, sweet, innocent, stupid Lisa was screaming her poor little head off. Come down! Literally what we said we were going to summon?

The serpent reared back and opened its maw wide, eyes locked on Lisa. Its voice sounded like an echo. with the source being deep within the pentagram. Evelyn pushed Lisa aside. We've summoned you here to grant our wishes in exchange for a humble sacrifice. The snake hissed. Evelyn spread her arms wide.

Grant us the powers we seek, O exalted one! The snake looked at Tyler. Please? Its bright blue eyes traveled from one to the other. Evelyn looked to Tyler, then back to the monster. She cleared her throat and spoke louder. Bent us, the powers we seek!

Is this your first demon-sumning ritual? The voice came from behind them. It was deep, soft, and undeniably attractive. The three turned and found a man wearing a carnival ringmaster's outfit, minus the top hat, sprawled out lazily on the bottom, leading to a graded storage area along the southern wall. He had dark brown hair combed immaculately to the side,

an unshaved face, and black. Was it face paint? Forming circles around his eyes and dripping down his cheeks. He was handsome, with a strong jawline and pronounced chin, and his smile was proportionately wide, with a hint of devious glee hiding in its corner. There was a black quartz-shaped earring dangling from his left ear, the purpose of which was likely not purely aesthetic.

He lifted a white-gloved hand. Gooden Tag. You're first, I take it. Evelyn looked to Tyler in confusion. He seemed as lost as she was. Uh, yeah? Why? The circus stranger shifted into a seated position. You did a really good job. He paused and looked around the room.

Maybe you went a bit overboard with the candles, bit of a fire hazard, but otherwise a damn fine job. He pushed himself to his feet, brought a hand to his forehead, and peered at the serpent. Goodness gracious, is that a Glyconian snake demon? Don't see many of those around anymore. Frazzled. Tyler stomped closer to the stranger. Who the hell are you? The man laughed and held his hands out defensively.

Oh, sorry, how rude of me. I'm your translator. Tyler's eyebrows came together. Translator? He smiled. Demon translator, to be precise. Evelyn thumbed through the ritual book. There was no mention of a translator.

I... She trailed off. squinting. She'd done everything that was asked, right down to the tiniest detail. How did this happen? I don't understand. We were only supposed to summon him. She pointed to the serpent. Tell me. The stranger examined his right hand as they're checking his nails. Do any of you speak Glyconian? No. Lise's eyes were locked on the snake. Her mouth, see you. field shut in shock. Clearly, she hadn't expected any of this to work. It was just supposed to be a little game to pass the time, like playing Ouija, innocent and safe. The stranger bowed his head.

Hmm. Well, that's why I'm here. Seems good old Glyco here requested my services as an interpreter. He paused, and as though reading their minds added, Don't worry, I don't require payment directly from you. I get a cut of the profit. That's how it works. Think of me like a mortgage broker. He walked over to the beast, stood directly under it, and wiggled his arms. Bonjour.

Black liquid oozed out of the monster's maw, falling on the stranger's head. It made a sizzling sound as it ate away a layer of hair. hair and flesh. The wound immediately closed in on itself and healed. The man took a casual step aside to avoid another dollop. The translator spun on his heels. He asks what you summoned him for. Things were not going according to plan, but Evelyn tried to regain her level-headedness. Oh, uh, she pointed to Lisa. She wants eternal youth. I want unlimited power, and And Tyler here wants riches. Quaint.

Bellissimo. Let me tell our friend. He tilted his head back to look up at the serpent, who was waiting patiently. The serpent's eyes narrowed. He says he needs a virgin in exchange. Evelyn smirked. Yes, I'm aware. She nudged Tyler, who stumbled over to Lisa.

He grabbed her from behind and held her tightly. She broke out of her stupor and looked at him with a mix of shock and outrage. Sorry. Did you really think I'd be interested in a basic bitch like you? You have no idea how excruciating it's been to sit through two whole months of dates, listening to you drone on and on about your lattes and your adventures with your bestest friends and Bible camp. Lisa struggled to break free, but Tyler was too strong. What are you talking about? You love my stories.

Oh, trust me, honey. He doesn't. Do you three need a bit of time more? Evelyn shook her head. No, no. She's our virgin sacrifice. She winked at Lisa. You said you wanted eternal you, didn't you? Look at it this way. You're getting what you wanted.

Now you'll never grow old. Lisa whipped her head back and glared at Tyler. Did you seriously date me just so you could sacrifice me to a freaking snake god? Tyler looked the slightest bit guilty. Kind of, yeah. What about all those times I had to listen to you whine about your stupid sister? And how she's weirdly controlling of you and always gives you bedroom eyes. Evelyn looked up.

What? Tyler swallowed nervously. That was just to gain your trust, yeah. How could you do that to me? I'm not even a virgin. Evelyn's face paled. Wait, you aren't? No.

But you're a Christian. Lisa wiggled harder. It doesn't mean I've never backed. Tyler. God damn, Tyler. He couldn't be trusted to keep it in his pants for two months. Just two months? Evelyn glared at him with rage in her eyes.

Tyler, you didn't! Well, this is awkward. Tyler raised his arms defensively, but in doing sir, released Lisa. Her ran to the door only to find it locked. We have it, I swear. You said she wasn't putting out. She didn't.

I swear I didn't defile... The translator said, scratched his chin. Oh my. It seems you've upset our friend here. He says the sacrifice must be made, otherwise he'll eat all three of you. I would really recommend you hurry up

and pick someone else to sacrifice. Lisa was screaming wildly, pulling and turning the door handle in desperation. Tyler walked over to Evelyn and then pushed her towards the snake. Take her! Evelyn stumbled to a stop, inches from the serpent's body.

Tyler! The serpent lowered its head to appraise the sacrifice. It flared its nostrils, taking a deep inhale that pulled her clothes and hair towards it. It let out a shriek and then whipped its head towards Tyler. You know, I speak every language, every single one, even body language. The translator motioned vaguely towards the snake. I'd say he's quite displeased at the moment. The serpent bore its fangs.

Tyler quivered in fear. I don't understand. Why won't he take my sister? Because I'm not a virgin, you idiot! What? Since when? Since we decided we were going to summon a virgin-eating snake demon, and I thought, hmm, contingency plan.

Maybe I want to avoid getting mistaken as the sacrifice. Why didn't you tell me? Didn't see the point. Didn't think you tried to feed me to it. Tuscana. Yeah, yeah, I believe he is. Sorry, I mean, um, Tuscana, Tana, Husha. We're all going to die.

Tyler looked at his sister in desperation. His eyes were wide, bulging, and filled with horror. You don't understand, Evelyn? I'm... The Glytheon. The Glyconian snake demons stuck quickly and accurately, closing its maw on Tyler's head. Its sulfuric saliva dissolved the muscles and ligaments, allowing it to sever the head from the body. It pulled back and swallowed, leaving the body to fall to the ground and convulse, shooting blood all over the room.

If I may, I believe your brother's final words were going to be a virgin. Lisa had abandoned her escape attempt. She slid down the wall and stared in shock at the still-rithing body of her ex-boyfriend. Evelyn's jaw dropped. Her brother. Her dearest, albeit asshole brother, gone in an instant. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to be reduced to a quivering mass of gore,

even if he'd tried to do the same to her. or your wishes have been granted his demon ship shall return to the underworld until such a time as he is called again the ground shook as the snake slowly retracted into the summoning circle just as he was about to disappear within he licked Tyler's neck for one last taste

and then retreated the rest of the way the pentagram went flat and dull and the candles blew out all at once. The warehouse was pitch black, but all had not gone quiet. Lisa was whimpering somewhere in the dark, and a strange sloshing and munching sound was coming from near Evelyn. She pawed through her pockets in search of her phone.

Light, they need to see it. As she found her phone inflicted on, she found herself regretting it. The translator was on all fours, hands in Tyler's chest, entrials hanging from his mouth. The lower half of his face was covered in blood, with touches of it all the way on his chin, like a kid messily eating a rack of ribs. He smiled with his eyes and gave her a light little nod. Just taking my cut.

When you're young and you don't get along with your parents, it can suck. That's where having grandparents can come in. They're like parents, but wiser, chiller, and old enough to have circled through uncool and back to cool again. But in this tale, shared with us by author Sementtha Dragon, even the best of times with elders can be tainted by darkness. Performing this tale are Jessica McAvoy, Aaron Lillis, and Danielle McCrae. So let's hang out with Me Maugh and Pei-Maw.

Pop Pop, almost everything is great there. Almost everything, apart from the other thing. I loved my grandparents' house, but I hated their basement. I had a troubled relationship with my parents, for reasons that honestly felt more my fault than theirs. So they decided I'd spend every weekend at my me-ma and pop-pop's house. It gave my parents and I a break from each other.

Other kids may have taken. the weekly separation from their parents as an abandonment, but I didn't mind in the least. I worshipped my me-ma and pop-pop, and in turn they let me get away with murder. I would spend every moment with them eating junk food and goofing around. On Fridays we'd have breakfast for dinner. On Saturdays, we'd do a movie night. And on Sundays, we'd play made-up games until my parents came to get me. They let me watch cartoons.

They never asked me to do chores. and they let me sleep in their room every night, even though my parents had started to say I was too old. Their house was paradise. I considered asking my parents to let me live there full time, but the basement changed my mind. I hated the basement. It smelled like old clothes,

that musty, dusty, stale smell that I have always associated with a basement. The kind of smell that accumulates in the, deepest, dampest part of the house, because it has nowhere else to go. Their basement was also unreasonably dark. The only sunlight came from two small glass windows, no bigger than a shoebox each. They faced the back of the house by the driveway. The glass itself had yellowed with age and was layered in dust. One of the windows was covered by a big bush that Mima had planted years before, so even during the middle of the day, barely any natural light filtered in.

On top of that, the basement only had one light fixture, a bare bulb that I could turn on by pulling a silver chain. The chain was fairly short, and I had to stand on my tippy toes to reach up for it. It dangled from the ceiling at the bottom of the stairs and was surrounded by cobwebs. I hated reaching up into the spider webs more than almost anything. I hated the basement, the cobwebs, the smell, and the other thing, so much that the only time I ever really fought with Mimau or Pop Pop was when they needed me to go down those stairs.

There was only one reason to go down there at all, a massive chest freezer where Mimau kept her meat. They'd buy half a cow, pig, or deer from the farmer next door and keep all the meat in the downstairs freezer. My little brain thought the image of half a cow. a cow locked in the freezer was plenty creepy on its own, let alone mixed with the moldy old basement. Then there was the other thing that was down there. On the last day I ever visited my grandparents, we had a fight about the basement. Meemal was making some kind of soup. She was

chopping vegetables and the kitchen smelled of sauteed garlic and onions. Zerbeer, go down to the chest freezer and get me some mutton. It'll be in a white plastic package with red riding. I planted my little eight-year-old feet and started to tear up in preparation for a fight. But me-ma, I was thinking of making chocolate chip cookies for dessert tonight. And maybe I'll let you eat the leftover dough if you're a good little princess. But I don't... Good little princesses remember that me-maws have back.

bad knees and old backs. They don't argue with their me-mas. She had me there. She knew that chocolate was a prime motivator, and cookie dough was my favorite. Fine. I pouted for a dramatic effect so that she'd understand how this was such a trial for me.

I continued to flounce dramatically across the kitchen to the basement door, but stopped once I was directly in front of it. I hesitated. then turned around to look over my shoulder at my me-maw. That glance is my last pleasant image of her. I remember her gray hair was tied up in a messy bun. Stray hairs had tickled at her face and fallen in front of her sharp green eyes.

She leaned over the stove. She wore a loose t-shirt and jeans. The kitchen smelled of warm garlic and onions. The sight of her looking safe and warm gave me the last bit of quayette. courage I needed. I opened the basement door and looked down into the dismal dark. The stairs were old, wooden, and creepy. I could just make out the bottom step. The other thing was nowhere in sight. I took a deep breath and began to sneak down the stairs. I kept my hands at my sides, careful not to touch the wooden railing. My kid brain and too many movies told me if I touched the

railing that something, maybe the other thing, would grab my hand. I stared at the silver string of the pull chain as it got closer. By the time I could reach the pull chain, it was nearly pitch black. I swallowed, reached up on my tippy toes into the sticky, itchy cobwebs, and yanked the chain down. Relief flooded through me as the light came on with a pleasant click. I glanced around and saw cobwebs. concrete, and nothing else. I stepped off the bottom step and into the basement proper.

The freezer was up against the wall on the left-hand side, a little behind the stairs. I spun around slowly, peering into the shadows of the basement, looking at the chair in the corner that the other thing sat on sometimes, at the opposite corner, where it laid down during other times, the washer and dryer. It wasn't there. Confused, I turned to get behind the stairs to where the freezer was. As I came around the steps, I froze mid-step.

The other thing was there. It was standing in front of the freezer. I had always tried not to look at it. Not directly, but in that moment of shock, I couldn't help it. It was in the glow of the light bulb, a black void in the shape of a human. The shape of a human a giant had grabbed with both hands and twisted. The right arm was bent backward at the elbow. Its back was turned slightly to the left.

Its head was constantly at a questioning angle, tilted to the side as if it was trying to understand something. It had no face. I don't know how much time passed before I managed to force my eyes away. I stared down at my feet. My heart was slamming and, to my sternum, beating so fast I could hear it in my ears and feel it in my fingers. I had to go past it to get the meat for Mimau's stew. I couldn't go upstairs without that meat. I had a good thing

going with my grandparents, and I didn't want to have to go home to my parents early. I didn't want to lose out on my weekends away from the fights I had with my parents. I was stuck. I had seen it before, out of the corner of my eye, of course. I always pretended it wasn't there, like my mom and the doctors told me to. I was supposed to ignore all of my imaginary friends, which was what my parents and I always fought about. I had walked past the thing once or twice before, as it laid in the corner of the basement or sat on the broken dining room chair. I would always avoid looking at it and stare at my feet instead. Though even when I wasn't looking at it,

I could still feel that it was there. I would try to convince myself it was just a weird shadow cast by the bare light bulb. I stood still, trying to figure out what to do, but it didn't move. So I decided to act like those other times,

even though it was closer. Much closer. I bawled my hands into fists and took a shaky step toward the freezer, not looking up from my feet. Nothing happened. I took a deep breath, realizing that I hadn't been breathing so that I could hear better. I moved again, watching the other thing without looking directly at it. It wasn't moving.

I was nearly a foot and a half away before I realized I was wrong, and it was moving. It was breathing. I was within arms reach, though, and I was too terrified to turn around and run. I forced myself forward, step after step, until I was right next to it. I wasn't sure if it was my imagination or if it was breathing faster. I think it was. I think it was gasping for air. I wanted to run away.

My eyes were tearing up. I opened the freezer. The edge reached up to my chest. and of course the mutton was in the back. I would need to get on my tiptoes and reach to get the... It moved. It had moved so fast I hadn't noticed until it was leaning its face toward my ear.

It was making a noise, a kind of weird hissing noise. It was breathing and hissing, and I could feel its cold breath on my neck, able to help myself. It leaned in closer, its breath on my ear now. It made me. the strange noises again, and in my terror I thought I could make out, just under the hissing,

rasping sound of air, words, a sentence. Can you see me? I let out a gasp, unable to stop the sound. The other thing reacted to the noise. It shifted, moving so it was behind me, so I couldn't get away. Yes. Some part of my brain noted that the freezer was still open, that my hands were cold. Its voice was quiet, but somehow it yelled.

It sounded like bones cracking, like air hissing. Each word was filled with venomous anger and pain. I stared at my hand, still outstretched toward the meat in the freezer. My face was wet. I was shaking. I didn't look up its head away from my ear. I thought I felt the cold breath on my neck as it moved away. I felt a moment of relief.

Then it leaned its whole body away from me and grabbed me with its bent backwards arm. I screamed. I wasn't in the basement anymore. I was standing by a road. It was pouring down rain in what felt like a summer storm. I felt hot. It was hard to see out.

I felt soaked, as though I'd been out there for hours. My thumb was out, and I had a phone in my other hand. I didn't know why, but I felt lost. Then I felt relief. There was a car coming. I waved my phone around, trying to flag the car down. It kept coming. The car swerved toward me.

I felt fear. Then the impact of the car. Then so much pain. I flew through the air over the hood. I could feel my arm, my neck, my back, but not my legs. I felt like I was on fire. I slammed into the pavement. The impact knocked me senseless.

Then I saw the car stop. A woman got out of the driver's side door, yelling something I couldn't understand. A man got out of the passenger side. He said something too, but I couldn't quite hear it either. The sound of the rain falling had grown so loud, like a white noise machine inside my brain. The red rear lights illuminated the wet concrete. I could hear myself whimpering. The driver and the passenger looked like they were arguing.

They got closer to me. In the red glow, I recognized the woman. as she stood over me. Her hair was less gray, and it hung loose around her face, but I knew it was my Mi-Ma. I tried to speak. She reached down and touched my forehead. Please!

I said with a wheeze and a rasp. I could feel something wrong inside of me, something important. Me-ma looked up at the man and said something. He came closer and... I saw that it was Pop Pop. He moved toward me. He looked over and said something, shook his head. I couldn't hear them, but I knew they had to be helping me. Pop Pop Pop moved around behind me, picked me up. His hands weren't gentle like when he picked me up at home or when he put me in bed.

They were rough, jerky. It hurt. He dragged me toward the car. Mee Ma'am went back, to the car and, to my disbelief, opened the trunk. I screamed. Pop Pop, Pop lifted me up and threw me inside. The trunk closed. I hurt so much and it was so dark. I passed out and then woke up again in the trunk. I struggled to breathe, then passed out again. This cycle repeated off and on for what felt like forever. We had to be going to the hospital, right? The car came to a stop and decelerated in a way that felt oddly familiar. The trunk opened and I saw we were at my grandparents' house. Meemaw and Pop Pop were arguing again. Me Ma'am took my legs and Pop Pop took my arms. They lifted me up into the house, through the kitchen and down into the basement. I was crying.

I realized that the basement was different. The floor wasn't cement, but dirt. I didn't remember the floor being dirt. They put me down and left. Mimaw reappeared and urgently scrubbed at the red trail I had left on the steps. Some part of my brain noted that I was dying. Another part noted that I had made a mess. Pop Pop came down the stairs after her,

and started digging in the corner of the room. I whimpered again, but I don't think either of them heard. They put me in the hole he had dug. Did they know I was still alive? Dirt piled on top of me, on top of us. The other was here with me. I was her and she was me. We were in there together, unable to move or scream.

We breathed in. dirt. It filled our lungs. We suffocated. I was gasping for air as the other's hand released me. I heard my Mima's voice upstairs. Princess! Princess! Did you fall into the freezer? The other moved away from me. I ran up the stairs that had been covered in blood. Ma'am moved toward me to comfort me and I moved away from her. Don't touch me! I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in. This is history. My parents came to get me,

and I didn't visit Me Ma'am and Pop Pop ever again. My mental issues and disturbances at school and home got worse, of course. Dying will really mess a kid up, as will a glimpse at a terrible afterlife. I told the school what happened at my grandparents, and I was recommended for more counseling. That led to more therapy, which led to more diagnoses. I never had anyone believe me.

Pop Pop passed two years ago, and Meemaw passed eight months ago. When the place had to be cleaned out, I refused at first. But my parents are getting old, and they offered to pay me to do it. So I did. I started from the top of the house and worked down. I donated the furniture and threw most of everything out. I saved a few keepsakes for my mom, but nothing for myself. I fixed up some of the little things that go wrong with a house over the years of being lived in.

Then I went down in the basement. It was still there, sitting on a broken dining room chair, dead and alone. I didn't stay in the basement long, and I never actually cleaned the basement out. I did leave a note for the new homeowners, though. I asked them to always leave a chair down there in memory of my grandparents. Well, after that dark tale, I think we'd better get out of our chairs and stand up for a short break. Standing up is good for you. Sitting too long isn't healthy, you know.

At least that's what my old doctor told me. Your doctor is old? No, I mean my former doctor. I'm looking for another one because my insurance changed. It's a hassle finding a good doctor who takes your insurance. I know a great solution to your problem. Zoc Doc. A doctor for my socks?

No, no, no. Zoc Doc. Look, there are some amazing doctors out there. But really, the only ones that matter are the ones who actually take your insurance. With Zoc Doc, you can focus on doctors who are in network, putting you on the path to see. the doctors who are right for you. No more wasting time hunting down Aunt Shirley's cash-only chiropractor or the dentist your coworker recommended who's out of your network. Yeah, thanks for nothing,

Aunt Shirley. So you think ZockDoc can help me out? It really can. I highly recommend it. ZocDoc is a free app that shows you doctors who are patient reviewed, take your insurance, and are available when you need them. Read up on local doctors, get verified patient reviews, and see what other real human had to say about their visit. So when you walk into that doctor's office, you're set up to see someone in your network who gets you. So it's not just about insurance, but also finding doctors who are available when I am. That's right. No point finding a doctor if you can never make an appointment convenient to your schedule. You just go to Zocdoc.com. Choose a time slot and whether you want to see the doctor in person or do a video visit. And just like that, you're booked. Find the doctor

that's right for you and book an appointment that works for your schedule. Oh, I can tell Zoc Doc is going to be super helpful to me. You're not alone. Every month, millions of people use Zock Doc. In the chaotic world of health care, let Zock Doc be your trusted guide to find a quality doctor in a way that is surprisingly pain-free. With Zoc Doc, you can get your docs in a row. I'm convinced. How do I get started?

Go to Zock.com slash no sleep and download the Zoc Doc app for free. Then start your search for a top-rated doctor today. Many are available within 24 hours. That's Z-O-C-D-O-C dot com slash no sleep. Simple as that. Zoc-D-C-com slash no sleep. Zoc-Doc dot com slash no sleep. Got it. Now that we've got that settled, it's time to return to our chairs. And please keep your voice down. We're off to the library. Learning is fun. Read a book, especially if you need to find a way to resurrect a departed loved one. Books will surely hold the answer. But in this tale, shared with us by author C.M. Scandrith, we're reminded that there's a reason some knowledge is hard to acquire.

Performing this tale are Penny Scott Andrews and Jake Benson. So turn over a new leaf and settle down with a good, book. Hopefully it will contain the information you seek. It should if you've managed to check it out from The Black Library. There are two things in this world that can surmount any obstacle ever created. The first of these is love. Our capacity to love creates in us a drive and purpose that goes beyond survival. We do insane and superhuman things in the name of love. Things that would not be possible under any other circumstances. Tiny women lift wrecked cars off their injured husbands.

Men carry their wives through 10 miles of snow to get them to hospital. Parents sacrifice their lives for their children. Such is the power of love. But there is another force that is just as powerful as love. Human intelligence. We will never know who first discovered how to make fun. but that act sparked a revolution. It expanded our minds, giving us the power to shape the world around us. What seemed impossible became possible. J jungles could be turned into fertile farmlands,

mountains could be ground down into blocks of stone to build grand towers and high walls. With the power of our intelligence, we conquered diseases, tamed nature, walked on the moon and sent our likeness on a golden disc to the edge of our solar system and beyond. And when love and intelligence collide, truly impossible things can happen. Having an idetic memory has been a boon for most of my life. The ability to store and recall anything is the dream of every schoolchild, because with that gift, exams become nothing to fear, largely a mindless exercise in easy recall. It was so simple for me when I hit the age where standardized testing began. For the other

children, the concept of 100% seemed some sort of mythic uncertainty, a shibboleth signifying unattainable success. For me, it was a constant, a variable as certain as my memory. They pushed me ahead in school until it became clear that I had both a perfect memory and a stupendously high IQ. Then, with very little discussion and even less warning, I was shipped off to university at the tender age of 14, where older, wiser students gauped at the child in their midst, who still wore pigtails and rainbow-bright sneakers. I may have been embarrassed by my youth and lack of wildliness, but they were more embarrassed by being academically trounced by someone who still had braces on her teeth and sparkles on her

backpack. Eventually, I finished my first degree, then a second, then my third. By the time I was 25, I had a postdoctoral fellowship, was lecturing classes under tenure, and had received a special research grant. But better than all the academic success in the world, I was in love. It would do a disservice to my lover to lavish praises on her character and beauty. When you are truly, mindlessly besotted with someone, a heady haze of your own bias surrounds them, buffing away every friend. until they shine like the most precious stone in existence.

Thoughts of her warm, soft skin consumed my mind during the day, and I longed for the nights to be with her, inhaling the dusky natural perfumes of her body and listening to her chatter about her day at work. Others may have disagreed, but to me she was the most perfect person in the whole world. I knew that Tess was depressed and had been since before we met. In my arrogance, I thought I could cure her, that I could achieve what generations of psychologists and peddlers of pharmaceuticals could not.

On the bad night, she would just sob until she shook with fatigue. She would lie awake for hours, her traitor mind tormenting her with the kinds of what-if scenarios and normal brain can so easily dismiss. I would hold her and tell her it would all be okay. I'd talk about our bright future and how eventually we would just live in the countryside where she could pull weeds and prune rose bushes, activities which soothed her bruised synapses and helped banish the dark thoughts. When the call eventually came, I knew what had happened as soon as the police officer introduced himself on the phone.

Tess was gone. I tried to process her. death as the textbooks describe. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I seemed to flip fluidly between the first and the second stages, angry at myself for not doing enough to stop her suicide, unable to believe that this was the end of her, that she was gone forever. Science could not assuage my grief, regardless of which studies I read, no matter how promising a piece of research seemed at first, and I read everything I could find. I sought for any kind of answer to the question of Tess's death,

any way of making myself okay with her abrupt exit from this existence. Every rational, logical, reasonable source of information told me that she was gone, that while there might be cellular activity on a basic level in the brain for some ten minutes after death, that did not mean any part of Tess could have survived her suicide. hopeless, broken, and lost in self-isolation. I started looking elsewhere. Religion offered me hope in the form of every flavour of afterlife, but I'd abandoned religion long ago.

After all, Tess and I were lesbians. So, if the Christian Gospels were true, she now languished in a lake of fire being eternally tormented for the sin of homosexuality. Still, reading through the various beliefs of other cultures throughout the world brought me a sort of temporary peace. And so I persisted, gathering esoteric tomes from different universities, using my influence as a child prodigy to ployne particular pages from antique anthologies.

I began to feel as though I was being led on a sort of academic scavenger hunt, because every time I found a new piece of information, it appeared to provide clues about where to find another. And so, with the desperate need to fill the empty hole left in my life where Tess had been, I pursued those tenuous connections until I reached the end. The monastery was quiet, as I'd always imagined such a mountaintop retreat would be. But these monks wore robes of black velvet, the sheen of the rich fabric at odds with the tales about monkish austerity.

and the fingers of the monk who led me inside the grey stone walls to meet the librarian were heavy with gold. Clearly this was no ordinary religious order. The librarian greeted me jovially and asked if I'd like coffee. It was genuine Copey Luwark, he explained, one of the most rare and expensive types of coffee in the world. When I declined, he simply smiled, busying himself with preparing his brew in the small, kitchen to the side of his office. We never thought we'd have a student come to us, not within our lifetime. So you do us a great honour.

Why is that so unusual? He pointed a manicured nail at my manned-fired nail at my manila folder of scanned and copied pages. It takes a rare level of genius to decipher the map to this monastery, the sort that is only born once into any generation, and even then it takes a particular kind of motivation to push such an individual in our direction. The library? I prompted, impatient now. He placed his coffee down carefully, then indicated the brocade chair in front of his expensive-looking desk. I sat down and he studied me silently for a moment. What do you know about the library? My research indicates it's a trove of information that survived the burning of Alexandria. Books, older than the Dead Sea Scrolls, unobled.

altered and perfectly copped, which have survived the trials of time. But you also know it's more than that, don't you? I nodded. There are common themes in the stories I found, men entering the library and then leaving it after three years. In those stories, they emerge with knowledge that shouldn't have existed in their time. How to create and fold steel thousands of years before smelting was discovered. How to make gunpowder or engines well by,

before even the rudiments of those methods were organically discern. His brown eyes turned serious. There is a contract, and it is deeply binding. Binding on a level you may not yet comprehend. I figured as much. Otherwise, the rest of the world would already know about this place. Will he sign? I considered for a moment, then nodded.

I have nothing else to live for. The stairs wound down into the darkness beneath the monastery cellars, curving out of sight. The librarian left me there, telling me that what I sought was at the bottom. Regarding that shadowed spiral of steps, fear finally thrilled through me. I'd felt quite numb up until that point, perhaps not truly processing that what was happening was real. Was this actually genuine? Was there really a library at the bottom of these stairs? Perhaps these genial, well-appointed, lavish-living monks accumulated their obvious wealth

by kidnapping idiot academics with too much free time. That seemed far more likely, but if I left now, I knew I would spend the rest of my life lying awake tormented by genuine what-ifs, not just the inflated ghosts that had haunted my test. The darkness closed around me, like a blanket as I took another turn down the descending stone stairwell. I kept my hand on the wall, that and the regular height of the slab stairs the only things keeping me from stumbling in the lack of light. I shuffled along like that for a long time. Several times I thought about giving up and going back, but I reasoned that perhaps this was

another test, much like the ones that had brought me to the monastery. The faintly luminous hands of my wristwatch told me that two hours had passed and my ears had popped over an hour before. How deep underground I was, I couldn't fathom, but it was definitely well below sea level. My mouth was dry. I wished I'd accepted that coffee, or at least had something to eat or drink before I'd begun my descent. It was cold now, cold enough to make me shiver and curse my lack of a detent jacket or coat. When my teeth started chattering uncontrollably, thoughts of returning to the surface became stronger.

The darkness was so oppressive, so cold. But the thought of climbing back up three hours' worth of the steep stone stairs made my stomach lurch with fear and exhaustion. Yet I needed to decide and seen. The longer I continued my descent, the longer that journey back up would become. Surely there had to be an end. Eventually the builders of these stairs must have been forced to stop, unable to tunnel any further into the bedrock of the mountain.

And at the very moment I mustered that thought, I found the last step. My foot dropped into empty air, but I was too tired to even reflexively pull it back. I had been in a trance-like rhythm for hours now, hand on the wall, shuffling the next foot down. Off balance, I scrabbled to grit the smooth wall, trying to dig my nails into the stone. To no avail. As I fell into the icy darkness, beer welled up within me. A great ball of gas colder than the cosmos, expanding up from my bowels and compressing my lungs. The terror erupted from my lips in a scream that was so loud it ripped through my brain and tore my consciousness away.

The cell was dim. A ruddy glow emanated from some sort of dull red quartz set into the ceiling, providing little more light than a bulb in a photographic dark room. There was no door, just walls of smooth black stone. The palette on which I lay appeared hewn from the same stone as the walls. At the foot of the bed were some neatly piled clothes, all deepest black, a robe, gloves, and a pair of slippers. I still wore my own clothes, but it was chilly in the cell,

and the dark attire looked soft and warm. Clearly there was a way into the cell, I reasoned, else how did they get me in here? Perhaps one whole wall was the door, the hinges cunningly hidden by the corner of the cell. Welcome warmth engulfed my hands as I pulled on the gloves. The black slippers would not fit over my sensible shoes, so I removed my own footwear first. Lastly, the robe, which proved wonderfully comfortable as I pushed my arms through the thick sleeves and pulled the hood up over my head. As if in response to donning the clothes,

the light in the room brightened incrementally, and the outline of a door became visible. It swung open, noiselessly, revealing a red-lit corridor. With no other choices available, I stepped out of the cell and immediately regretted it. The black robe shrank tight around my body, so sudden and constricting I felt instantly unable to breathe. The black collar snubbed.

knacked up over my nose and mouth, and I tore fruitlessly at it in a wave of powerful claustophobia. I let out an involuntary yelp of panic, but the sound was absorbed completely by the thick black cloth that muffled my face. My breathing was fast, too fast. I was sucking in air in short gasps, and I was becoming lightheaded. I needed to calm myself, to use reason, my most powerful and faithful weapon to get through this situation. Hunched against the wall, I tried to ignore the oppressive tightness of the black clothes, telling myself that they were not rigid, I could still breathe. The panic abated, and my panting breath slowly returned to normal. Straightening up, my gloved hands spread against the smooth stone to steady myself. I once again had the

suspicion that I had just passed another test. As I walked through the black corridor, others emerged from cells apparently identical to my own, clad in the black robes, only their eyes, bare. faintly visible undershadowed rims of their hoods. They all looked the same. As I joined the dark river of bodies that flowed along the corridor, I realized with an involuntary shiver that we were also all exactly the same height. It was as if the robes, gloves and slippers had erased every shred of our individuality. I tried to talk, of course, to ask questions, but every word I spoke vanish into the black muffler over my face, never reaching the ears of the the others around me. The queue of robed figures eventually emptied out into a hall, so large

and so dimly lit, that I could see neither roof nor walls. As the others stopped and began to spread out in that fathomless space, black desks of stone rose smoothly and noiselessly from the floor. One, for each student in the room. I knew this place. I had read this legend. Were it possible to I would have. I wondered how many of the others were screaming under the tight cloth covering their faces. Surely they had read the same tales as I had during their own research and must be coming to the same conclusion. Letters of red fire appeared on the blackstone desk before me, and I memorized them reflexively. Instantly, they vanished and were replaced by new words, describing events recorded in no human history book.

If what I had researched was true, then this place, this classroom, was housed in no earthly realm. And if I did not memorize all the words presented to me and do so before all of my peers, then as the last person to leave this room, my soul would be forfeit to Lucifer himself. Sweating and shaking, I forced my eyes to absorb the page of flickering scarlet letters, then another, then another. Nearby one of the other students must have realized their predicament because they tried to tear off their robes. They twisted and turned, pulling and grabbing at the unyielding cloth

in a perversely silent and terrible dervish dance. Eventually, they began to smash their head repeatedly into the sharp edges of the obsidian desk until they collapsed. The other students stared silently, just as I did, As the blooded desks slid slickly back into the floor, hands emerged from the stone around the fallen student. Corps gray, long-nailed and covered with pale, shaggy fur, they pulled the body into the ground the only sound I had heard thus far, a whisper of black cloth on stone and the clicking of claws. For now, the rest of us might be safe.

Hell had already claimed a soul for today. Every day was the same. We would rise, put on our jet-black robes, and the door would open. Then we would all fire into the cavernous classroom, where we would phonetically memorize the words of fire, desperately trying not to be the last one to finish. After we returned to ourselves, the door would close and the robes would loosen, allowing us to take them off and regain our individuality.

Those same grey hands that had taken the first fallen student would emerge from the wall, clutching dull pewter plates of rich foods and carved goblets of exotic drinks. When I was done, eating and drinking, they would emerge once more to take away the plates and cups. I knew the reason for the robes. I'd figured it out on the second day. Our demonic tutor did not want us to know who the other students were. That gave me a valuable clue towards the same. figuring out another part of the puzzle, because the librarian had told me himself that someone,

like me, was only born once every generation. The classroom must exist outside time itself. That was the only way there could be so many students. Initially, I had been confident, being one of the first to finish almost every day. But as the lessons became more complex, and I had to truly understand every concept instead of just memorizing text, I began to slip several places. Against whom was I studying? If the classroom was truly outside time, then it could be anyone. The man to my left could be Aristotle, the one on the right, Einstein, or even Da Vinci.

My former confidence became tainted with fear, and it began to affect my concentration. When the frightening day came that the classroom, was almost empty when I finished, I knew I had to do something more. Alone in my cell, unrestricted by the cloying wrap of black fabric, I lay on the stone palette and racked my brains for an answer to my predicament. If I was truly up against the very greatest minds of history, then I didn't stand a chance. I knew I was good. My intelligence was leagues beyond anyone I'd known in life,

but that meant I was smart enough to realize that with all of human history, history stacked against me. The odds were very bad. As I mulled over all my experiences thus far, my mind kept returning to probe one singular fact. The anonymity of the robes was not complete. I had already picked out certain individuals with particular habits. One of them nervously tugged at their hood periodically, as they worried the others would see their eyes. Another always ensured they took the desk at the far left-hand corner of the room, circling it once before sitting. And both of them always left the room early, but never first. That was unusual in itself, since the other students I'd marked by their behaviours fluctuated wildly in their placement.

These two were clearly so sure of themselves, so monstrously clever, that they could practically choose when they would finish. But that still didn't tell me who they were. The man in the corner, if he was in fact a man, might be Johann Goethe or Nikola Tesla. Or it could be some unknown who never made it into the history books. Even worse, if the classroom was outside of time in every direction, as I suspected, he might be from the distant future, where humanity had perfected itself to a level beyond imagining. This information was critical in some way. I knew it.

Our headmaster, Lucifer, could just as easily have made us study alone in ourselves, doing away with the need to interact with the others at all. He must have wanted us to see each other, to be aware of our peers. The obvious reason for this would be to instill fear, to motivate us to study harder. But in a classroom, outside the bounds of time, why would that even matter? There was no one to see my triumphant grin when I realized. I had my answer. You couldn't leave the hall until you'd finished the lessons.

Oh, you could get up and walk around, but if you approached the door without finishing, the grey hands would catch you and drag you into the black stone, your sole forfeit to our headmaster. I waited until the lesson was something I wouldn't struggle with too much. It seemed that none of my remaining peers had a memory quite as perfect as mine, since I was always the first to finish those lessons that were comprised of sheer volume of information.

That day, the last page lay in front of me, unread, waiting for me to glance at it and burn the letters into my memory. I kept my eyes purposefully averted. The figure in the corner, whom I'd named Leonardo, for the sake of convenience, stood up as the red glow faded from his desk. As he did so, I finished my own work, but waited. He paced through the rows of students, eventually reaching the door, and as he did so, I also stood and made my way out.

Along the corridor we walked, me keeping several paces behind him. I knew which room was his because I'd memorized the number of steps. As his door swung open, I took six running strides towards him on my soft, silent slippers, then smashed his head against the obsidian sharp edge of the door. He dropped immediately, dark blood gouting from his hood. His own slippered feet twitched and spasmed. and one arm flapped in a palsied seizure, slapping noiselessly against the stone. As the grey hands emerged to pull him down into the darkness, I knew I'd found my edge.

I would never be the last one to leave the classroom. If the others knew what I'd done, they didn't give any indication of it. I switched up my mannerisms and moved desks regularly, so that if any of the others had been observing me as I had them, they couldn't possibly track me. I always watched the corridor behind me as I left the classroom to ensure that nobody did to me what I had done to Leonardo. In the first year, I murdered ten of my peers, the brightest and the best, and therefore my strongest competition.

But I monitored myself carefully for any signs of overconfidence. I can never let down my guard, because if I had figured out this deadly loophole, then so too could another student. And indeed, when my mental headcount came up short one morning, I felt a strange thrill. It seemed another murderer had joined me in the devil's classroom. He was careful, very careful.

It took me months to unriddle who he was, and during that time, the paranoia gripped me like one of the giant shaggy grey hands. Every walk through the black corridors was riddled with fear. In the end, it turned out his technique was simple. He would simply wait until only he, and one of the student were left in the cavernous classroom. Then he would kill his unsuspecting peer by bashing his head into the desk. It was so crude and uninspired that I laughed to myself in the dim light of my cell,

realising that his modus operandi was born of desperation rather than true cunning. I had to kill him, of course. He was going about it completely the wrong way. By killing off the worst students, he was only hastening our own demise. He died on the first. the day I crawled deliberately slowly through my work, ensuring we were the last two left. As he came to bludgeon my face into the sharp stone, I struck his knee with my foot and threw him sideways into the desk. The struggle was brief. It seemed that with the robes

constricting us to the exact same size and shape, my greater experience as a killer won out. There was a chance I was not the greatest mind in this classroom, but I suspected I was now the best murderer. The others had noticed the declining numbers, of course they had. None of us were stupid people. Strange, silent alliances had formed where little groups would sit together, wait for each other and leave together. With silent hand gestures, I'd been invited into one such group, and I played along, for if I marked myself as an outsider, they might unriddle my dark secret. The lessons were incredible now, imparting insights far beyond the reaches of ordinary science. The origins of the universe were clearly revealed to me, along with the fundamental laws that bind everything together.

If Einstein were present, he must have cursed himself for a fool, as the lessons we learned made him seem like a plodding idiot, woefully out of his league. On the day that one group of students stood mid-lesson and attacked another group outright, the uninvolved students just stared. Their eyes shocked in the depths of their hoods. I wanted to tear off my mask and scream at them, to ask them what the fuck they thought would eventually happen in a competition plotted by Satan himself. The fight was long and brutal, the only weapons being soft-gloved fists, feet, and the obsidian furniture. Those not involved just watch, knowing that today's quota was more than full.

The rest of us could take our time studying. Counting on that, when the others had left, I stayed behind. There was blood pooled and splattered everywhere that it was hard to see on the dark floor. Fragments of bone and hair clung to the desks. Here, a severed finger had been missed by the hands of our ghastly cleaners. But amongst it all, I found something wonderful, something game-changing. Along the edge of one desk, the obsidian had fracted, and a razor-sharp shard lay on the floor nearly invisible,

picking it up, I pushed it carefully into my sleeve. Now I had what no other student had. A weapon. In-game theory, such an advantage instantly marks you out. As soon as you reveal that you have such a thing, others will want to take it off you. An uneasy truce reigned in the classroom now, with no group willing to risk a confrontation, lest the fight to lower their numbers. The hand signals became increasingly complex, each group developing a distinct language which the outgroups didn't understand. But with my memory, I could replay the gestures in my mind and teach myself the dialects, giving my group a vital edge.

I think my group knew I was the original killer, the one who had started it all. They deferred to me and feared me. In my periphery, I saw one refer to me as the Ripper, spelling out the letters individually in our crude sign language. Betrayal happened regularly now that we would communicate. The game became less about the lessons and more about politics. We still studied, but the learning of forbidden knowledge had taken a distinct backseat to the wheeling and dealing that had become commonplace. After watching one group sacrificed the smartest man they had to ensure their tribe's survival,

I knew we had reached a turning point. Soon there would be anarchy. It started on the walk through the corridor, before we had even divided off into our groups, before we had exchanged the secret handshakes that confirmed our membership of the cleats. Students just started leaping at one another. A man came at me and we struggled. A perfect physical match in our arcane robes. An elbow from another fighter knocked him off balance and I pressed the advantage, knocking him down and headbutting him in the nose.

When the madness slow, then stopped, the grey hands began. to claim the dying and seriously injured. With a nod, one of the survivors pointed toward the classroom. Not knowing what else to do, we slipped and skidded through the pools of blood, the hems of our robes leaving dark trails into the classroom. The footprints, left by our sopping slippers, marked the paths to our sparsely spread seats. There were only five of us left.

They jumped me, on the way out. I finished first, and the other four were, all rose together, not a hand signal between them. They knew who I was. Everyone knew who everyone else was by now. We'd spent two full years together in this place. The first man went down in a tangle of robes. I'd nicknamed him Byron, but unlike his bombastic namesake, he was not a fighter. The other three circled me, glancing at one another, a scantz, still unsure quite how to handle me now that Byron's limp body was being pulled through the floor. Shakespeare and Curie stood to either side, while Gauss circled, trying to get behind me.

With a snarl only heard in my own head, I turned and threw myself upon the figure, sideling up to me, the obsidian shards slashing through his collar and deep into his throat. The other two were instantly on top of me, but they hadn't seen the black knife. It licked out vengefully, leaving Shakespeare flailing and already falling, a jet of blood pumping from the stump of his wrist.

As Curie and I scrambled to our feet, she simply bowed her head and shrug, admitting defeat. The shard of obsidian went through her eye and into her brain, killing her instantly. The shaggy grey paws pulled the dead into the bowels of the earth, and for the first time, I was alone. In the vast classroom,

the robes loosened their constrictor grip, and I pulled down the muffler with blessed relief, gasping for air. A voice crooned from the darkness. Well done. Black shelves will have... books began to rise from the floor. The knowledge in the library is exquisite, and I've barely begun to taste it. There are tones from so far forward in time that it will take me decades of

study even to begin to comprehend them. But I know that's not why I'm here. That was just the cherry on the Sunday, or the cheese in the trap. You see, Lucifer didn't just want someone brilliant. The classroom always has been, and always will be, a really... intellect isn't unique, but intellect combined with raw animal cunning, that's really special, almost as special as human intelligence coupled with true love. And I am special. There is a book, he tells me, that is not in this library, the only book that he doesn't own, the book of life and death, which resides in He Hasied.

Heaven. All I need to do to bring Tess back to life is to wrest that book from its owner and erase her name. Then she will return to me as if she had never been taken. And with the infinite knowledge of the Black Library, I can fix her. But that's enough for now. I have work to do. Bringing down Heaven is going to take some planning and I need a new weapon if I'm going to succeed. Fortunately, I'm no longer confined to the Black Library. I can come and go as I please. I can do anything, I please. And I do know where to find the perfect blacksmith. 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 creating, of 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.

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